Puttin the Plot Rigt

Musashi Sez:

OK. Yu has to imajin that Dame Judi Dench, whu we call “M,” is singing the Jimbond song, “All Tim High” whil the folloin “mon-tage” is happenin on yer compyootr screen. Kthxbai.

Mom an the Bunneez Sez:

“All I wanted was a sweet distraction for an hour or two…”

• In the basement under the Paris Agricultural Show, a Dachshund in a bowtie (Le Prof’soor) unrolls plans on the floor by walking across them. An overlarge grey cat (“Panther”) steps down from his couch to point to the rocket-car schematics on the page. A black cat with a white splash at the throat (Agent Eight) lashes his plumy black tail and narrows his pertee yellow eyes.

Cut to:

“Had no intention to do the things we’ve done…”

• A black cat and a thin white dog trot past the Greek Parthenon. They wander through town until they see a few old men playing cards at an outdoor café. The cat lashes his tail. The dog sits down grinning and scratches his ear.

Cut to:

“Funny how it seems in love, when you don’t look, you find…”

• Alex and Perro walk through the Left Bank of Paris. They come upon Cabaret à Noé and walk in. At the tables where the audience sits, there are dogs, cats, humans and the occasional parrot. On stage, Judi Dench sings.

Cut to:

“But now we’re two of a kind…”

• The Dachshund is pushing colored wires into plastic explosives. Agent Eight and “Panther” are building a jet-powered skateboard.

Cut to:

“We move as one.”

• At the outdoor café in Athens, Gato sits on the small round table and pulls all the money to himself. The two men in Greek fishermen’s caps bridle, but Sabaka, the thin white dog, bares his teeth.

Cut to:

An engine-powered fishing boat, steered by one of the Greek gamblers, passes the heel of Italy, sailing west. Gato and Sabaka stand in the prow with the wind blowing in their faces.

Cut to:

“We’re an all-time high!”

• The door of the basement cell explodes. Through the smoke speeds a rocket-powered skateboard, on which ride the low-slung brown dog, the enormous grey cat, and the black cat with the white tie and plumy black tail. They shoot through the flames and smoke, speed into the elevator. The elevator rises and opens on the first floor. The doors open and the skateboard shoots out, speeds through the Agricultural Show. Agent Eight scoops up Picotero Paco on their way out, as they are chased by Labradors, St. Bernards, and Bloodhounds into the night streets of Paris…

Mammal Resources Dept.

Mom Says:

Well, our Rabbit Writers drive a hard bargain. Here is the deal we finally negotiated with them.

Our subscribers have been paying $0/month for this blog since its inception, with no increase. So now we’re going to double the subscription fee. That way, we can also double the writers’ pay, since all of the subscription funds go directly to their salary anyway. We realize that this means that our subscribers will need to make some sacrifices, but we believe that showing our writers how much we need and appreciate them is important for the ongoing quality production of this blog.

Musashi Sez:

We also throws in a latte masheen an longr carrit brayks. Cuz we ar a Bunnee-Frendlee Employr. Huh.

Cleenin Up Othr Peeplz’ Messiz

MEMO

From: Cheef Writr Rabbit
To: Our Doofus Perdoosrz

Havin ben awae fer the las 3 monfts scoutin locayshunz, vacayshunnin, an cleenin ottrz pro bono, we mus admit our dismae to find the folloin plot messiz:

1. The star is bein held priznr in a baysmint unnr the Paris Agrcultoorul Sho, wift a French pefressr an a ovrgron CIA ajint.

2. The co-stars on locayshun in Paris ar “liayzin” wift the Paris polees (an yu can’t spel “liayzin” wiftout lazy) but they’r getting paid aneewae.

3. Our co-stars in Ejypt ar left hitch-hikin frum Cairo bak to Paris cuz our perdoosrz fergot to put their transport into the budjit.

