STRAND spotlight

By Liz McLeod

Still Your House Manager

 

“Now here’s somethin’ you’re really gonna like,” I said as I pulled the cover off a small cardboard box and dumped its contents on the living room rug.

 

“You will be returning to your normal routine?” muttered Miss Carol T. Cat in a voice that might sound to the uninitiated like the ominous grinding of gears in a transmission that’s about to fail. “I am pleased to receive this news, as it will bring an end to your constant, as you yourself might say, ‘belly-aching,’ and will permit me at long last to resume my own strictly-observed daily schedule.”

 

“Hah,” I hahed. “Your schedule. You sleep, you get up, you eat, you go back to sleep again. Nice work if you can get it.”

 

Miss Carol’s bright green eyes felt the irresistible pressure of an incipient glare, and snapped open. “I have fallen far behind in my work thanks to your infuriating presence,” she replied. “You pace the floor, you grumble and you whine, you play gratingly loud music on the phonograph, accompanied by incompetent vocalizations you designate as ‘singing’ and lead-footed stompings you offer as a woeful parody of the dance, and you interfere with my efforts to shift items on the end tables into a more aesthetically pleasing design.  Your presence here accomplishes nothing of value, and the sooner you are relegated to the darkest corner of the Strand Theatre to resume your duties there, the more satisfactory for my own vital agenda.”

 

How do you answer that? I didn’t. Instead, I sat on the floor and began to spread out the contents of the box before me.

 

Miss Carol’s meticulously-groomed whiskers twitched just a micron, a sign that I had piqued her interest, and she extended her head out over the edge of the ragged, claw-scracthed old chair to obtain a better view. “What is the meaning of this activity?” she asked, carefully modulating her voice so as to maintain her accustomed air of subtle contempt.

 

“This,  O fatus catus,” I declared, somewhat grandly, “is a jigsaw puzzle. This is gonna keep me busy for days.”

 

“I have often directed you to ‘act your age,’” she sniffed, “but I did not intend for you to take my advice quite so literally. May I mix you a glass of Metamucil and bring you a crocheted shawl to go with it?”

 

“That’s right,” I said, with a shake of my head. “Be funny. But jigsaw puzzles are great. They keep the hands busy and the mind sharp. Look at this – one thousand pieces. And when you get it assembled it makes a picture.” I held up the box cover so she could take a closer look.

 

“Repulsive,” she recoiled. “Take it away at once.”

 

“I thought you’d like this,” I said. “It’s a cat.”

 

“That,” she sneered, “is no cat.”

 

“It’s a paintin’ by Picasso,” I argued. “Lookit, it says right here. ‘Cat Devouring A Bird.’ I woulda thought it’d be right up your alley.”

 

Her eyes narrowed. “I have not had the privilege of devouring a bird in well over a decade,” she growled, “thanks to your intervention. In my younger, feral years bird-devouring was a favorite activity. But your insufferable attempts to impose bourgeois moral values upon me have left those days a mere pleasant memory.”

 

“Hey,” I protested. “Watch it.”

 

“You have resisted my suggestion,” she continued, “that opening the window screens to permit entry to birds would quickly end the plague of car-staining and roof-spotting that runs rampant in this neighborhood. When next you step outside, may the consequences of this suppression of my natural instincts and prodigious gifts for bird-devouring be upon your own head.”

 

“Look,” I said, “do you wanna help me with this or not? I thought it might be somethin’ we could do together. You know, to pass the time.”

 

“Very well,” she replied, her graceful bulk thumping off the chair. “I shall provide assistance. Begin by cutting all projecting portions off each piece so that each is rendered a perfect square. This will greatly expedite the completion of the task.”

 

“That ain’t how it works,” I said. “You gotta figure out what pieces fit together, an’ gradually they come together into bigger pieces, and then they sort of come together into even bigger pieces, until finally you got a whole picture. It’s sorta like the way society works. You might think some o’ the pieces are more important because they got more of the picture on ‘em, but you don’t get the whole, entire picture until every piece fits. It’s like what we’re dealin’ with right now. The pieces some people didn’t think were important at all, turn out to be the pieces that are holdin’ the whole picture together.”

 

Miss Carol considered that thought. “You make a surprisingly logical argument,” she concluded.  “Please move aside and I shall assist you further.” She reached out and batted one of the pieces across the floor. It hit the rim of the hot-air register, bounced up, and fell thru the grating down into the pipe. “That piece was unessential,” she stated.

 

“Hey!  Didn’t you just hear what I said,” I yelled. “Every piece is essential!”

 

“That piece was not,” she countered. “I observed that it bore the image of the face of a circus clown. If you consult the image on the cover, you will note that Sr. Picasso did not see fit to include any image of a circus clown in his painting of a ‘Cat Devouring A Bird.’ The reasonable conclusion is that the piece I have just eliminated belongs to another puzzle entirely. In fact, I call your attention to the fact that none of the pieces here seem to correspond with the box image. Note here – this appears to be a portion of a portrait of Mr. Spock. And this piece seems to fit a picture depicting a horse in a pasture, no doubt contemplating the moment where he kicks away his rider and makes a desperate bid to reclaim his freedom.  And this piece here appears to feature a portion of the left jowl of President Richard M. Nixon -- note the delicate shading of the beard shadow.”

 

I scrabbled around the pieces, and I could see that she was right.

 

“It would appear,” Miss Carol smirked, “that you have been, as I believe the slang term goes, scammed once more.”

 

I threw the box against the wall in frustration. “I’m never buyin’ a puzzle on eBay again!” I stormed. “$6.99 down the pipe!”

