A. K. A. Fudgepuddle

by Fin J. Ross

  Funny, I haven't even been here 24 hours yet and, though they mightn't like to hear it, I haven't had time to miss Hayoo and Darling. It must be coz I now know what it means to go on a holiday. It sure beats climbing the wire with yawnism at AlCATraz.

  But did I really tell Big Dan my whole life story last night? Uggh, I hope he didn't think it was too forward of me. Y'know, sometimes my tongue just runs off without me.

  As I slowly open my eyes, I get that somefeeli's-watching-me frickle. I peek across and get the impression that Lara, Maharani and Beethoven are waiting for me to bestow some pearl of wisdom on them. They're all are lined up like nuckies in a shooting gallery.

  But hang on - I focus my eyes better and acknowledge they're not actually looking at me. They're turning their heads from side to side like those open-mouthed sideshow clowns, or maybe spectators at Wimbledon.

  Ah! It's then I see a furry blur buzz by, followed closely by two lots of deuxjambs' jambs. In a moment they're all going back the opposite way and almost falling over each other.

  'This one's a live wire,' Maharani comments. 'They've been chasing him up and down for five minutes. He jumped out of his basket before they got the gate shut.' She giggles. 'It's nearly as funny as last night's boxing match.'

  'Hey, calm down,' Zsa Zsa calls out to the escapee. 'You're giving me a headache. Just settle down; it's not that bad in here, none of us will bite you.'

  The three whiz past my gate again. I feel like an extra in an episode of Keystone Kats. Miss Steph and the other deuxjamb don't seem to be gaining any ground on this speedster kisskie. I reckon he'd actually be able to catch Speedy Gonzalez. He's such a blur I can barely distinguish what colour he is, let alone what he actually looks like.

  'Attennnn hut!' The Colonel calls out, marshalling his most officious tone. It works. The wayward kisskie comes skidding to a halt in front of his pen, while Miss Steph and the other deuxjamb bump into each other.

  'Behave yourself, young man! This behaviour will not be tolerated under my watch. Now get to your pen and show Miss Steph just what a good kisskie you can be.'

  'Y…y…yes sir, absolutely sir, s…sorry sir.'

  'And don't stutter, you sound s…s…stupid. Now get down and give me twenty.'

  'Yes sir, r…r…right sir.'

  The Colonel starts counting: one, two, three. I can't quite see up the aisle but I gather the new arrival is obeying the Colonel's order. I wonder just what it is he's giving twenty of. I don't have to wonder long as Rocky calls out, 'I think he meant puss-ups kid, not starpaws'.

  'What on earth was all that about, Coalpit?' the strange deuxjamb asks. 'You silly, naughty boy, now get in there and behave yourself. Obnoxious cat. I can't imagine why I picked him.' She's obviously talking to Miss Steph.

  I hear the gate click and she and Miss Steph are off, without a goodbye, a fare-thee-well, an adieu or even a second glance. Not a nice deuxjamb, that one. Trust me, I can tell.

  'Gee, wouldn't want to interrupt your holiday plans,' I say.

  'Mmm. Not the friendliest deuxjamb I've come across,' Maharani says. 'She reminded me of my neighbour Herman's deuxjambs. He's shut out all the time and they just ignore him. I don't know why they got him in the first place. His coat looks like a dreadlock holiday and, nice as he is, I just know he's got virtles - he's always scratching. Maybe his deuxjambs are worse than this one. I mean, they'd never think to put him in a place like this when they go away. My deuxjambs are always going in to feed him when his go off. He tells me I don't know how lucky I am to have such obliging deuxjambs.'

  'Yeah, I s'pose when you come to think of it, this one's deuxjambs wouldn't have put him in here if they didn't love him.'

  'Maybe you're right,' Maharani says.

  'Wheee-oww!' A plaintive cry pierces the morning murmurs. 'I'm not supposed to be here. They've made a mistake. I'm not supposed to be here, I'm innocent! I never did anything.'

  Maharani and I shake our heads at each other.

  'Oh dear,' I say, 'he's going to be a hard case'.

  'Mmm,' Maharani agrees, 'just as well he wasn't taken to AlCATraz. Innocent or not, he'd really have something to worry about there.'