4. Our egstra in Paris is tryin to steel co-star status (an salree) by singin disco at the Agrcultoorul Sho, an we can’t figgr whether this gud or bad, cuz it goin to add to the budjit, but the Paris polees kinda liks him, an also our Beljian audience is verree fond of him—he has a big fan bayse in Brussels.

So on account of all this, we writr bunneez demand a rayz. Huh.

Brussels Sprouts an Kittee Nip

Mom Says:

Silently Agent 8 slunk forward. Suddenly, just as he approached the last pile of boxes, a strange smell met his nose and then a long, brown, low-slung person stepped around the corner.

They met nose-to-nose. Agent 8 crouched in surprise, but the stranger barked out, “Zut, alors! Eet eez a kittee! Allo, Kittee. Venez avec moi. Come, let us go. Allons-y! Do you not speak?”

Octavian sniffed the odd dog’s snout curiously, wondering about his funny bowtie, but the dog gave him no time.

“Pardon, m’sieur! Je m’appelle Professeur Pierre Sebastian Agincourt. You may call me Prof’soor, as everyone does. Come!”

Bewildered, Octavian followed the waddly little dog around another corner to look up to see a couch, its cushions cast aside. And on that couch lay a grey cat the size of a German shepherd. The purr Octavian had heard before grew loud.

Prof’soor said, wth great apparent satisfaction, “I introduce to you, ‘Panther.’”

“His naym is Panthr?”

“Mais, non! Yu must say eet weeth the marks of quotation, like thees: … ‘Panther.’”

Octavian sat down abruptly, looking up at the overgrown feline person.

“So… ‘Panther,’ yer mom naymd yu wift yer own qwotayshun marks?”

The cat snorted. “No, foolish kitten. I am a spy wift the Amerikan CIA. ‘Panther’ is mai code naym.”

Oh no! The CIA? What had Octavian gotten himself into?

Halpin Cleen Up the Ottr-Cleenr-Upprz!

Musashi Sez:

Well, as yu all noez, our Bunnee Writrz has ben off fer qwit a whil, halpin cleen ottrz in the Golf of Meksiko. This wuz a messee job, an it tayk grayt strength of noz to do it. Cuz it turn out that yu can’t cleen somboddee els whu is that messee wift oil, witfout getting messee yerself.

But now our Bunneez hav fynlee com bak to us. They ar egzawstid an we ar still tryin to git the oil out of their fur. It is verree bad. We eevn had Vetrinarianz com ovr to the stoodio to halp us out. An that is not a pertee ideer, eevn if yu ar not a doggee. Huh.

We think that yu has seen pikchurz of the oil-coverd aminuls befor. Yu has seen the ottrz an the pelicanz, yu has seen the sea-turtlz an the fishiz, an of cors, yu has sended monnee to the conservayshun peeplez whu is halpin wift this HOOMIN PEEPLEZ’ tremendous awful STOOPID mistayk!!!

HOWEVR, if yu hasn’t given som monee to halp the creechurz yer carz an stuff haz halpd to mayk verree sik, or if yu has, but aftr havin seen the ugglee pikchurz of the oil-covrd aminuls, yu has that ick-oog!-whutkinIdooz? feelin agen, then we kin recommend some sorsiz fer halpin out:

ONE is the International Fund For Animal Welfare:

http://www.ifaw.org/ifaw_united_states/join_campaigns/emergency_relief/index.php

They does verree gud stuff all ovr the werld. ANOTHER is the Humane Society of the United States:

http://www.humanesociety.org/news/news/2010/06/gulf_oil_no_end_in_sight.html

All them aminulz an birdeez is tryin to liv an fly an swim an stuff wift all that icky blak oil on them. Yu hoomin peeplez wift thumbz gotta do somthin, if onlee becuz yu got them thumz and we dosn’t. Huh.

Kthx Vreemutch. Bai.

