kate thompson

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One fine spring morning, La-La woke me by dropping little kisses on my ears. ‘Happy birthday, Marilyn!’ she sang. ‘Look what I have for you! Presents!’

I stretched, and opened one eye. There, at the foot of my wrought iron sleigh bed, was a pile of gift-wrapped stuff.

‘But you’re not to open them until after your toilette. Now. What shall we wear today?’

La-La moved to the armoire where she keeps my clothes. I slid off my bed and strolled after her in the buff. I like to sleep naked, but some nights she makes me wear my pink bunny outfit. ‘We’re going shopping today,’ she told me, riffling along the row of outfits that hung in the armoire. ‘So you’ll want to look smart. Let’s see. Well – not this, obviously.’ She slid the Fairy Princess costume that I’d worn yesterday to Twinkie’s fancy dress party to the far end of the rail, and took down two or three dresses. ‘Hm,’ she said, holding a leopard print frock up against me. ‘This may be a little heavy for this time of the year. We don’t want you perspiring – even though that new deodorizing spray does seem to be doing the trick. How about your Pretty in Pink polka dot? Or shall we go for a more sophisticated look today? Your black and white tube, for instance? Yes.’ She set it aside, then started rummaging for accessories. ‘Your crystal heart barrette will work nicely with that. And your quilted red velvet pillbox hat.’

She hummed a little tune as she opened my jewellery box, but I was getting bored so I headed to the home gym for a quick workout.

I’d heard La-La boasting about my new gym over the telephone. ‘It’s called “The Townhouse Gym”’ she’d told Twinkie’s mistress. ‘And it has five large levels, three large lounging pedestals, hanging kitty toys, sisal posts and a large playhouse. It’s also beautifully carpeted, with a solid timber frame.’

Leaping onto the fourth floor of the ‘Town House’, I started battering the crap out of the irritating squeaky canary that fluttered there on a length of elastic. Wham! Take that, my feathered friend! I told it. And that! A right hook went smack on its stupid yellow face. I batted it about for a bit, then went down to the play house area and made short work of one of the Festive Catnip Mice that La-La had put in my Christmas stocking.

My Scratch Buddy scratching post, next. How I loved it! My mistress had acquired it because the copy on the catalogue had told her that it ‘Keeps Cats Company As they Scratch And Play To Their Heart’s Content’. Company? As if! The real reason I loved it was because it had this loser fake cat’s head stuck on the top, and I could scratch the kitty to kingdom come. The loser cat’s ears were torn to shreds, its muzzle was zig-zagged with scars, its eyes were dangling from its sockets. I called my ‘Scratch Buddy’ Poncy Percy.

All this exertion brought on a fiendish thirst, so off I headed in the direction of my water fountain. As I lapped up the cooled, purified water, I heard La-La calling me. ‘Time for your toilette, Marilyn!’ I tried to ignore her - but ignoring her was futile, because she descended upon me and swept me up into her arms.

The ‘toilette’ was an indignity I submitted to in a spirit of compromise. She had tried bathing me once, by stuffing me into a contraption called a ‘grooming bag’ into which she inserted a shower head, but the heavy-duty black nylon of which the bag was constructed was no match for my claws. The minute that water hit my derrière, I was out of there. She had not tried that mean trick again, but instead wiped me all over every day with a product called ‘Nature’s Miracle Pet Wipes’, about which there was nothing either natural or miraculous. She would then brush me and spray me with ‘Four Paws’ cologne, before wrapping me in my silky satin lounge robe. This was trimmed with pink fur, and I often wondered what unfortunate animal provided the trimming. Despite the fact that La-La often dressed me up as a pink rabbit, I was reasonably certain that such a creature did not exist.

‘Come along! It’s time to unwrap your pressies!’ she trilled, hefting me across the room and depositing me on my bed. I laid into the gift wrap with gusto, ripping it to shreds with my teeth and my claws. Here is a list of what the parcels contained:

Item: One maribu-feather trimmed lambswool sweater in baby blue with matching ribbed tam o’shanter plus pompom.

Item: One cherry faux mink coat, also with pompoms.

Item: One blue and silver glass bead necklace with a Swarovski crystal charm, and pearl clasp.

Item: One party tutu of white ruffle spandex and multi-layered pink tulle – with armholes for easy on and off.

Hello? Hasn’t my mistress noticed yet that I don’t have arms?

‘It was premiered at the 2004 Golden Needle awards in Beverley Hills!’ La-La pronounced with pride, stroking the glittering spandex.

The last item to be divested of its paw-print patterned gift wrap was a plastic box with a picture on it of a cat watching television.