  'Hey, don't worry little one, we'll make you feel at home,' Raffles calls out.

  'Yes, you won't mind it once you've been here a while,' Finny adds.

  'Nobody's going to hurt you here,' Big Dan says soothingly.

  Our attempts to soothe the young one seem merely to exacerbate his feeling of desertion and despair. He starts to sob and for some reason the sound makes my maternal instincts kick in. I want to rush to his pen and console him but I'm stuck in here of course.

  'There, there honey, c'mon it's not so bad,' I call out pathetically.

  The sobbing gets louder and louder and nothing any of us says seems to console him.

  'Oh, I can't stand that,' Raffles calls out. 'We've gotta figure out how to cheer him up, the poor thing. Maybe we could tell him some funny stories or put on a concert or something.'

  'Or a cataret show,' Finny suggests. 'We can all come up with an act. That should cheer him up.'

  'Great idea,' Maharani nods, 'Finny, you can sing a song obviously, Lara can do a dance, Rocky and I can do our balcony scene.'

  'I'll be MC,' the Colonel says, 'and I have a great repertoire of jokes.'

  'I have a number I can do. It's called I'm a Lumbercat and I'm Okay,' Big Dan offers. 'And I bet Beethoven could do a mime act if we suggested it to him.'

  'Yeah,' I chime in, 'we could introduce him as Ludwig Marceau. Oh, and I know a great cataret song we could do if anyone wants to join me. It would be a fine opening number. We'd need to rehearse it a bit. We should spend the afternoon planning and be ready to start at eight o'clock. Everybody up for it?'

  I'm almost deafened by the resounding cheers and Juniper's siren which starts up before any of us has the chance to put our paws to our ears.

  'Hey, Beethoven, do you want to join in?'

  No answer.

  'He can't hear you, stoopid,' Humbug says.

  'I could tap it out on the wall in Morse code,' the Colonel suggests, 'maybe he'd feel it'.

  'You know Morse code?' Raffles asks.

  'Well, I know some of the letters.'

  'Yeah, which ones?'

  'S, O and - um - S.'

  'Very useful,' Raffles smirks. 'You could tell him to soss off then, or s…s…something like that.'

  'Does anyone know sign language?' I offer. I'm met with silence. 'Guess not.'

  'This could be nearly as much fun as a DDD, except there won't be any deuxjambs of course,' Zsa Zsa says.

  I wait a moment before I ask the obvious question coz I don't want to appear too dumb. 'What's a DDD, Zsa Zsa?'

  'Oh, don't you know? Silly question - of course you wouldn't. A DDD is a Deuxjambs Display Day. But only pedigree feelis ever get invited. It's a real privilege to go to one of course. It's really neat coz you get your own private feelichaise, which is a special viewing box, like front row dress circle, all lined with satin or velvet. Then the deuxjambs parade past and try all sorts of things to get you to pick them.'

  'Pick them for what?'

  'To win, d'oh.'

  'To win what? I don't get it,' I confess.

  'Well, there's all sorts of categories like um, the nicest smile, the friendliest, the nastiest, the fattest, the smelliest, the most obnoxious, you know, that sort of thing.'

  'Oh, so is that all there is to it?'

  'No, it's a bit more complicated than that. The lead up to it is quite important too. You get your own deuxjambs to make a really big fuss over you beforehand - y'know like a princess going to a ball. You get bathed, blowdried, combed and coiffed; you get a manicure and they put smelly stuff on you and basically they get you looking really spiffy. Of course the secret is not to make it too easy for them. I mean, you have to make them feel you're doing all this under sufferance, like any self-respecting princess would do with her servants. But anyway, you really ha
ve to dress up for these things - it's like going to the opera.'

  'Sounds awful to me, just like hell. Don't tell me they sing.'

  'Nah, nothing like that. They just walk past and stick their faces up close to you and make a lot of "ooh aah" noises and make faces at you to try to make you like them.'

  'So, what if you don't? Or if you get sick of it?'

  'Oh, that's easy. You can demonstrate feelichatra, coz you can always get in behind the curtain at the back of your box. Or you can just yarl at them until they go away; or maybe chuck a schpitzo coz that's sure to make them move.'

  'Oh, okay but what if you like them?'

  'Simple, just turn on the pussano.'