Not Egzaktlee a Dunjeon

Mom Says:

Dieter the Rottweiler carried Agent Eight downstairs to the “dungeon,” a basement filled with large, noisy machines. At the far end, a door opened to reveal a white room filled with big boxes. Dieter tossed Agent Eight inside, slammed the door, and trotted off muttering in German about fur between his teeth. Octavian, no happier about the “annoyin doggee slobbr,” sat down and bathed himself thoroughly before turning to examine his surroundings.

The room was a mountain range of boxes, many marked “This Side Up” with arrows interpreting “up” in creative ways. Octavian’s whiskers twitched. It would be fun to continue examining by leaping from box to box…

But no. This was a sort of dungeon, after all, even if it didn’t look it. Any one of these boxes could be filled with TNT or Gel-Ignite. Or Jack Russell terriers. Or water, even. He’d have to go cautiously.

He padded silently between the boxes, his whiskers forward, all his senses alert. His ears telescoped around at the slightest fall of dust on the grey carpet. And then they swiveled toward the far right of the room and he stopped rigid in a half-squat on his silky black haunches.

A deep regular vibration, like a purr, but not like the purr of any domestic feline on Ceiling cat’s good green earth—too deep, too loud, too—

But it was a purr of sorts. What was back there? A tiger? A lynx? A lioness?

Octavian quivered with anticipation.

Feeld Notz from Command Centrul

Musashi Sez:

Meenwhil, bak at the fansee orinj hotel suite in Paris, Alex wuz “liasing” (his werd. huh.) wift the Frentch polees on one phon and wift M on anothr. Pero wuz in the bedroom wift Alex’s vois-operaytid compyootr, maykin a feeld journl, keeping our noets all correct. Alex’s compyootr is reellee niftee, cuz that gy Q builded it. It has this AutoMatic AngliFier (AMAF) that yu kin “enable” (which is fansee techno langwidj fer “turn it on”). Innerestinlee, the saym programr whu thogted up the LingwaTron collr also thogted up the AMAF. Yu kin kinda tell…

Pero Reportz:

It has been much time since I kept a diary of the field, so don’t have practice. Also, since our rabbit contacts went abroad, everything has gone complicated. First, the mad English cat jumped into the fountain. Then our “opposite numbers” in Germany and Italy informed us of exceptionally large importations of herb of the felines from Turkey, Albania and the former Soviet Union.

Then that annoying Parisian cat of the fountain incident disappeared and her people are sniffing at our extremes and the French police are sniffing at our extremes, and Interpol, that he already knows that our extremes are clean, returns to us asking us for aid… And we still haven’t heard of “G.”

And in the midst of all this, “8” is gone “looking around” at the agricultural show, and I have just known something disorderly will happen!

Probably pronto.

Cairo in Smog

Musashi Sez:

Mai mom—er, I meen, Our Prodoosr—has pointed out that we hav ben needin som seeryus theem myoozic. If yu tayks Jimbond’s song, an mix that wift som of that Peetr Gaybriel fellr’z Last Temptayshun sountrak, cuz it has all that Middul-Eestrn forren-sounding myoozik, an mebbe add a disco backbeet, that migt giv us som yoosful at-mos-pheer-ik inflooens…

Mom Says:

It’s “Cairo in Smog,” Agent 8, not “Cairo in Song…”

Musashi Sez:

I noo that.

I was jus settin up the atmospheerik inflooens fer the chays sceen down the stonee streets of old Cairo, wift a white doggee, hiz eyz hyooj, an a blak an whit kittee on his bak, all clawz out, hissin in verree impolyt Spanish. The skrambul of clawz. Then silens.

Then a hyooj mewlin of a few dozin kitteez, screemin in all kinds of impolit langwidjiz, as they zoom down the saym stonee street.

Angree kitteez evrwher!!!

An then they ar all gon. A few bits of fur fluttr to the ground. Somwher not far off, the sound of the muezzin callz folks to get their carpets an com pray.

But tayk it from me, ther has alreddee ben prayin happinin on this stonee street this mornin, eevn if it dint egzaktlee sound lik it to yu.

