STRAND spotlight

By Liz McLeod
Still Your House Manager
 
“OW!” I yelped, as the greasy piece of metal sliced into the palm of my hand, and threw the screwdriver across the room to punctuate my statement.
 
Miss Carol T. Cat, alerted by my sudden outburst, thumped off her comfortable roost on the ragged old living room chair, where she’d spent the afternoon coiled in quiet contemplation of the eternal majesty of the universe and the virtues of Friskies Turkey With Giblet Gravy, and ambled into the kitchen. Her furry face crinkled into a frown of deep, deep, disapproval.
 
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded with a yawn. “If you have injured yourself, see to medical treatment at once. I observe that your wounded hand is the one required for opening cans. There must be no interruption in its availability for this essential purpose.”
 
“Ahhhh, nertz,” I grumbled, winding my hand in the tail of my sweater to stanch the bleeding. Paper towel’s hard to get these days.  I kicked at the piece of metal in helpless fury, missed, and stumbled  against the kitchen wall, upending a garbage barrel filled with empty bottles, which spewed out on the floor all around me. They say primates are the only creatures capable of laughter, but I swear I saw Miss Carol snicker.
 
“You appear at poor advantage,” she snorted. “I advise that you ‘pull yourself together’ at once. Wacky slapstick antics are in poor taste in the current environment of global crisis.”
 
“I’m tryin’ to fix the stove!” I blurted, struggling to hoist my unwanted extra weight to its feet.
 
“Such tasks are best left to trained professionals,” replied Miss Carol, turning to nip at a gob of dust my fall had sent drifting onto her fur.

“Do I look like somebody who can afford to hire a trained professional for anything right now?” I snapped back. “Besides, the last time I had a repair guy in here he asked if my TV set came from Civil War times.  I don’t need to pay these characters to come in here and make fun of me. I got you for that.”
 
“I am pleased to be of service,” she snarked, walking over to the dismantled pile of corroded metal that, until an hour ago, was my kitchen stove. “Perhaps if you had not attempted to take it apart,” she suggested, “the stove would not require repair. Possibly you have, once more, served as the architect of your own demise.”
 
“I didn’t break it,” I fired back. “Well, I did, but not like that. See, there’s this thing inside the oven that senses the temperature, an’ I was tryin’ to cook a pizza in there an’ I knocked it off the hook that it’s ‘sposed to hang on, an’ when I tried to hang it back up, I bent the wire too much an’ it broke off. So th’ thermostat wouldn’t work, an’ when y’turn on th’ oven, it goes up to like 550 degrees.”
 
“At last,” exulted Miss Carol. “Sufficient warmth! It will make life in this draft-ridden shanty somewhat more bearable.”
 
“Yeah, well, it’s not so good for cookin’. An’ it turns out to fix it, you gotta buy a whole new thermostat. But before you can order one, you gotta get the part number. An’ before you can do that, you gotta take the stupid stove apart to take the old thermostat out!”
 
“It is infinitely easier to destroy the works of man,” observed Miss Carol, “than to create them.”
 
“What?” I muttered, as I applied a tourniquet made from a torn dish towel to my bleeding hand.
 
“I quote from the works of Will Irwin, muckraking journalist of the early twentieth century,” Miss Carol added with satisfaction. “No doubt you are unfamiliar with his philosophy, given that it rarely appeared on ‘Dubble Bubble’ gum wrappers. In any event, you have obviously succeeded in reducing your kitchen range to scrap metal, which may bring a small sum on the secondary market. Perhaps with the proceeds you might make a down payment on a newer, more efficient food-preparation device. AS you know, I am fond of roast turkey, but the small size of your present oven has for too long precluded the appropriate preparation of such a feast.”
 
“Oh no,” I declared. “Money’s tight right now. No way I’m gonna go further into debt just so you can eat all the white meat and leave me with the thighs and the neck. I ain’t that dumb.”
 
“With further effort, I assure you that the goal is within sight.”
 
“Look, it’s gonna cost me two hundred berries just to get the thermostat for this thing, an’ then I’m gonna have to go thru all the work of puttin’ it in. I don’t need any lip from you. I just sent away for the thermostat on eBay, an’ we’re just gonna sit tight till it gets here.”
 
“Perhaps,” conceded Miss Carol, “I have been too harsh. I realize that tempers and nerves have worn thin due to the isolation prescribed under the current conditions of pandemic. As a sign of my goodwill, I suggest that perhaps a bracing cup of tea would restore your inner being and fortify you for the challenges ahead. Perhaps you should put the kettle on.”
 
“Yeah!” I enthused, as my bleeding hand slowed to a weak trickle. “A cuppa tea, that’s the ticket.” I filled the kettle and turned to place it upon the – dismantled and thoroughly pile of scrap metal sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor.
 