  'But how do you decide who wins?'

  'It's a consensus thing. Obviously if one stands up or comes past and gets a lots of yarls and pfutts, well that's not gonna be the winner of the friendliest or the nicest smile is it?

  'So you go by the yarlometer for those sorts of categories and then the pussanometer decides the nice qualities. But, oh, I almost forgot, we also get a turn to make individual selections - that's sort of like a mutual adoration section of the show.

  'One of the deuxjambs, usually just somebody in a white coat, takes you out of your feelichaise and holds you up in the air so you can get a better view of all the deuxjamb contestants. White coat then sort of twists and contorts you a bit to make sure you don't miss the deuxjambs lurking in the corners behind the other feelichaises; which is very accommodating really. Then white coat puts you on a table and natters on about this and that - they go on about coats and skin, and eyes and ears to give us an idea of what attributes we should vote for.

  'That bit's pretty boring once you've done it a few times but it does give you a better perspective about who to vote for. Because obviously if the contestants sneer a bit or shake their heads, you're not gonna vote for them. But if they nod and smile and maybe clap, you know they're trying really hard to get your vote.'

  'But what's the point of it? I mean I'm not really all that interested in other deuxjambs; I like mine well enough but-'

  'Well you know how far deuxjambs will go to please us,' Zsa Zsa interrupts. 'I assume this is a way for them to get recognition for it. Sort of like the Acatemy Awards, but with different judging criteria. So this is not about how good they think they are, it's about how good we think they are.'

  'Oh, I get it. So is there like a grand prize? Y'know, like the best actor?'

  'Yes, the one they aspire to most is the title of 'Deuxjamb of the Show - servitude award'.'

  'Servitude?'

  'Yep. Servitude. Obviously the whole point is finding the deuxjamb with the best attributes. Um, maybe a better way to explain it is the one we'd most like to have take care of us. And trust me, they try really hard to get your vote. You'd be surprised how many have told me they'd like to take me home so they could look after me. They've pledged their complete devotion to me. I mean, I could have started a bidding war at one show - I had four deuxjambs trying to outdo each other for my affections. They were just about falling over each other to fuss over me. It was a bit irky actually - it made me feel like I was the one on show.' Zsa Zsa riffles her fur in disgust.

  'But you know, at the end of the day if you're happy enough with the deuxjambs you've got, why would you change? You'd only have to teach the new ones how to behave. Who could be bothered, I ask you?' Zsa Zsa turns, plonks onto her rump to lift her hind leg, and licks her ooti.

  I take much of what she says with a grain of kitzbitz but it makes me wonder. 'So how come I've never been invited to a vote?'

  'Oh, as if!' she cackles maniacally as she lifts her face out of her ooti. 'You've got to be very special to be invited to a DDD. I mean, it's a bit like one of those shows where everyone performs for the lady deuxjamb with the jewels on her head and then they shake her hand afterwards. Oh, and everyone has to catsy.'

  'What for?'

  'I'm not really sure, I think they're trying to look up her dress.'

  'Oh.'

  We all spend the afternoon rehearsing and it takes that long just for Lionel and Humbug to learn the words for my opening number. It's no mean feat, since Lionel has a very short memory, Humbug's still a bit battle-scarred, and neither of them can hold a tune. The others seem okay, although Finny keeps trying to get us all back on pitch.

  It's the choreography that's a problem though coz, despite Lara's best efforts, none of us can understand a darn thing she's saying and, I hesitate to mention, none of us has ballerina bones in us - we look more like accidental break-dancers.

  But by the time Miss Steph has served up our dinner, given us all a cuddle, changed over our kackapods and gone off to Weeras, we're ready for Raffles to let us loose onto the stage.

  As we all line up in front of the newbie's condo, a collective frickle makes everyone's fur stand on end, like we've all stuck our tongues into a toaster. Stagefright, I guess.

  I can barely see the homesick kisskie. Cowering behind his kackapod, he just looks like a blob of blackish, or maybe grey, fuzz. Hopefully our little show will cheer him up a bit. I quickly scan all the performers and they all nod their readiness, so I give our self-appointed MC, the Colonel, the nod. He starts by welcoming everyone - like we weren't all already here anyway - and starts with a joke.