A Noz fer Danjer

Musashi Sez:

So ther I wuz ridin on the big ol’ doggee’z enormous bak, throo the crowd, between rows of taybuls holdin all kindsa crops, incloodin som fayrlee aeronautic ‘nip (yu sniff it an yu’r in spays verree fast). The downsid wuz that I cud be ridin to mai doooom. The upsid wuz that I wuz feelin pertee darn relaksd. Ther wer still hoomin peeplez evrwher, but wift the big doggee undr mai pawz, they din’t seem so liklee to step on me. So cleerlee ther is upsidz to everthin. (I’m a bowl haf-full kinda gy.)

The doggee stopt in front of a door that had lotsa German shepprdz standin guard. I hoppd down.

They sed, “Ihr Name?” (Name?)

An he sed, “Dieter. Mit der Katze.” (Deetr. Wift the Kittee.)

“Huh. Tragen Sie ein.” (Enter.)

So I wuz lopin down the hall by this Dieter’s sid, mai ploomy tail held high. I sed, “Yer naym is Deetr?”

An he yawnd so big, I thogt he migt swollr me by accident. “Jah,” he sed. “Yu hav problem vith zis?”

“No! No, of cors not.” Ther a tim an a plays fer evrthin, an this wuz not it. Altho I had got lotsa joks in mai hed that I wuz considrin yoozin somtim wen he NOT around.

Deetr stoppd at another door. It wuz opend from insid, an Deetr an me went in. He sed, “Ich habe die katze gebracht.” (I’ve brogt the kittee.)

The room wuz doggee-sizd an reellee qwite classee. The wallz wer mayd of wud an ther wuz a verree big desk, an ther wuz a big ol’ lethr chayr behind it. But I not see whu Deetr wuz talkin to until it—he—talkd bak.

“Ausgezeichnet, Dieter. Vielen Dank. Haben Sie ein Getränk.” (Excellent, Dieter. Thank you. Have a drink.)

The door clozd behind us an I turnd to see one of them big shinee doggee bowlz filld wift wattr. Deetr drank verree noyzee from that, an aftr I had mai fill of watchin the messee wae he wuz havin his fill, I turnd and saw—

Well, akshullee, it wuz just a doggee, reellee. But I’d nevr seen a doggee quite lik this befor. He wuz hyooj an brown an wrinklee wift long eerz an a verree big noz. He strolld ovr to me an sniffd me so hard I wuz afraid I wud end up in his noz.

“Huh,” he sed. “So yu ar American, an yu don’t do ‘nip verree often, an yu hab, how yu sae, a fondness fer Tunfisch.”

Well, now that wuz justaboutanuff! I sed, “Yah, I liks the toonr fish. But yu not the onliest one wift a noz, yu noe!”

So I goez up to him an I sniffs him stem to stern an I am disturbd by whut I smells, cuz he smells of lotsa othr doggeez bein nervous, an hav also a punjint smell of hard rubbr.

But I has whut Jimbond wud probabul call guts. So I sez, “So yu ar one of them smug Continentl doggeez whu gotta be wher the akshun iz, an you has, how yu say? A fondness fer rubber chewy bonz.”

I sniffd agen. “Also raw-hyd bonz.”

The big noz caym towrd me. It filld up mai whol werld. “So, kleine katze, yu hab a noz too? Hab yu gotz ze noz fer ansrz? Wher kin we findz zis Fraulein Felicity? Hmm?”

“I don’t noe.”

“He doz not noe! Hah! Vell, Octavian! Habe yu gotz a noz fer danjr? It does not seem so! Hnrf, hnrf, hnrf! Dieter, tayk him to ze dunjeonz!”

