Me, I like to do my own footwork, and I am still light enough on my tootsies to manage it, if allowed to.
So I sincerely hope that the purple sling is a thing of the past in my future. Although, if Miss Temple Barr and I do win the purrsonal appearance contract, I will have to train her to walk on a leash. It does not suit a dude of my talents to be toted hither and yon, and once I demonstrate that I can lead Miss Temple in precisely the direction that is best for her, we should get along well, although she may find it a bit demeaning being attached to me by a latter-day umbilical cord for the sake of her own safety. Some might think that she would not know where to go without a guide-cat, and in certain cases, especially criminal, that is indeed so.
I am pleased, however, that my long fondness for a particular weed has justified itself by proving useful in a murder case.
I am also pleased to have been introduced to a new leading lady. This is pure indulgence on the part of the author--not on my part (which is doing just fine, thank you), but on the part of Miss Carole Nelson Douglas. The Sublime Solange is no more than a pale imitation of a cat of my collaborator's acquaintance, one Secret in real life.
Even the name is secondhand, appropriately so considering that Secret and her mother, Victoria, were adopted as adults. Queen V (and she does act every inch the role, down to her flashing fangs) is a shaded silver Persian of the Divine Yvette stripe, but Victoria's Secret (who should definitely be in a lingerie catalog) is one of these shaded-golden throwbacks. If this is a throwback, you can fling me right back to wherever that is. I guess these golden girls and guys are considered a separate but equal breed now, but for a while they were in the doghouse, which is a terrible place for a cat of any color to be.
Such surprises as luscious new lady-friends are the few rewards in the otherwise dangerous game of cat and mouse as played on the streets of Las Vegas or Manhattan by us detective dudes. It is all in a day's work for your trusty gumshoe-with-spikes. So is a well deserved nap. Happy Christmas to all and to all a good nighty-night.
Very best fishes,
Midnight Louie. Esq.
P.S. You can reach Midnight Louie on the Internet at:
http://www.catwriter.com/cdouglas
To subscribe to Midnight Louie's Scratching Post-Intelligencer newsletter,
write: P.O. Box 331555, Fort Worth, TX 76163
Chapter: Carole Nelson Douglas 's New York
The first time I saw New York City was on the high-school class trip, which was probably when most Americans were introduced to this quintessential metropolis. We saw a Broadway show: Camelot with Roddy McDowell, Robert Goulet and Julie Andrews. Richard Burton had already left the cast to hie to Italy to make Cleopatra with what's-her-names.
We must have walked all over Manhattan, because I remember our exuberant group dining at a steakhouse. My feet were so hot, sore and swollen that I discreetly smuggled some of those square little ice cubes from my water glass into my gold suede shoes.
Yes, it was damp. We adjourned to Radio City Music Hall, and while the Rockettes kicked up their heels, I slipped my aching dogs Out of my damp flats. At departure time, my feet would qualify as balloons in Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. I couldn't put my shoes on again.
That was the first of many lessons learned traveling to exotic places. Never, ever take off your shoes! Especially on an international flight, I learned later.
My Second New York trip tame two Years later, a theater tour. We saw several Broadway shows (including the musical version of Noel Coward's Blithe Spirit with Tammy Grimes and the late, great Bea Lillie as Madame Arcati), and an Off-Broadway how. The highlight of that trip was sipping Manhattans in a Greenwich Village bar and being driven back uptown by a black-cape-clad but charming Khigh Dhiegh, the wonderfully villainous Yen Lo from The Manchurian Candidate.
I was back the next year, a stopover for a smaller class trip to Europe. Our girlish trio o{ Midwestern college girls were impressed to say "Hello, Dolly" to Carol Channing when she made a grand post-show entrance at Sardi's, and to spot attorney Melvin Belli (almost as silver-blond as Carol Channing) checking in at the Sheraton Russell. We went dancing at a Village disco and walked dozens of blocks at midnight back to our midtown hotel with our high heels dangling from our hands, cutting through Grand Central Station. Try that in the nasty nineties!
Now I'm a veteran New York visitor and the memories are far more mundane. Nothing compares to the Big Apple's bite, but each year the siren sound of the night's many emergency runs keeps me up longer and the cabs get harder to slide in and out of fast enough to keep traffic flowing at the usual manic rate. New York, New York: it's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to lug a twenty-pound cat around midtown in a kitty knapsack. Sometimes reality is better than fiction.
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