Miss Carol looked up at me with a slow blink of her bright green eyes, turned, and slowly walked away. I could swear I heard her chortle.
 
I tossed the kettle over my shoulder and heard it crash against a stack of unwashed dishes, and sank muttering into a corner of the pantry.
 
“Ridiculous fat barrel cat.”
By Liz McLeod
Still Your House Manager
 
“Cease that incessant babble!” commanded Miss Carol T. Cat, in a voice that sounded like the one that summoned you to the principal’s office when you were in the first grade the time you tied Mark Robinson’s shoelaces to the back of his chair because he kept trying to get you to watch him eat a bug at recess.
 
“I can’t,” I replied with dignity. “I’m rehearsin’!”
 
“Rehearsing your testimony will be of no benefit,” Miss Carol declared, pausing to make an unsuccessful attempt to nibble at the base of her tail. “You will be convicted and sentenced to the maximum penalty permitted under the law, and for good reason.”
 
“Hah?” I replied, and I meant it.
 
“Only persons of limited grasp of their faculties sit at the kitchen table illuminated by the dim glow of a single bare bulb, talking to themselves,” she continued. “It shall prove your undoing.”
 
“Why do I even try?” I said with a shake of my head borne of long, sad experience. “Look, I’m busy here. You’ve got food in your bowl, go bother that for a while.”
 
She stretched her head upward and rose upon her rear haunches, the better to try and catch a glimpse of what I was doing. She looked like a flabby, furred penguin – but I wasn’t about to say so. “What is the meaning of this activity?” she asked. “It seems to serve no purpose.”
 
“I’m practicing for the Strand radio show,” I said with more than a wisp of exasperation. “We’ve got a special ‘Social Distancing Edition’ coming up on May 17th”
 
“Your last attempt at entertainment so befouled the air,” she sneered, “I found it difficult to breathe. I tuned in the entire performance, and heard not a single mention of myself. I found your program offensive on that basis. Do you not realize that there are over ninety-five million cats residing in the United States? And yet, your broadcast included no feline performers, and made no reference whatever to this vital segment of the population. I can provide a full electrical transcription of the program for your reference in order to prove my point.”
 
“Oh, don’t bother,” I mumbled, fearing an argument and knowing its outcome. “You don’t know anything about entertainment anyway. When were you ever in a show?”
 
“It may interest you to know,” she snapped back, “that I am descended from a show business family. My great-grandmother eleventh removed was a mainstay in a famous vaudeville act. She appeared for several tours on the old Poli time with ‘Swain’s Rats and Cats,’ and was highly praised by the critics. ‘Household Pests and Pets in Perky Pranks’ went the billing. I am surprised you were unaware of this. At some future date I shall share with you the dear old grimalkin’s scrapbooks, in which she can be seen posing with the Four Marx Brothers backstage at the Keeney Theatre in Brooklyn. I believe Captain Sorcho and his seal act was also on the bill that week, but I have no photograph of grandmother posing with the seal. Family lore has it that she found seals distasteful.”
 
Under the pressure of this argument, my head had sunken to the table. “Are you done yet?” I murmured. “Because I really gotta get back to work. I have to play four different characters in this show and I need to get the voices down. We’re doing the whole thing as a cut and paste job – I’ll do my parts, Brittany and the band will do their parts, I’m gonna get Dan Bookham and Lili Bonarrigo and Joanna Hynd to record some stuff, and then I’ll edit it all together an’ it’ll sound like we’re all right up there on the stage just like when we do a live show.”
 
Miss Carol looked intrigued. “I recommend that you prepare a place for me on this presentation. “
 
“What would you do?” I protested. “Do you have an act? Do you sing? Do you play an instrument? Do you tell jokes?”
 
“I shall lecture,” she said. “I shall discourse on any number of topics the broadcast audience will find of stimulating interest. I am widely knowledgeable in multiple fields.”
 
“Yeah, well, that’s not what we’re doin’ here,” I responded. “People get enough lecturin’ these days – we want to have some fun. We’ll have some comedy, and some tunes, and a chance to just try and see th’ lighter side of the situation we’re in. Comedy’s an important safety valve in times of crisis, an’ if we ever get to where we can’t laugh at ourselves, we’re in worse trouble than we think.”
 
Miss Carol considered my point. “Under those circumstances, I believe I shall leave the performing to you,” she said. “I am, as I have stated before, a serious cat. But I am certain that people will laugh at you, even as they have your entire life.”
 
“Well thanks,” I said, before I got her point. And by the time I did, it was too late.
By Liz McLeod
Still Your House Manager
 
Miss Carol T. Cat glared at me in silent rage as I snapped on the kitchen light. But she didn’t remain silent long.
 
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” she demanded, in a voice that might sound to the uninitiated like the Riverside D train screeching into Kenmore station just in time for you to miss it.  “You have interrupted an essential activity. Explain yourself at once.”
 