Almos a dozen thogts thogtid throo mai head all at once as Dieter pickd me up by mai scruff an carreed me awae… I thogt:

1. Darn.
2. All becuz I din’t guess disco myoozik.
3. Mebbe I shudn’t hav mentioned the chewy bonz.
4. Mebbe now I won’t akshullee get that Nobel Pryz fer mai catnip custrd.
5. Mom is goin to be SO pissd off if I gets maiself killt.
6. They got dunjeonz at the agrcultchurl sho?
7. I nevr ben in a reel dunjeon befor. I wundr whut it’s lik?
8. At leest now I’ll get a chans fer a reel nap…

Coded Messajiz 2

Mom Sez:

Here is the most recent message we’ve gotten so far from our operative Gato, who has been in Cairo now for over two months. As before, I give the translation and Musashi gives the decrypted version.

May 5: Met up with Madge and family. They did not show good hospitality. Bad Kitties. I have bandaged ear. Thank Ceiling Cat for Cousin Larry, sharp claws and omelets. I shall be on a strengthening regimen for a while.

Brok into that plays wift all the crayzee monks. They beated us to a pulp. They ar @#$%^&* kitteez whu we NOT lik!!! My wunds are seeryus. Luckily, Labeeb is a meen figtr an a verree gud surjeon an he has ben puttin me bak togethr like that Humpty Egg fellr. Don’t egspekt us to try plan B till I has all mai fur growd bak.

Musashi Sez:

Yu see? This why we need the bunnee writrz bak so badlee. Stories nevr go rigt if yu leev them to bild themselves. Yu need writrz to mayk them go the way they’r spoz to go. Huh.

PS: We has a verree thik an imajinitiv code book. This why it tayks us so long to decode stuff.

Bein Innernashunl Reqwir Lotsa Brayn

Musashi Sez:

Ther I wuz, in the middul of the Paris Agrculchurul Sho, an whut do mai pertee yello eyez see but Picotero Paco, the flamenco-singin Bursels sprowt farmr from southrn Spain. “Picotero” meen chattrbox. It is a gud naym fer him. He was sittin ther at his taybul decoraytid wift big palm treez, talking to a big scaree dog wift orinj eyebrowz.

He sed, “Probablemente se esté preguntando cuál es mi secreto. Yo voy a decir. Yo le canto al coles de Bruselas. Canciones de amor. El amor estimula el crecimiento.” (Probably you are wondering what is my secret. I’ll tell you. I sing to them. Songs of love. Love stimulates growth.”

The doggee sed (wift an aksent), “Tienes que amar a los brotes mucho, entonces.” (You must love sprouts very much then.)

“Ah, si! Si!”

And I lookd up at the taybul an I realizd that whut I had thogt wuz a palm tree wuz akshullee a enormous bursel sprowt.

I cud not halp maiself. I busted out sayin, “Holy toona!” (I dozn’t lik mackerl.)

The orinj eyebrowz turnd mai wae. “Yu shpeek ze Anglish, hmm?” His breft smelld lik a combinayshun of raw meet an bursel sprowts. An basil.

I sat down an curld my ploomy blak tail around mai front feets. “Why, yes, I do.”

“Vunderbar. I vas told to egspekt an American katze in a smoking jacket.”

I wuz confuzzld. “But I don’t smok.”

“Yu vud say, perhaps, ze tuxedo. Yu ar, perhaps, aqvaynted vith a bizniz-vomen katze by ze naym Felicity, hmm?”

“Why, yes. Mamzelle Felicity of the Doggee Toy Empyr. Yes, I am.”

“Vunderbar. Yu vill com vith me, plees? It vill be to your advontage, hmm?”

At that momint, about ten diffrint fyootchurz went whizzin thru mai brayn, incloodin the one wher I ended up this doggee’z dinnr. Also the one wher I gets the Nobel Pryz fer mai recipee fer catnip custrd. An the one wher I doez a bunjee jump off of this big ol’ dam, hundrds of feets down towerd the wattr, pull out mai Walther PPK pistl wift mai front paw an shoot—

Picotero wuz thrilld. “Pero es mi buen amigo Octavio! Usted no puede ir ahora! Debemos tomar una copa! He desarrrrollado una notable marrrtini con vodka muy seco y licorrr de coles de Brusellllas!” (But is my good friend Octavio! You can't go now! We must have a drink! I have developed a remarkable martini with very dry vodka and liqueur of Brussels sprouts!)

