Maykin Contakt

Musashi Sez:

OK, this yer littrboks warnin, cuz this 1 is kinda long…

Mom Says:

The little Citroen puttered down the streets of Marrakech, past the tall pinkish buildings and then through the maze of souks in the marketplace, dodging other small cars, pedestrians, and feral cats and dogs. Agent Octavian looked out the car window on the scruffy and underfed fur peeples, so many more than he had seen even at the animal hospital so long ago.

At one point when traffic was congested, Ibrahim followed Agent Eight’s instructions on how to change his travel collar for his mission collar and then initiate Ibrahim’s paw-sized receiver. When traffic finally shifted, they moved on. Finally, Ibrahim pulled over and parked.

Ibrahim carried Agent Octavian on one broad shoulder as he moved confidently through the crowds, moving in a much slinkier way than any cat would have expected from such a large human. As they came to a small café with a colorful parrot squawking from its perch near the door, Ibrahim suddenly turned left into a dark narrow alley. Octavian sank his claws deep into Ibrahim’s shirt.

Ibrahim murmured, “Be calme, Octavvyon. We are going tuu L’Arche de Noé, le café for the animalz like yourself and your contactes. Mm?”

“Is it sayf?”

“Pour vous? Mais oui. Pour moi? Ah bien. Octavvyon, simplee promees me yu weel not start a bar fight, OK? The las time I had a raybeez shot was not so fun. OK. Yu go now. Bon chance!”

He set Octavian down just outside a narrow restaurant with red curtains hanging in the glass windows. Octavian flicked his tail nervously, then pulled his head up and strode inside. On the left side stood tables and chairs of curly metal, with here and there a pair of humans drinking mint tea and talking in an undertone in French or Arabic. Off to the right, however, was a series of red-cushioned couches with low wooden tables between them. Sprawled on the couches were dogs and cats, most of them much sleeker than the fur people Octavian had seen wandering the crowded streets. In general, dogs were spending time with dogs, and cats with cats. None of them looked like what he had been told of PyG.

He paused, unsure how to proceed, when a man shorter than Ibrahim and with less hair on his head, leaned down and said, “Bien venue, Monsieur.”

Octavian went for broke, praying to Ceiling Cat that his phrasebook would not fail him. “Merci. Est-ce-que Perro et Gatto ici ce soir?”

“Mais oui.”

That wasn’t particularly helpful. “Parlez-vous anglais?”

“Ah, yes. Ar they expecting yuuu?”

“Oui, je crois. Je m’appelle Octavvyon.”

“Un moment, s’il vous plait.”

The man disappeared behind more crimson curtains. Octavian was in the middle of what seemed like two totally different places inside one set of walls. On one side the humans murmured in his direction. On the other, the animals fell silent and sniffed at him. He sat and licked his paw reflectively, thinking that practicing your leaping and pouncing! on catnip mice was not quite the same as fighting a room full of strangers larger than you. If/when he got through this mission, he would have to ask Jimbond to help him fix this rather considerable gap in his training.

The man reappeared, bowing. “Monsieur, thees way.”