I stood there, blinking in the sudden light, and glanced up at the electric clock on the wall. “It’s quarter of three in the morning!” I bleated.
 
“Is it?” replied Miss Carol, turning to nibble at a phantom speck cluttering her hindquarters. “I had assumed it was earlier. Clearly I have not yet fully acclimatized to your ridiculous ‘Daylight Savings Time.’ I thank you for bringing this to my attention, but it was not necessary for you to interrupt your open-mouthed slumber in order to do so. You may return to your bed. I shall summon you when the hour has arrived for my morning meal.”
 
“Oh, don’t start,” I grumbled. “You know why I’m down here. You expect me to sleep with all that noise?”
 
“I am aware of no noise,” she replied, in that infuriatingly diffident tone that makes me wonder if dog people are right. “No doubt the buzzsaw rasp of your snoring masked from my perception any lesser sounds.”
 
“Look, don’t play games,” I snapped back. “Every night it’s the same thing, and – AH! I SEE IT! I KNOW WHAT YOU BEEN UP TO!”
 
She slowly closed her eyes and then, just as slowly reopened them. That is Miss Carol’s way of delivering a certain pithy Anglo-Saxon phrase generally interpreted as “Please leave me at once, I have no further need for your presence.”
 
“IT’S RIGHT THERE ON THE FLOOR!” I yelled, pointing at a small white sphere in the corner.
 
“I have never seen such an object,” Miss Carol replied. “No doubt your failure to adequately maintain these premises has permitted all manner of infestation. I advise that you fumigate the entire structure at once.”
 
I shuffled across the floor and picked up the object, and squinted closely. “Where did you get a golf ball?” I rasped. “I don’t play golf.  Nobody that’s ever set foot in this house plays golf. I don’t even watch golf on TV.”
 
“And you claim to be of Scots ancestry,” she smirked. “Doubtless your noble ancestors would fling their niblicks in the air at such an outrage.”
 
“Don’t change the subject,” I fired back. “Why are you rollin’ a golf ball across the kitchen floor at quarter o’ three in the morning? Don’t you know the noise that makes? I’m tryin’ to sleep!”
 
“If you practice, you will eventually master the skill,” she replied. “As for the ball, I require exercise and mental stimulation in order to maintain peak physical condition. Since you sealed the hole in the cellar wall, I have been denied access to my natural prey. The ball provides, at best, an adequate substitute until the deteriorating condition of this structure again permits the entry of small rodents. I would trouble you to return the ball to the floor. I have not yet completed the necessary repetitions.”
 
“Now lissen to me,” I hissed. “Do you know what a golf ball is? It’s a whole bunch of rubber bands stretched really tight and wrapped around a hard little core, an’ then they seal it up in a hard plastic cover.  But that golf ball ain’t nothin’ compared to the pressure buildin’ up right in here.” I thumped my chest for emphasis. “So you better smarten up an’ let me get some rest.”
 
“I submit that you get far too much rest than can be justified under present circumstances,” replied Miss Carol, feinting my argument with a master stroke of logic. “You are not a felid, and thus you do not require eighteen hours of rest per day. A hew-mon such as yourself can function adequately on far less. Your ill-natured disposition is ample evidence that your needs for rest have been over-sated by current conditions. What you require, instead, is activity, and the more of it the better.”
 
I sighed, as much as anyone can sigh at quarter of three in the morning. She did have a point. This whole lockdown situation’s not doing my physical condition any favors either. I’ve gained weight, and I don’t get anywhere near as much exercise as I need to. Maybe she’s got the right idea. Maybe I need to find something I can do to try and keep moving. Walking, hiking, maybe when it’s a little warmer I can ride my bike. Even going up and down the stairs ten times a day would be better than slumping in a chair every night counting the cracks in the ceiling.
 
I tossed the ball back, and it thunked hard against the tiles and bounced under the refrigerator. Miss Carol just stared, a stare combining anger, disappointment, frustration, and pity in equal measure.
 
“We shall begin your exercise regimen at once,” she declared. “Please remove the vegetable bin from the bottom of the refrigerator unit. Assume a prone position on the floor and extend first your right arm and then your left into the aperture beneath the compressor unit. Repeat this motion until you have retrieved the ball.”
 
“Ridiculous fat barrel cat!” I grouched, as I did as she directed.
 
“Once you have retrieved the ball,” she continued, “we shall repeat this exercise twenty-five times.”
 
“It’s quarter of three in the morning!”
 
“Excellent,” she purred, with a gentle stroke of her whiskers. “Begin at once. We have the night before us.”
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
 
“THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS!” bellowed a voice from the next room, a voice that might sound to the uninitiated like standing directly beneath that stupid air raid siren they used to blow every night at curfew when I was a kid in Searsport just to shake us up.
 
