Musashi Sez:
This a long one. Yu gyz shud probabul jus mayk shur to goez to littrbox befor yu reeds mai blog fer the nex cuppul of daez. OK?
Mom Says:
Picotero Paco led Agent Eight through the Barrio de los Animales, weaving slightly, but still keeping up a constant commentary in Spanish that the LingwaTron was having an increasingly harder time understanding. After a while, Octavian simply turned it off. How important was communication, really, under such circumstances?
They entered yet another tapas bar. This one sported brick walls with landscape paintings warmly lit by yellow light. Humans as well as dogs and cats moved through the place, dancing, sitting in corners, munching tapas and drinking sangria.
The guitar music was rough and emotional, and at first Octavian thought, “Huh. Jazz is betterer than this!” But as they moved through the crowd and he inhaled the passion as it zigged and zagged invisibly through the room, he admitted silently to himself that he might—just possibly—be wrong. Maybe. Perhaps. And he had clearly intended it all along. Huh.
Suddenly, a tall human woman in a very fancy long red dress stood before them and picked up Paco. Quickly Octavian turned the LingwaTron back on, just in case this was one of those situations where it would be best to run to get away from some messy love affair gone wrong. (Humans get very fussed when suddenly there are kittens in their home as well as cats…)
“Picotero! ¡Por fin! Debes cantar para nosotros esta noche!” (Chatterbox! Finally! You must sing for us tonight!)
“Sí,” said Paco. “Por supuesto. Tal vez más tarde.” (Yes, of course. Maybe later.)
“Ahora!” (Now!)
Octavian couldn’t hear Paco’s purring, but he recognized the signs. The tall lady carried Paco to a table near the guitarist and turned the microphone toward him.He licked his paw and washed his face reflectively, then murmured something to the guitarists. Then he began to sing.
For Octavian, who had only ever heard fence-singing in America when he was very, very young, the electrifying performance of Paco that night forever changed his view of the artistic abilities of his species. Paco sang with a voice like broken glass. Octavian’s eyes watered from the sheer beauty of it.
Aay yaaa yi yi yi yi yi yai!
Oooo doloo-ooo-ooor miaouu!
Luuuuuuna (aay yaiii!) miiiaouuu,
La luna miaou luna ayaa-yi-yiii!
(Outch!!! Outch!!! O! My pain!
My--ouch!--moon,
The moon, my moon, O! Ouch! Ow! Ow!)
Musashi Sez:
Meanwhile, back wift mai othr buddeez…
Now, of cors, I onlee fyndid this stuff out laytrer, but whil I wuz havin a big old cultchurl epifunnee, mai buddeez Alek, Gato an Perro wer in mortul danjr. Cuz the reellee gud thin about GPS is that yu kin fynds wher yu want to go. But the bad thin is, if yer emenmies hear yu tell sombodee wher yu want to go, they kin yooz their GPS to fynd the saym plays.
This migt seem obveeyus to all yu jentul reedrz in yer ergonomic armchayrz bak hom in the Stayts, but when yu’r out in the feeld, an yer adrenalenalin iz pumpin awae, is hard to remembembr stuff lik this. An also, yu has to figgr that Alek (lik me) is kinda nu at all this spyin, an PyG, tho they ben runnin their listenin post in Marrakech fer a long tim, hasn’t got the feeld egspeereeyens that wud mayk them mor smartypants.
So they didn’t egzaktlee leed thoz darn ninjas to the Vista Grrranada. Of cors not. But them ninjas found it jus the saym.
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