A Terrible Day for Me, Arthur the Cat

I am tiptoeing on velvety paws through the gathering in the parlor, intent on passing unremarked, when the blasted parrots zoom in, whistling at the tops of their lungs. Spot, dozing on the couch, lifts his head and blinks open his eyes. Casting a sideways glance my way, he says with a note of disdain, “Well, well. If it isn’t Arthur, the cat.” 

I acknowledge the spotted dog with a slow twitch of the tail. “Chase me if you must, witless canine,” I reply, stiffening as I prepare for the inevitable pursuit. 

There are, of course, the usual reactions: the fawn bounding forward, the monkeys scrambling up the trees, the leopard mumbling inaudibly.

“Here we go again,” a mermaid frets, gulping her tea.

The parrots circle back to goad the dog on. 

“Chase him!” one squawks. 

“Get the cat!” chirps another.

Meanwhile, Spot’s companions—the bloodhounds—stir in the vestibule. “Do I smell a chase?” One sniffs the air. The other prick its  ears.

Spot springs from the couch while I make my exit through the parlor and duck unseen behind the grandfather clock. Slipping into the case, I hunker down under the pendulum and groom my ears.

Spot gives chase with genuine enthusiasm, but very little strategy. He skids past, colliding softly with a potted fern in the blue hallway.

“Same as yesterday,” shrugs the mermaid.

Spot shakes himself, looks around, and then wanders back to the parlor.

I make my way into the hallway, ready to go outside.