I Don't Know About This . . .

I Don't Know About This . . .

         The first yellow-red tint of sunrise followed me as I made my way home after another night of working the ladies, fighting for territory, and sitting on a fence yowling about my conquests.

         Lately, however, I was doing more fighting than romancing, and I was losing more fights than I was winning.

         To be expected, I suppose. I'm eleven years old, slightly arthritic and my once fine, shiny orange fur is falling out in patches. No amount of licking and paw-cleaning rids me of the dirt, grime and dried blood I pick up in the alleys during my nocturnal prowling. To call me scruffy would be kind.

         Well, anywho, as I neared the place I call home, a deserted cellar beneath a Chinese restaurant, a man-human blocked my path. A crazed gleam radiated from his watery eyes and his thin lips pressed together in what might have been a smile. I froze, eyes darting left and right, estimating the fastest escape route should the man move closer.

         He didn't move. Instead, he dropped to one knee and motioned me toward him with one, long, snake-like finger. "Here, kitty. Good cat," he sing-songed.

         Hey, I've heard that line before. Men in city issued overalls carrying long sticks with rope loops at the end, and young humans with rocks, matches and, heaven forbid, turpentine, hidden behind their backs had used the ploy for centuries. I narrowed my eyes, clenched my haunches and prepared to do a patented cat-scat, when the man said, "How'd you like to be on TV, Tom?"

         Muurrahnna? TV? Like Morris? A star? Good food, a warm bed, pussies meowing at my door and, should I even dream . . . a ball of twine or a rubber mouse!

         I did a snappy little cat trot over to the guy and did the leg brush, purr, head-butt routine humans seem to enjoy, leaving enough fur on his dark pant leg to knit a new cat. He lifted me gently and stood. "Good kitty. Gonna make you all pretty," he crooned.

         The guy must have been watching me, because he knew right where my home was located. When we arrived there we were met by humans with cameras and other TV stuff, and by five girly-guy types who petted me, then made awful faces as they wiped their hands together, sending up a small cloud of falling fur.

         They seemed to know that cats can understand human speech perfectly well, even though they, themselves, were not mentally evolved enough to understand us. As one of the five tossed my snarfy old blanket and part of a recently deceased rodent into a plastic bag, the others fussed over me and explained: "Our show is called 'Queer Eye for the Straight Guy' and, in this episode, instead of making over a straight man, we're doing an animal edition!" said the really out of the closet blond guy.

         "Yes, indeedy," the dark-haired, Sal Mineo look-alike chimed, "we're going to update your home, your wardrobe and, the toughest part, your look. The girl cats will be after you like they were in your younger days!"

         That got the tip of my tail flicking, let me tell you.

         So we hit the streets of New York, followed by a camera crew. The wardrobe came first. We hit Tiffany's, where I was fitted for an emerald-studded flea collar that really brought out the green of my eyes.

         The next stop sucked, and if they hadn't been wearing heavy gloves I'd have left some permanent scars. I was immersed in a tub of warm water and scrubbed nearly raw with mange shampoo, towel dried, then finished off with a blow-dryer. Nearly crapped when they turned that thing on, but I maintained control.

         One of the five guys was an expert in hair and beauty products. He sat me in a chair, in front of a mirror, and wrapped a towel around my neck. Then he rubbed some gunk in the fur on my head and swept it up into what resembled a second set of ears. I didn't care for the look.

         Eventually, however, the guy brushed and combed (he made a bad joke about it being a "cat-a-comb") until I had to admit that the image staring back at me from the mirror was quite roguish. My whiskers twitched with approval.

         All gussied up, the beautiful collar was placed around my neck and I was taken to a fine restaurant for a meal of catfish sautéed in catnip sauce. And yes, the guy made another bad pun about "look at the cat-sup!"

         So, all fat and happy, I was returned to my home. But, oh, the transformation! The walls were painted hot pink. A new kitty bed, inlaid with an over-stuffed pillow, sat in front of a small wood burning fireplace, with a life-time supply of wood stacked nearby. If the guy had made a joke about "cat-a-logs" I was fully prepared to shred his tight little butt. But he didn't. And there, beside my new bed, rested an enormous ball of red yarn! I found the total effect to be quite "cat-hartic." (Sorry, I couldn't resist!)

         As darkness fell, a camera crew carrying night-vision equipment followed me around my usual territory. Aggressive male cats backed away when I sprang my freshly sharpened, manicured claws. And the pussies surrounded me, tails waving high in a come-hither gesture. I literally could have had my pick of the litter.

         Unfortunately, the "fab five" were too successful in my make-over. I began to draw attention from some of the sexually fence-straddling male cats. And, even though I was pretty, I was still arthritic. And slower than the younger cats. Too slow.

         The scenes the cameras recorded that night were never aired because the faster felines claimed me as a "cat-ass-trophy."

         That over-stuffed pillow in my kitty bed is going to feel really good when I get home.

DM