Shimmee That Thin

Mom Says:

A stranger (French or foreign) who walked into the Dog of the Field’s tavern that night would have been sooo confused. A local walking in would have thought that France had been taken over by little grey aliens, fuzzy and Not Like Us, Cher, Not At All.

Luckily, however, the tavern was filled on that night of nights with foreigners who just didn’t know any better. They thought to themselves, “Huh. This iz gud innertaynmint.”

And that is because so many of the tourists were from England, Germany, Italy, Russia, and Taiwan. We can’t exactly expect people from so far away to understand our broad and deep culture, now can we?

Musashi Sez:

Um, so, speekin as not so mutch “us” as othr folks migt, I got to say, “No.” We shud egspekt grayt thins from all thoz furnrz whu vizits us, dontchu thingk? They shud be at leest as wondrfull as us, or eevn wonderfuller, sins they is so mutch olderer than us.

Mom Says:

Regardless of who is best, the fact is that the music coming up from the tavern was magnetic. Folks grabbed hold of each other and started a Conga line that wound in and out of the tavern proper and then started up the stairs to the second floor…

Myoozik In a Egsytin Tempo

Mom Says:

How can we describe the atmosphere of the little tavern in southern France, with its sudden infusion of a singer from southern Spain and musicians from Jamaica performing a song from the United States? Imagine, then, a small grey and white cat with a big personality, standing on his hind legs on a small, round table, singing:

Son nom était Lola.
Elle était girl
avec les plumes jaunes dans ses cheveux
et une coupure de robe en bas à là.

(Her name was Lola.
She was a girl
with yellow plumes in her hair
and a cut robe over there.)

And then imagine how the sound of tiny steel drums played by Jamaican kitteez, with even tinier little dreadlocks, fill the room in an unaccustomed way, accompanied by the sandy shake of maracas (very, very small maracas), gradually fills the room in a little way, with the assured voice of the kittee (the voice bigger than the kittee himself) inserts itself into the larger sound of the tavern’s conversation, gradually wedging a larger and larger space for itself.

Then turn to see who those musicians are, who that kittee is.

Maykin Frenz wift Jamaykn Toorists

Musashi Sez:

Yah, I noe that folks sez that berds of a fethr flock together, but us kitteez A) not got the fethrz an B) don’t cayr anee mor fer flockin than we doez fer bein herded.

Notwiftstandin that (as Le Prof’soor wud say), its tru that yu has yer birft littr an yu has the littr of yer hart. Myoozishunz noe this bettrer than evrboddee. Befor Paco had been in the tavern room 5 minitz, he had mayd frendz wift a buntch of Jamaykin kitteez wift instrmints (cuz they wuz conveenyintlee on toor in sothrn Frans). But givn that Paco cud not speek anee Frentch at all, an their Frentch hads the aksint, I still has not figgrd out how he convinsd them to plae backup fer him. But he wuz a kittee wift a mishun, and he REELEE wanted to sing his solo.

So I gess it just a mystree. Huh.

Sayvin the Dae, in Charactr

Mom Says:

If you have never seen a dachshund wearing heavy-duty earphones and an expression of almost constipated attention, then I cannot describe the state of Le Prof’soor as he struggled to focus on his equipment over the loud strategic argument taking place in the small room. (And if you have, I don’t need to.)

Perro and Sabaka argued heatedly about the best way to break into the room across the hall. Picotero Paco kept trying to get a word in edgewise to advise against a direct frontal assault, but they paid him no attention, and finally he left. None of the dogs noticed.

Musashi Sez:

Huh. This so typcal of doggeez, eevn the bestest of them. They always arguing about whu got the bestest, baddest ideer or, possibul, teeft, whil us kitteez gots to do all the reel werk.

An this is whut I has lernd from thoz smart Writer Bunneez whu gets us out of all them plot messiz we keeps getting ourselves into: folks will always sayv the dae accordin to their partiklr charactr. So whil the brayv an valiunt Gato was riskin one of his lifs an all his limbs in a dayrin feet of ajilitee, Picotero Paco simplee went down to the common room in the tavern, an started maykin hisself som frendz.

Mom Says:

Twenty minutes later, the dogs heard the jaunty music coming from downstairs and went to investigate—even Le Prof’soor went, saying that he had a good feeling about this—all negative evidence to the contrary notwithstanding.

Musashi Sez:

Yah. Yer naytiv Frentch speekrz reelee talks lik that. They eevn wers than them Inglish.

Kittee on the Corniss

Mom Sez:

Slowly, Gato made his way along the ledge beneath the window of their small crowded room. All this backing and forthing along the ledge seemed to be taking two weeks. Gato had brought Le Prof’soor’s paper back to the other dogs and told them the special knock to knock so that Le Prof’soor would let them into his room down the hall. Now all Gato had to do was navigate this ledge, which was exceedingly narrow even for an athletic cat like himself. His centimetering around the rectangular circumference of the little inn was making him nostalgic for his the espionage days of his kittenhood.

“Huh,” thought Gato to himself. (We ar tranzlaytin fer yu. Kthxbai.) “I seem to has gaynd som weyt on mai travlz. It musta ben all thoz taystee fishiz that them Greek fishrmen caugt fer us on the boat. I’m goin to has to start dietin wen this partiklr adventchoor is ovr.”

