“I like your thinking, Dooley,” I said. “Why not a cat indeed?”
“I mean, the time that only middle-aged white males could play James Bond is well and truly behind us. And to appeal to a larger demographic they should consider their options. And everybody likes cats, so they’ve got that pre-existing audience.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. We’d only recently watched a James Bond movie on television, all of us cozily ensconced in the living room, the humans riveted to their TV set, and us cats wondering what all the fuss was about as usual. “Though it might be hard to find a cat that fits thepart,” I said, my thought processes a little sluggish on this, a lazy Saturday morning in the Kingsley home.
Dooley and I were in the backyard, enjoying those first few rays that do so much to warm up one’s bones, the dewy grass nice and cool against my belly. Our humans—Odelia and Chase—were still in bed, and so was baby Grace, the latest addition to the clan.
“Brutus could do it,” said Dooley. “He’d be perfect for the role.”
“You’re forgetting one thing, my friend,” I said. “James Bond has a license to kill, and to do that he needs to be able to handle a gun, and since cats aren’t naturally equipped by an otherwise wise and benevolent creator to handle a firearm, I think Brutus would be dropped from the lineup at his first audition. In fact he probably wouldn’t even make it past the first selection.”
This was enough to give my best friend pause. At least for a few minutes. But then he rallied.“Maybe they can adopt a strict no-gun policy? Brutus could use his claws when he’s under attack. I’ll bet he can be equally lethal—or even more so—with his claws than by using a gun. He could be the new gun-less Bond.”
“True, true,” I admitted. Though frankly I had a feeling the James Bond aficionados might not agree if after sixty years the famous franchise suddenly went firearm-free. Then again, the question was probably moot, since as far as I knew, Brutus had never expressed an interest in being the next Bond.
“I bet they’ll cast a dog,” Dooley said moodily. “They always do.”
“A dog would make a great spy,” I said, trying to cheer him up. “Dogs are very photogenic. And popular, too. I’ll bet if the next Bond was a dog it would be a big hit.”
“Who would be a hit?” suddenly asked a voice in my rear.
It was, of course, our friend Harriet. She and her boyfriend Brutus now came sashaying in our direction, straight from the rose bushes where they like to spend some quality time of a morning—or an afternoon or even a night.
“The new James Bond,” said Dooley without looking up. “They’re casting a dog.”
“A dog!” said Brutus. “You’re not serious.”
“Dooley is simply speculating,” I hastened to say.
“Isn’t that just typical?” Harriet scoffed. “It’s always the same pets who have all the luck. I’m telling you, it’s a dog’s world out there, and us cats are always picked last.”
“Dooley was just saying how you’d make the perfect Bond,” I said, trying to interject a modicum of optimism and cheerfulness into the conversation.
“I know,” said Harriet, simpering a little.
“No, I actually meant Bru—”
“I’d make some changes, of course,” she blithely went on. “For one thing I’d make sure they drop that dreadfully dreary color scheme.” She sighed excitedly. “I’m seeing lots of pinks and yellows. Maybe even some powder blue. And of course only happy faces from now on. Happy happy happy. And maybe we could do a big dance number to open the movie, with lots and lots of showcats, like inLa La Land.” She gave her partner a coy look. “My name is Bond. Harriet Bond.”
“Excellent,” Brutus murmured, though I could tell he wasn’t as happy as he could have been at this example of creative casting. And you have to admit: Brutus Bond does have a nice ring to it. Better than Max Bond at any rate. Or even Dooley Bond.
Then again, it was no use speculating, since no Bond producer in their right mind would ever cast a cat in the coveted role of Ian Fleming’s famous secret agent. Cats are simply too cute. And a cute Bond is a big no-no. And so instead of thinking of ways and means of saving the planet from a dastardly evil genius and his henchmen, Harriet joined us on the lawn, and let the sunlight play about her noble visage.
Brutus, meanwhile, ventured into the house to subject his food bowl to a spot check, and as the birds tweeted in a nearby tree, and a neighbor took his lawnmower for a test run, I soon found myself drifting off to sleep. And I probably would have dreamt of Bond girls and fancy cars and nifty spy gadgetry if not suddenly a fire engine started screaming nearby.
We were wide awake within milliseconds, and it took me a while to realize it wasn’t a fire that was about to consume some innocent home, but baby Grace who had decided that she required nourishment and she required it right now!
“Oh, dear,” said Harriet, once she had her heartbeat under control again. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that terrible sound.”
I could have told her that if she was going to be the next James Bond, there probably were worse things she needed to tackle than the sound of a hungry infant, but I wisely kept my tongue.
We all directed a curious look at the upstairs window, behind which I could easily picture the homely scene that was now playing out: Chase and Odelia would have immediately woken up, and were presumably staggering, still sleep drunk, in the direction of the cradle that housed the source of all this clamor. Moments later, the screaming stopped, and we all shared a look of satisfaction. Odelia had done it again: she’d managed to tame the savage beast that lurks behind the pure face of innocence.
“Who knew that such a tiny human could produce such a big sound?” said Harriet, shaking her head in wonder.
“She’ll have a great career as an opera singer,” said Dooley. “She already has the volume, now all she has to do is work on expanding her repertoire.”
He was right. So far Grace’s performances kept within the one-note range.
From next door, Fifi came trotting up. Fifi is a Yorkshire Terrier, and probably one of the nicest dogs alive—and I don’t say this lightly, as everyone knows that most dogs are foul creatures who like nothing better than to chase cats up trees.
“Kurt isn’t happy, you guys,” she said as she joined us.
“Kurt is never happy,” I said. Kurt is Fifi’s human, and our perpetually grumpy next-door neighbor. Though what he isn’t happy about tends to vary day by day.
“What isn’t he happy about this time?” asked Brutus, popping out through the pet flap, satisfied that his bowl still contained the necessary foodstuffs.
“It’s the baby,” said Fifi. “He says she’s way too loud, and if this keeps up he’s going to file a noise complaint.”
“Good luck with that,” said Brutus. “Doesn’t he know Grace’s dad is a cop?”
“Oh, he knows, which is why he won’t file the complaint in Hampton Cove. He’s going straight to the top.”
“The top?” I asked, intrigued. “You mean the Mayor?”
“The Governor,” said Fifi. “He’s going to claim that his rights as a citizen and a taxpayer are being trampled on. And he says there’s a precedent.”
“What precedent?”
“Remember how they wanted to build an airport in Happy Bays last year and how the neighbors successfully petitioned against it? Well, he says the same principle applies.”
I have to confess we were all a little flabbergasted, but finally I pointed out,“A baby isn’t an airplane, Fifi.”
“Max is absolutely right,” Dooley chimed in. “For one thing, babies don’t fly.” He turned to me. “Do they?”
“No, Dooley,” I said. “Babies don’t fly.”
“Unlike the storks that deliver them,” said Dooley with a nod in my direction.
“I know that,” said Fifi, ”and Kurt knows that, but he says she makes the same noise as a jumbo jet, and since he was here first, that dreadful baby has to go. And if the Governor doesn’t get rid of her, he’s taking his case up to the President.”