‘It’s a DVD,’ La-La told me. ‘Listen to this. She turned the thing called a DVD over, and scanned the words on the back. ‘“Your cat will feel like they are enjoying the outdoors from the comfort and protection of their home,”’ she told me happily. ‘“With special guests Ben and Betty Bird, Bonnie Butterfly, Charles the Chipmunk, Freddy Fish, Gary Gerbil, Paulie Parrot and Sammy Squirrel.

‘Now! Let’s have breakfast, and then I can take you shopping. I’ve ordered something very special indeed for you in Whiskers, and I have to pick it up today. Will we go in the pink tote bag? Or would you prefer to be chauffeured in your stroller?’

La-La slung me over her shoulder, and I flopped obligingly, my head bob bob bobbing as she stomped down the stairs to the dining room. A rumour was doing the rounds on the show circuit that they were working on inventing a species of feline even floppier than the Ragdoll breed that had emerged three or four generations ago, so all us cats were taking care to keep our claws in and grin and bear it when we were obliged to segue into fur stole mode.

When La-La set me down, I shimmied over to my feeding station and examined the contents of my porcelain bowl. Hm. Minced chicken, a few flakes of wild salmon, and a milky choccie treat for afters. Pah! What wouldn’t I give for a taste of fresh pigeon’s blood, or a nice juicy rat’s eyeball? What wouldn’t I give to juggle a live mouse between my paws instead of a catnip substitute, or sink my teeth into the jugular of a quivering baby rabbit? What wouldn’t I give to raid a blackbird’s nest, or stalk an unsuspecting ornamental duck?

La-La slid her palm along my back, and baby-talked a bit. ‘Who’s a gorgeous girl? Who’s a gorgeous girl? Who’s going to look even more gorgeous at her birthday party this evening?’

So I was having a birthday party? It was the first I’d heard of it. Hopefully it would be a bit livelier than Cha-Cha’s beach bash last week. A load of Ragdolls dressed in muu muus had been at that barbeque, and had provided their humans with hours of amusement by allowing themselves to be used as beach-balls. I suspected La-La would have loved to have tried something similar with me, but since the incident with the shower head and the grooming bag - when I inadvertently showed my true colours - I don’t think she had the nerve. I disguised my disdain for the Ragdolls on that occasion by concealing my expression beneath the peak of my Kitty Klub baseball cap.

‘Now, snookums. Eat up, and we’ll be on our way.’ Click-clacking out into the hall, I heard her say: ‘The stroller, I think. All the better to show you off.’

***

A couple of hours later we emerged from Whiskers boutique, my mistress swinging a couple of glossy carrier bags by their silk handles. ‘Another treat, Marilyn! We’re meeting Charmelle and the lovely Clive for lunch at Chez Jules,’ she told me. ‘So let’s make sure your hat is on at a becoming angle.’ She leaned over the canopy of the stroller and adjusted my red velvet pill box affair, then sniffed. ‘Hm. A little more Four Paws wouldn’t go amiss,’ she said, producing the cologne spritzer and misting me with the feline equivalent of Chanel No 5. ‘And perhaps you’re a teensy bit too hot? We don’t want your hairstyle to go flat. This should do the trick.’ She reached out one of her sparkly pink claws and switched on the battery-operated fan that she kept in my stroller during hot weather. ‘There! You look fabulous!’

Click clack, click clack, she went down the Boulevard, until we reached Chez Jules. Charmelle and Clive were there already. I could only see Charmelle’s curiously hairless, shiny legs from under the canopy of my stroller, but Clive was displayed to full advantage behind his mesh screen. He was wearing a spotty red bow tie; a blazer with a Kitty Klub crest on the breast pocket, and a straw boater, which was set at a jaunty angle on his furry head. He looked as if he’d just been stuffed by LA’s top taxidermist.

‘Hello, Marilyn,’ he said. ‘I’m looking forward to your party tonight.’

‘Who invited you?’ I returned, with a curl of my lip.

‘Your mistress,’ he said, with a smug smile. ‘She has plans for you and me.’

‘In your dreams, buster,’ I told him. But curiosity got the better of me. I know all about the old adage, but being curious hadn’t killed me yet. ‘What plans?’

‘Wouldn’t you just luurve to know?’ And Clive lowered his head, and started washing the furry bit between the lapels of his blazer, humming a little tune as he did so.

I set about cleaning my paws, pretending I wasn’t interested in Clive’s stupid news, and as I groomed, I heard my mistress chittering on above me.

‘Look at this!’ she said. I heard the tantalizing rustle of tissue paper as she rummaged in the Whiskers bag, and my claws automatically slid out from their sheaths. ‘It’s called the “Samantha” party frock, and I’m going to dress Marilyn up in it tonight. See what it says on the catalogue? ‘“Sexy and stylish. This dress will put you at the top of the ‘Best Dressed’ list!”’