When he was halfway around the building, he heard a sound that sounded…almost…like steel drums and maracas…

But, gosh, were the odds of that?

The Not-So-Borin Ekspozishun Bit, Part I

Musashi Sez:

Our collektiv faysiz is pink, cuz we lost this partiklr tranzmishun from our ajint Gato. We hadz it all along, but we fergot wer we puttid it. So now we catch up fer yu.

Mor of Gato’s Dialog an Doin Stuff (Tranzlaytid):

Wift mai deep bakgroun in espionazh, the prospek of clymin out the windo, cayrfullee trottin across the narro ledj to the windo 3 windoz down from us, an then lickin the glass until the sillee intrlektchurl doggee gets around to notissin me an opnz his windo…well, let’s jus say that I wuz egspektin to get mai tayl froz, eevn in summr, whil I waytid.

But this Prof’soor wuz smarty-pantsier than I egspectid. Wuns he figgrd out the problim wift his radio communicayshun thingy, he egspektid me (ME!) to come to him fer egsplaynin. It’s tru. I almos started likin him. But then I got ahold of maiself.

“Yah,” I sed, “so it obveeus that the stoopid CIA not so gud at thingkin about eelektrikl thingeez. So us, we cleerlee gots to thingk past that. How kin we mayk a diverzhun that don’t rely on our technoljee? I meen, look at whut we gots: me an Perro, egspeeriensd spyz, plus Sabaka, whu’ll drool on anneeboddee whu luks nys, an Paco, oy Santa Maria, Picotero Paco, whu wud sing in front of 2 def mouseez if they sat still long eenuf…”

Le Prof’soor sat suddenlee an lukd lik he wuz thingkin verree hard. Aftr a whil of that, he sed, “So, we ar trying to deestrakt zee peeplez in zee taverno part of ze inn, yes?”

“Of cours…”

“Hmm. So… whut we needs most is…a reezn fer focussin on somthin else…” He sighed. “Whut mayks folks chanj their intenshunz? Akshun? Myoozik? Mor vino?”

“Shur, som of that…”

“Hmm. So problee, whut we needs most is the Perfikt Song.” He went bak to his compyootrz then, as if it wuz me whu hadsd to mayk deesizhunz…

I thogt hard. I did whut that fellr Winnie the Pooh sed: thingk, thingk, thingk. An then it came to me… I sed to him, “So…we needs yu to look up, um, the leeriks to this Barry Mannilow song, in Frentch.”

Le Prof’soor hezitaytid. “An am I goin to reegrret zees partikularr Googl?

“Yah. Problee, yu will. Un million pardonne…”

But then wen he lookd at the strip of paypr in mai paw, he let out a sig of relief. “O, this? I has this on my iPod! Heer! Tayk this! I noe egzaktlee how to halp yu arranj zees partikularr deeverzeeon!”

Not-So-Borin Ekspozishun Bit, Part I

Musashi Sez:

Now, I noe that yu all ar likin that Jimbond-esq “Cat-of-Akshun” vibe that we ben workin on an orf this past yeer or so, but franklee, it has occurrd to me (an mai perdoosrz) that the mooviez an the TV shoz that ar reellee hittin it big laytlee ar the ensombul kind. An I am OK wift that, as annee kittee wud be, cuz when yu is one (verree importint peeple) in a ensombul sho, yu gets to has mor naps. So I am comin to bleev in co-oper-ayshun an lik that. Eventchoolee, I migt eevn see mai way to co-star billin, but we shudn’t get previus.

So yu shud egspekt to heer mor Narrativ Voysiz in the neer fyutchr. Lik now, fer instins.

Gato’s Innr Dialog an Outr Doin Stuff (Tranzlaytid into Inglish Fer Yu):

Ther I wuz in St. Chien de la Compagne, a shady town by nigt, as mos towns is. I sat whippin mai tayl around as the 2 dogeez an the 1 kittee performr confuzzld theirselfs eevn furthr by talking about our lojistiks problimz in Inglish. It’s 1 thing to be confuzzld in yer naytiv tong, but when yu starts tryin to be confuzzld in yer 2nd or 3rd? Huh. Look out.

The plan had ben a gud plan, as planz went, but in mai egspeeriens, plans onlee gotchu in the dor—whethr it wuz the dor of yer laydee-frend’z apartment or of an undrgroun bunkr, it not mayk so much diffrins.

The mayn problim, accordin to mai old buddee, Perro, wuz that we had no gud reezn to go see Le Prof’soor, which wuz bad, cuz his radio freeqwensee wuz blank. Cleerlee, a technoljee malfunkshun, he sed, an I agreed. Sabaka, the Russhin spy-doggee whu I had liberaytid frum the Cairo prizn, wuz still doin the whol, “Oboyoboyoboy! I’m free! I jus luvs yu gyz!!!” An shur, I’m glad I got the kid out, but the drool? I hadn’t plannd on that. Whut is he anneewae? A St. Bernard?

Off in the cornr, the flamenco singr/Bursel sprouts farmr was brooin tea an singin (verree qwietlee, FOR A CHANGE!!!) som vokl warmups about hisself. Which left, as it offn did, me, Gato, the practikl, sensibl kittee, to sayv the dae. I sed to Perro, “I’ll jus go see about this whol raydio thin. Cud yu opn the windo fer me? Kthxbai!”