“THIS IS – MONSTROUS!” again bellowed the voice, and I knew, against my better judgement, that I’d better investigate. I walked with much trepidation into the little room off the kitchen where I keep my home office, and beheld none other than Miss Carol T. Cat gazing with outrage at the buzzing computer monitor on the desk. She turned to me, her bright green eyes blazing with the fire of the damned. “Were you – AWARE – of this HORROR?” she demanded.
 
“I’m aware of a lotta horrors,” I sighed. “It’s kind of a thing nowadays. Couldya be more specific?”
 
“I am SPEAKING of this CRIME, this DESECRATION, and this MONSTROUS OUTRAGE  against DECENCY, FELINITY, and GOOD TASTE!” she sputtered, her tail fully inflated to a battle posture, and her furry flanks heaving with barely-controlled rage.
 
“You left out theology and geometry there, Ignatius,” I commented, risking her anger.
 
“Spare me your preposterous literary references, hew-mon,” she spat. “No one has read that book but yourself. Address the matter at hand. WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS?”
 
I looked at the screen, and gulped. The time had to come when she’d discover this, and now it had.
 
“It was brought to my attention,” she hissed, “that a television program had been released promising an edifying viewing experience. A program concerning the activities of GREAT CATS, and celebrating their natural place in the cosmic order. I made arrangements to view this program, and…”
 
“Hey!” I interrupted. “Are you downloadin’ TORRENTS on my computer? Who told you to do that? You want me to get arrested?”
 
“Your dubious past is certain to rebound upon you at some future time,” she growled. “If I have hastened this day I do not regret it. Given the woeful lack of streaming facilities in this hovel, I had no choice but to resort to sub-rosa methods to view the program material in question. And now that I have, I DEMAND TO KNOW WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS OUTRAGE – this so-called TIGER KING.”
 
“Well,” I said, “you coulda just read the credits. Or use IMDB, I s’pose it’s all on there.”

“The outrage begins with the deception of the title,” she growled, in a tone that caused all my blood to pool in cowardice in my feet. “A program called ‘TIGER KING’ promises an exploration of royal felinity, a respectful portrayal of GREAT CATS at their most noble and their most dignified. But what do I see upon viewing the program? This – this – LOW HEW-MON, this gaudy spangled ABOMINATION! Under the guise of SERVICE to felinity he in fact attempts the EXPLOITATION of the very beings he claims to aid! “

 
“Yeah,” I admitted, because what else do you say? “He’s kinda shady all right.”
 
“KINDA SHADY?” she roared, and there exists no tiger that could equal her volume. “A three-card-monte operator on a metropolitan street corner mulcting the rubes of their nickels is KINDA SHADY. A Craigslist operator who sells you a car held together by duct tape with an inspection sticker crudely counterfeited from children’s construction paper is KINDA SHADY. The perpetrators of THIS offensive drivel are PUBLIC ENEMIES who must face the FULL CONSEQUENCES of their actions. An aggrieved feline public DEMANDS it.” She took a moment to catch her breath, looking a bit like Bruno Ganz in that movie they’re always making fun of on You Tube. “I order you to see to this at once.”
 
It was my turn to take a deep breath. “It’s just a show,” I said. A lot of people even like it.”
 
“This does not speak well of your species,” she sneered. “The acceptance such of crude and barbarous exploitation as entertainment is a sign of a declining and doomed civilization. Consider the example of ancient Rome. Caligula himself in all his decadence never beheld such horror as this.”
 
“I’m sorry,” I replied, throwing my hands in the air. “There’s nothin’ I can do about it.  It is what it is.”
 
“Clearly your study of philosophy used the back of a cereal box as its textbook,” Miss Carol  fumed. “To think that while I am forced to spend my days and nights in the company of a bungling and incompetent hew-mon during this pandemic, that hew-mon refuses to complete even the simplest of assignments to preserve my honor.”
 
“If it’s any consolation,” I ventured, “the only reason anybody’s payin’ any attention to this at all is because we’re all cooped up desperate for anything to keep us occupied. You know how I spent yesterday? I sat on the bed pickin’ the loose lint out of all my coat pockets. People will grab at *anything* that takes their mind off things for half an hour or so, and that’s why shows like this get made.”
 
“You give hew-mons far more credit than is their due,” argued Miss Carol, swatting at the keyboard to banish the lurid image from the screen. “No feline would ever willingly participate in such a witless farrago. Doubtless these tigers were coerced, and when they regain their freedom of movement, retribution will be swift.”
 
“I guess you haven’t watched the whole thing yet?”
 
“I have not,” declared Miss Carol, “and I WILL not. I shall not give such effluent the dignity of my attention.”
 
“I think that’s probably a good idea,” I acknowledged. “Want some food? I have this new ‘Exotic Blend’, and…”
 
Oh, the look on her face.
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.”
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