‘Ooh! It is sexy,’ said Charmelle. I could see her hands with their glittering rings take hold of the frock. She held it out level with the table top, and the “Samantha” dress was clear in my line of vision. It was of black spotted net, with a red tulle underskirt, very sticky-out and frou-frou, and I knew it would display my ass to its fullest advantage. I whimpered a bit. There was only so much degradation a gal could take in return for a life of luxury, after all.

‘I’ve ordered the wedding dress,’ said my mistress in a theatrical whisper. ‘And her going away outfit, and I’ve booked the Kitty Plaza for the honeymoon.’

What?

‘Good. So we’re up to speed, then.’

‘You won’t forget to bring the engagement bracelet along tonight, will you?’

 Whaaaaat?

I looked across at Clive, whose chest fur was all fluffed up from washing. He was smiling an inscrutable smile, and I now recognized the tune he’d been humming. It was The Bells are Ringing for Me and my Gal.

I looked back at the ‘Samantha’ dress, swinging from between Charmelle’s claws. Its spangles were glinting in the sun, and it looked as if it were inhabited by an invisible, provocatively dancing showgirl.

And as I thought Nooooooo, Clive gave me a slow wink. He looked like a cat ventriloquist’s dummy I had once seen on television. I bared my teeth at him, shook off my pill box hat, then unsheathed my claws. Slash! A swipe with my right across the steel mesh screen produced no result. I wasn’t going to get out of this prison by force.

‘What’s wrong with Marilyn?’ Charmelle’s face appeared framed upside-down in the entrance to my stroller. I essayed a piteous mewl. ‘Marilyn seems upset by something, sweetie.’

‘Oh?’ La-La slid off her chair and hunkered down in front of me. ‘What is it, baby? Are you missing mommy?’

‘Mm,’ I squeaked, looking up at her with eyes like my hero, Puss-in-Boots from Shrek 2.

‘Oh, baby – come to mommy. Come on, snookums.’

Result!

La-La undid the metal bolt on the door of my stroller, and unfastened the clasps on my restraint. But before she could gather me to her bosom, I made my bid for freedom. Springing from my stroller, I took off down the Boulevard, swift as the fabled cheetah from whom I was descended. And as I legged it, I heard La-La’s voice squealing in panic: ‘Marilyn! Marilyn! Come back, come back, come baaack…’

I shot a look over my shoulder, and what I saw remains to this day imprinted in my memory. Charmelle and La-La were jumping up and down, hollering and waving; the Chez Jules bus-boy was huffing and puffing along the sidewalk in futile pursuit of me, and Clive was sitting bolt upright in his stroller, an expression of stark incredulity on his face.

When I judged that I’d put enough distance between me and the red-faced bus-boy, I peeled off into an alleyway and managed to wriggle out of my too-tight black and white tube dress. Then I continued on my way, stark naked in my golden pelt, towards the wrong side of town.

‘Hey, honey!’ A louche-looking chancer leered at me from a doorway. ‘Need any company?’

‘Sugar, sugar! What’s a classy-looking dame like you doing in this neighbourhood?’

‘Puss, puss, puss! Cat got your tongue?’

‘Hey, baby.’ A big black cat was sitting on top of a trash can. One eye was half-closed, a ragged ear drooped, a scar ran the length of his broad nose. He regarded me for a long moment, assessing, and then he leapt down from his vantage point.  I could see powerful muscles bunch under his dark fur as he landed soundlessly beside me, and as he circled me, I registered his feral scent.

Holding my head proudly, I tried not to look like a scaredy cat, and then I heard the big black dude say: ‘Back off, boys! Lighten up and mind your manners. Don’t you know how to talk to a lady?’

The alley-cats looked a bit mutinous, but they did as he commanded.

We were face to face now. He touched the tip of his nose to mine, and then he slid the side of his mouth along my cheekbone and licked my neck. ‘Fancy a bite to eat? I know a good diner not far from here.’ He nodded towards the far end of the alleyway

‘What’s it called?’ I asked.

‘“The Roadkill”,’ he told me.

‘Sounds good,’ I said, with a smile.

***

We still go there sometimes, on special occasions – like our anniversary. But we don’t go as often as we used to, now that there are mouths to be fed. Leroy works hard, scavenging from bins outside restaurants on the east side. And I have the kittens to rear. They’re beautiful kittens, bonny and badly behaved – the way kittens should be.

Sometimes, when I’m lying curled up against Leroy, I think of my mistress and feel a bit sorry for her. But then I think of Clive and the kittens we may or may not have conceived on our honeymoon in the Kitty Plaza, and I think of how those kittens would have been dressed up in frilly bonnets and bibs and tuckers and sold into slavery, as I was, and I snuggle closer in to Leroy, thanking the great Cat Goddess, Ra, for my Great Escape from La-La Land.

© Pixie Pirelli (aka Kate Thompson), April 2006