The Blue Hallway

I would like it known—formally here, and in writing—that the blue hallway does not belong to the bloodhounds. This is an important point. 

Sadly, the musty couple does not agree. They sit like museum statues – empty vessels with vapid stares. Franklin blocks the passage by the lamp, Eleanor guards the door. 

I approach, brushing silently against the bookshelf.

They do not move.

I flick my tail.

Nothing.

This is a standoff.

I narrow my eyes. 

Franklin clears his throat. “We were here first.”

Of course I could bypass the blue entrance and go through the kitchen. But principles matter – why should I be put out and have to go the long way around? I decide to turn back and nap somewhere important. 

Rays of warm sun filter through lace curtains in the parlor. I glide onto the cushioned piano stool and settle in—nose tucked, tail curled in a perfect arc. Victory is mine. At least, for now.

Then the sound begins.

Sniff.

Pause.

Sniff-sniff.

I open one eye.

The bloodhounds are advancing.

Franklin inches across the threshold from the blue hallway, chin pressed to the rug, listening to the floorboards. He inhales deeply, then turns in my direction. Eleanor follows, posture rigid, ears angled forward. They pass the grandfather clock.

The parrots reconvene on the banister. 

“Ooooh,” one trills, “cat on stool!”

Spot skids into view.  Head tilted, he peers at the scene. “Are we chasing?” he asks hopefully.

“Not yet,” Eleanor says without looking up.

Spot sits down, disappointed, and begins licking one paw.

Franklin advances, nose sweeping the floor in exaggerated arcs. “I detect…” he stops to inhale, “feline presence.”

“Astounding,” mutters the leopard from his chair.

The mermaid sighs. 

Eleanor finally looks at me. Her eyes are solemn. 

Franklin, sniffing, suddenly gasps. “Wait. I smell something. A faint note, but unmistakable.”

The house holds its breath.

“Fish,” he says triumphantly.

All eyes turn to the mermaid.

She blinks. “I do NOT smell like fish!”

The monkeys burst into laughter.

Franklin points his nose in my direction and stiffens. 

Spot is salivating. His tail thumps the wooden floor boards. 

The parrots fly to the piano and stare down at me.

The tension in the room mounts.

I arch my back and consider my options. Should I race up the stairs? Vault over the bloodhounds? (Undignified) Yowl? (Unthinkable)

I decide to hop down. I pad three steps, turn deliberately, and flop down in the center of the oriental rug.

The bloodhounds stiffen.

“This area,” I announce, kneading the fibers, “is now occupied.”

Spot whimpers. “There isn’t a chase?”

“Apparently not,” says the mermaid, sipping her tea, without acknowledging me. 

I close my eyes.

Victory is mine once more.