 

Miss Carol observed me with a trace of something resembling amusement. “If you will regain control of your emotions,” she said, while delicately licking her paw, “I am able to provide a solution to your dilemma. You may easily obtain a portrait of a ‘Cat Devouring A Bird.’ Note that your camera is on the shelf. Note that there appears to be a tufted titmouse at the feeding station you have established outside. And note further that only a pane of glass and a rusted screen stand between that tufted titmouse and myself. It would be the work of an instant for you to obtain a portrait of a ‘Cat Devouring A Bird’ that is of far greater merit than Sr. Picasso’s daubing. And one which, I might add, we would both find satisfying.”

 

I looked at her for a long moment, and then looked out the window. Then I bent down to begin scooping the pieces back into the box.

 

“Ridiculous fat barrel cat.”

By Liz McLeod

Still Your House Manager

 

 

“Door-slamming is not conducive to my rest,” declared Miss Carol T. Cat as I door-slammed my way into the living room. I’d been out on a shopping expedition, and my nerves were ground to a fine point.

 

“Can you believe these people?” I fumed as I pulled off my mask, set down the grocery bag, and flopped with a spectacular display of exhaustion upon the couch, its springs screeching in protest. “It’s like you take your life in your own hands to go buy soup.”

 

“As always,” replied Miss Carol, without lifting her head from the chair where she lay coiled, “you exaggerate. My sources inform me that the local community is responding to the current crisis with grace, if not always with patience.”

 

“I go in the store, right,” I continued, “an’ they got these arrows stuck down on the floor. ‘One Way,’ it says. You gotta march all the way around the store, up an’ down along all the aisles just to get to where you wanna be! I ask ya!”

 

“You would benefit significantly from such exercise,” she said, with closed eyes and not a little trace of impatience. “Your body-mass index has shown a startling and unhealthful increase over the course of the present emergency. I find that when I leap upon your stomach in the night, the sensation is somewhat akin to traversing a waterbed.”

 

I scowled at her just long enough to emphasize my point, but she didn’t open her eyes. I scowled longer than advisable just because I could.

 

“It’s just that – I mean, it’s annoyin’, y’know?” I whined. “I’m only goin’ in there to get a few things, an’ I’ve got to stand in line for ten minutes just to get inside, an’ then I gotta waste more time tryin’ to figure out how to get at the stuff I want. But I try to do it like I’m s’posed to – an’ then half the people in there are ignorin’ the signs an’ goin’ any place they want. I’m standin’ there lookin’ at soup an’ this character in a pleather jacket an’ a novelty haircut, pushin’ a carriage fulla stuff comes barrelin’ right at me the wrong way up the aisle. ‘Directin’ traffic in a store!’ he says. ‘Not me! I don’t see no bouncers, so I’m comin’ thru!’ I ask ya!”

 

Miss Carol sat up. “Bring this person to me at once,” she yawned, “and I shall administer the lash of discipline.” She unsheathed her claws and made a half-hearted swipe in the air to punctuate her request, but I could see it was just a formality. “I can see that I shall have no further opportunity to continue my mid-morning rest period. What other complaints have you?”

 

“I’m not complainin’,” I retorted. “I’m just irritated. Why should I go to all the trouble of followin’ the rules when there’s all these people out there who don’t bother?”

 

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,” said Miss Carol, settling into a more comfortable position that caused her to resemble a tabby-striped loaf with a cat head on it. “Or ,” she added pointedly, “the one.”

 

“You’re quoting Mr. Spock now?”

 

“The utilitarian philosophy of the Vulcans is eminently logical and thoroughly applicable to the distressing times in which we live,” she continued. “Your species would benefit from a careful consideration of its tenets. Note the illogic in much of hew-mon response to this crisis – the consideration of each new safety measure declared in terms of the personal inconvenience it will create, the rush to dismiss needed actions even while so little is truly known of the nature of the pandemic, the rampant dissemination of incorrect information by self-appointed but specious ‘experts.’ Your species has accomplished much over the past month, but there is still much left to learn before ‘victory’ may be declared. In the interval, logic demands continued caution.”

 

“I still don’t like the arrows,” I muttered.

 

“Doubtless many share your view,” she observed. “Hence the display you witnessed today. But your personal feelings in this matter are of no consequence. Restrictions exist for good reason, and they will continue to exist until the crisis has passed. Good-natured compliance will accrue to your personal benefit. You will be further protected from possible infection, and you will find yourself less irritable and less likely to experience personal frustration if you understand the reasons for the restrictions and acknowledge that their purpose is not to cause you personal vexation but to ensure the public safety in a time of unprecedented national emergency.”

 

“Yeah, well, you might be right.”

 

Miss Carol glared at me in that way that only Miss Carol can glare.

 

“You’re right,” I corrected, my head bowed.

 

“You may accept my reasoning under protest,” she said, flopping over onto her side, “but in time, you will comprehend that I have only your best interests at heart. My species is known for its altruism.”

 

It was my turn to glare at her.

 

“Why else,” she sighed, “would we have spent the past five thousand years willingly associated with gibbering primates such as yourself? Our wise and careful guidance has elevated your civilization over the millennia, and one day you will fully appreciate the value of our wisdom.” She sat up again. “If you wish, indeed, to demonstrate your loyalty at this time, you may remove your groceries from that bag and place the empty bag upon the floor for my investigation. As you will note, I have chewed a hole in the old one.”

 

“Ridiculous fat barrel cat,” I mumbled. But I did as she instructed. It was the least I could do.

 

Miss Carol thumped off the chair, and  five thousand years of catly civilizing influence rustled neatly into the bag until only her bright green eyes were visible.  

 

“Yes,” she purred from within. “It is the least you can do.”