Has a UFO landed on Miss Temple Barr's ceiling?
Are little green men coming to take all the Free-to-be-Feline back to some small green planet where they have no taste buds?
By now the light has reached spotlight intensity, illuminating every nook and cranny, including a few sheltering dust balls. I feel the hair lift all over my body and arch myself into a defensive posture.
Do not be afraid.
The disembodied voice does nothing for my composure. I spit furiously.
You know me in other form, Louis. My name is Karma. I will help you.
No one has called me Louis--and lived--since my dear departed mama. Now this alien light ball is claiming to be my upstairs neighbor, who never forsakes her digs.
"I do not need help."
So say those most in need. But it is true, although you face danger, others face greater foes and you are needed to help them.
"No can do, swamp-gas. I am a prisoner. I suggest you glow on over to some other dude's pad and play with his food."
While I watch, the light dims. Maybe I hurt its feelings. But as it cools, it takes on the image of a feline face, and one of my acquaintance. I kid you not! The apparition on Miss Temple's kitchen ceiling is the face of the Sublime Karma. Aglow with a plump Buddha-like serenity, Karma almost seems to be smiling. Though her lips do not move, I now hear her dulcet tones.
Louis, you lay about! Do not send help away. You are needed elsewhere.
"I would love to be elsewhere. Confinement does not agree with me. But I am locked in."
Are you? Sometimes we ourselves are our own prisoners.
I hate this soupy pseudo philosophical guff! But it is true that I have not yet tried to break out, so I suppose I could give it the old street-side try.
Besides, this "abandoned for days" possibility begins to gnaw at my stomach. I have not had a snack in hours. So, with a last look at Her Serene Highness on the ceiling, I rise and reconnoiter.
The more familiar a terrain, even a domestic one, the more one is likely to take it for granted. I am so accustomed to easing out the open bathroom window that I have used no other means of entrance or egress for weeks.
First I sniff along the French doors. I like their easy-opening levers, but this method requires easy-giving locks, and a few trial jump-and-pulls reveal that Miss Temple has corrected laxity in this department.
I visit the obvious, the solid mahogany front door, though I have little hope here. It was always built to hold off the Mexican army. Nevertheless, I run my sensitive pads under the door, feeling for any weakness.
Next are the bedroom windows. These are the original 1950's models, metal frames and puttied panes of glass. The only way through these babies would be "beaming" elsewhere, as on the Good Ship Enterprise when the crew dissolved into sparkling arrays of atoms that are reassembled in some other place.
Alas, I am far too corporeal to harbor illusions of subatomic transference, although a Star Trek Classic episode did feature a player of my species and color, if not gender.
While at the window in my roommate's bedroom, I stare out on the twinkling lights of the Strip that warm what passes for Las Vegas skyline with a wavering neon glow similar to nuclear meltdown in certain grade-B movies.
It is clear that mere brute force will not spring me from this well-intentioned trap. I run certain scenarios through my mind. Leaping up to the counter to eyeball the Touch-Tone phone, I picture knocking the receiver off the hook. Then I could dial out for a pizza, but once the delivery dude found the door locked, he would vanish, and there would go my snack too. I think some more. I could dial Mr. Matt Devine at work. If ConTact has caller ID, he would know Miss Temple's line was calling and, alarmed by the silence on the line, race back here to investigate, breaking into the unit and thus freeing me.
Great scenario, Louie. But... what if a ConTact counselor who doesn't know Miss Temple is a friend of his answers? What if ConTact does not have caller ID in order to preserve its clients'
privacy? There is always 911, and a snap to punch in, too, even with these big paws of mine.
They would send someone to break in, what with Miss Electra and Miss Temple both gone.
My stomach growls. I am in no mood for long leaps of logic, much less lengthy bounds through solid glass.
My only hope is the long line of French doors in the living room. The French are always most accommodating when approached in the proper fashion. I jump to the floor and patrol the perimeter, trying each door with my weight. They creak but do not crack open.
I select the middle one, and sit before it, subjecting it to my secret weapon, 'The Stare."
Every feline knows that if one sits before a door, and stares at it long enough, with sufficient concentration, that circumstances must eventually bow to the feline will, and someone will come along, in time, and open it.
I am hoping, however, not to have to practice 'The Stare" until Miss Temple returns in the very wee hours. I realize that this is a last resort, that my Stare is out of practice and that there is not one human about to answer my needs, anyway.
Still, in desperate circumstances one relies on elder lore and magical formulas. "The Stare"
has served my kind well for centuries. Perhaps it will again.
That is right, Louis! You have unthinkingly touched an ancient power. Continue to concentrate and I will soon be able to, to... oh, it is exhausting. Keep it up! In only another moment, I shall be in the proper position to--
My concentration wavers. Karma's instructions sound alarmingly like the usual female demands that are guaranteed to send dudes of my persuasion fleeing to the high ground.
Then I see a tiny spark twinkling on the brass lever that operates every French door I ever knew. At first I think the lever is reflecting the night-lights Miss Temple thoughtfully leaves on in every room for my convenience. Then I see that the light is too bright and that it twinkles.
Yes, Louis, yes. Another moment and I will be able to move the mechanism and the door will explode open.
It is hard to concentrate with a feline Tinkerbell tweaking the door lever in front of your very eyes. I feel an overwhelming urge to blink and run before I discover that someone is filming this interlude for a blue movie. I keep "The Stare" on at full force, though, and watch the lever swivel toward the floor as if the fuzzball of light upon it weighs a ton. Come to think of it, Karma in corporeal form is a pretty solid piece of pussycat.
The lever dips to its lowest possible level and the door pops open an inch, admitting a sliver of cool night air and the distant sounds, of the city.
Aaaah!
The light snuffs out, and so does the uninvited sound system. I am alone again. I hope.
I paw the door open and edge into the cool dark, my pads shrinking at first from the chill patio stones. The full moon is beaming over the silhouette of the Circle Ritz's one, rather shabby palm tree. I do not know if the midnight hour has arrived yet, but I know where I am heading.
I leap upon the rail, inhale a lungful of dry, cold air and sail onto the palm's bent old back.
Then I am running under the light of the moon, down, down into the shadows that know me as well as their darkest deeds. The night is mine to make of it what I will, and that will be a mad dash to the place where my lovely roommate and her landlady play with spirits. If anything like the Sublime Karma is abroad tonight, they are in for the surprise of their lives, and I must be there.
Landmarks rush by in the wind of my passing. Evil-doers everywhere, watch out! I am free again, free! Free to be feline.