A Roomful of Gambling Cats

Dolly Gee Squeakers, formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers, sits on the couch, surrounded by cheering basketball fans/members of her scrapbooking club.

“Wolverineth,” she announces.  “All the way, baby!”

The TV on, the volume up, words like “pick and pop”, “fade-away jumper”, and “they’re taking it to the paint”, are volleyed about, enthusiastically and, perhaps, even knowledgeably. 

I briefly reflect on the amount of cat hair on the new couch, make a mental note to stop somewhere later, pick up an extra roll of tape.

Not that the fuzzy little felines lined up on the sofa are concerned about anything but the brackets laid out in front of them.  Utterly consumed with the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament, their noses pointed toward the TV screen, the cats in the living room cannot be bothered with the niceties of keeping their winter coats to themselves.

I will have to talk to Dolly about cat-hair/new-couch etiquette .  One does not simply shed, willy-nilly.

Best I stay in my room. 

“I can’t believe you aren’t out there, supervising.”  I look up from my book, a John Steinbeck novel, as Liza Bean Bitey, of the Minneapolis Biteys, leaps onto the bed.  I roll over, set my book down, stare flatly at her.

“What?” she says, a small smile playing upon her tiny black lips.

“The last party you threw,” I point out, “I ended up locked out on the porch.” 

The small, striped cat laughs softly.  “I brought you cigarettes,” she says.

“I told you I had quit!”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” Liza Bean says, examining a front paw.  “So very dull of you.”

I sigh.  “I shall consider starting again.”

“Well see that you do,” the cat laughs.  I push an index finger toward her, and she leans forward, presses her nose, then the side of her face along the length of it. 

She straightens up.  “Have you seen the buffet?”  Not personally interested in basketball, the cat is, nevertheless, interested in free food.

 “I have not,” I say. 

Liza Bean Bitey, the Hardest Working Cat in Show Biz, leaves, returns momentarily with a plate.

I peer somewhat anxiously at the offered plate. 

I turn back to Liza Bean.

The cat sits primly, wraps her tail around herself, and proceeds to point at the various items on the plate.

“Seven-layered dip – relatively sure that’s sparrow there, between the tomatoes and the avocado.  Corn-meal mouse poppers.  Buffalo gerbil dip –“

“Buffalo gerbil –“

“Usually made with canned shredded gerbil,” Liza Bean explains.

“Of course,” I say.

“And last but not least, of course, meatballs in chili sauce and grape jelly.”

“That is just the weirdest thing,” I say. 

“I know, right?” Liza Bean laughs, shakes her head.  “Chili sauce and grape jelly.”