He wuz rollin his l’s an his r’s so much, I had to wundr jus how recent the developin process had ben. I tried to decyd whether to go wift the scaree doggee or stay wift Señor Chattrbox heer. I figgrd I’d load mai coin flip. If the ansr wuz flamenco, I’d stay wift Paco. If it wuzn’t, I’d go wift the doggee.

“Picotero! Mi amigo!” I sed. “¿Qué tipo de canción de amor te canta a su cultivo? Flamenco?” (Whut kind of lov songs yu sing to yer crops aneewae?)

“¿El flamenco? ¡No! ¡Canto club! ¡Consiguió una manera dulce de hablar!” (Flamenco? No! I sing disco! ‘You got a sweet way of talking—’)

Darn. I wuz goin to hav to go wift the doggee.

On the othr paw, at leest I wuzn’t goin to hav to lissen to Paco sing that annoyin Leo Sayers song mai mom liks so mutch…

See? Eevn hart-rendin danjer hav a brigt sid.

Spyin at the Agrcultrl Sho: Hardr Than it Look

Mom Says:

As Agent Eight always says, spying is waiting.

While we wait for our Bunny Writers to return from helping to clean otters in the Gulf of Mexico, and while we wait for our operative in Cairo to heal himself and then rescue our Russian dog friend, Sabaka, and bring him back safely to us, we return to the adventures of Octavian, Spy Cat for Britain’s MI-6 Animal Division. We remind you, who may have forgotten, that Agent 08 has a license to claw your eyes out quite painfully, even if he hasn’t really used it.

Yet.


Musashi Sez:

Ther I wuz, rigt in the middul of the Salon Intayr-nasseeo-nell Agricultoor in Paris, an ther wer hoomin peeples EVRWHER. I kept getting stept on, an it wuz a rayr peeplez whu so mutch as sed, “Skyoozemwa.” Huh. How’s a fellr spoz to get anee spyin don if peeplez is stepping on him?

This NEVR happin to Jimbond.

So then I thinks to maiself, “Ajint 8, ol’ chap, whut wud Jimbond do?”

An maiself thinks bak to me, “Self, Jimbond wud find a trap door an/or a pertee girl an/or a possibul bad gy or 4. Preferabl in som dark bak room somwher. Then he wud do whut thoz bunneez is alwaes sayin: he’d let his charactr driv the plot lik a Mercedeez-Benz.”

“Ajint 8,” I sed, “I has one smarteepants altr eego.” (He agreed wift me, of cors.)

So I scrambld undr a taybul an took out my pertee map an studeed it. I wuz in the middul, in Pavillion 3, one of the pink onez. I wantid to be in Pavillion 2, the green one, wher they wuz talkin about crops. So I stuck mai hed out from undr the taybul an lookd up sweetlee at a laydee in a green dress.

I sed, “M'excuser. Aideriez-vous s'il vous plaît un petit homme d'affaires américain obtient à Pavillion 2?” (Excuse me. Would you aid please a little American man of business to obtain to Pavillion 2? [Yah, I noe, but this how they talks in Frans.])

She wuz so surprizd that she sed, “Mais bien sûr!” (But of course!)

She pikd me up, an carreed me throo the crowd an set me down. I rubbd mai hed against her legs an she turnd an went back to her taybul, mutterin, “Sacre bleu, un chat parlant! Qu'après?” (Holy Blood, a talking cat. What next?)

But that wuz OK wift me, cuz at jus that moment, I turnd an had a stranj flashbak. It wuz lik a vizhun, but mai vizhun wuz speekin Spannish instead of French. It spok to me an sed: “Bueno, mi amigo, ha sido un buen año para las coles de Bruselas!” (Well, my friend, it has been a good year for Brussels sprouts!”)

An all I cud think wuz: “Holy Ceilin Cat on a crutch!”