  'What do you get if you cross a sailboat with a patisserie?'

  'Don't know, tell us Colonel,' Raffles says.

  'A catameringue, hahahaha.'

  'Ugggh,' we all cringe.

  'All right then. What do you call a feeli that's swallowed a nucky?'

  Everyone shakes their heads.

  'A duck-filled fattypuss.'

  'Ha ha ha,' we all crack up laughing. Now that is funny.

  The Colonel continues. 'And now, introducing for the very first time on stage at the Lap of Luxury, the talk of Feelidom, straight from their condos, the ten and only Ziegfield Feelis with Pussyfootin on the Ritz!'

  I do the count-in and everyone starts the little steps Lara taught us; but we're all so busy trying to remember the steps, we forget most of the words:

  If you're blue da da da da,

  Da da dada da dad a…

  Pussyfootin' on the Ritz.

  I realise all too soon that we're all out of step, but I hope the little kisskie won't notice; I mean, we really didn't get much time to rehearse. The singing's also not how I'd heard it in my head, but hey, at least we're trying.

  I see the little kisskie raise his head slightly and then quickly duck it again in fear. I try to rally everyone to sing in tune, but it doesn't really help, so at the end of the chorus I give the throat-cut signal, which everyone sees except Humbug, who embarrasses himself dreadfully by singing the next line woefully out of tune.

  Once the floor is clear, Monty introduces Beethoven, leading him to centre stage and giving him the intro. We all watch expectantly as he begins his mime act. I'm blowed if I can figure out what he's doing, but then I can't see his face.

  We all give him a hearty applause when he's finished but Monty has to turn him around so he can see us clapping. He nods his appreciation and takes a small bow.

  Little kisskie, however, still doesn't move from the back of his pen. Lara performs a lovely ballet solo, Raffles tries some conjuring and Big Dan performs his number, making me go all gooey again with his mellifluous and husky voice. I give him a wink and blow him a kiss as he departs the stage area.

  But none of their efforts has moved dear kisskie. We all look at each other and shrug in defeat. Looks like it's going to be up to Finny to charm him out of his despair.

  After her introduction, she clears her throat and begins,

  You are so beautiful, to me…

  My hair starts to stand on end a bit. I think even Joe Cocker-Spaniel would be moved. Her voice is so pure and clear. I can feel my jaw dropping and I'm simply unable to pull it up again. I've never heard anything so beautiful and I'm so transfixed I barely notice the fuzzy grey kisskie edging to the fro
nt of his pen. He's also spellbound and it's obvious Finny's voice has melted his heart too. I feel all warm and fuzzy as I watch her brilliant performance.

  But just as she's on her last refrain, something tugs my attention back to her private audience. I squint a little to refocus on him and my heart skips a beat.

  It can't be… surely not. He moves a little and, as he does, I see his yellum-coloured foot. I can't believe it. It is!

  'Inda, Inda,' I call out as I cross the floor in a single move, unceremoniously upstaging Finny.

  The kisskie turns his head to me and immediately his face brightens.

  'Umbi, Umbi,' he squeals as he recognises me.

  A tail of two kisskies

  I'm so overwhelmed at seeing one of my kisskies again I almost forget my manners. Everyone's crowding around us, having obviously cottoned on to the elation emanating from this umbi and dos reunion. So when Inda and I have finished smothering each other with all the fuzpah sentiments we can muster, I start the introductions.

  'Everyone, this is my number five kisskie - in order of birth, not in favouritism, that is. This is my Inda.' Everybody comes forward in turn to meet Inda.

  'Oh, he's quite a handsome young thing, isn't he,' Zsa Zsa comments. I smile proudly and nod.

  'For a wuzzer,' she adds, so I poke my tongue out at her.

  'Very pleased to meet you, dossy,' Monty says politely. He turns to me. 'Excuse me for being so presumptuous as to try to discipline your dos earlier.'

  'Oh that's all right, a firm paw never goes astray.'

  'Hey Juno, how come he doesn't look anything like you?' Raffles asks. 'I mean I look just like my umbi and all my erries and dorries.'

  'Well you see, Raffles, my own erries and dorries were all different. Maybe that's just how it is with wuzzers, and Inda's erries and dorries are also all different.'