Doktr Woof...Russ

Musashi Sez:

I sat ther in the unnergroun bunkr of the ol KGB’s aminal divizhn an stayrd at Myshov the moussee agent from Rusha orijinallee, but now heer in Grrranada, Spayn. An I stayrd at M, mai beluvd leedr, whu caym all the wae from Inglund to halp me sort out my nex moov.

I akskd, “So whu this Doktr Woof? Whut we noe about him?”

M and Myshov egschanjd glansis (this meen they lukt at eetch othr). Myshov sigd drmatiklee. M shuk her hed. “Sorry, Eight. What we’ve told yu is what we know.”

“Huh,” sez I. “Ther alwaez mor. Do he has lotsa technikl weppnz? Do he has compyootrz? Do he has, whut that werd… minions?”

“Oh that,” said M. “Well, er, strictly speaking: probably, yes, and definitely.”

“Yah. That kinda mayk a diffruns, M.”

“Sorry, Eight. I’m so used to taking those things for granted.”

“Huh. I don’t tayk nothin fer granit egsept stonz. In mai limited egspeeryens, mos peeples not have the minions. Compyootrz, shur. Technikl wepponz, wull, that depenz on yer difinishun.”

“Sorry there, Eight. You’re quite right. Your perspective as a relative newcomer to the scene is quite valuable.”

“I shud thingk so. Altho so far I hasn’t met any relativz. Sabaka an Perro, yah, but they’r doggeez. Gato, but I’m pertee shur we not relaytid. An thoz crazee kats at that ol shryn… Did Alek sen yu messijz about them?”

“Heavens, yes. Mysiz had assumed for years that they were a myth, or at most, a dying-out cult.”

“Nope. They’r akshual a buntch of seeryus weerdoez. Serifyabul.”

Myshov sed somthin. I turnd on my LingwaTron collr jus in tim to get the tranzlayshun: “Whut do font hav to do wift the feline cult members?”

M sed qwiklee, “Never mind those details, the question is, what are we going to do to stop Dr. Woof?”

Mai Clandestin Meetin

Musashi Sez:

Do yu noe how diffiklt it is to consentrayt wen the smell of fishees is in the ayr all round yu? As I stud ther, mai eyz wuz watterin somthin feers. So it’s no wundr that I didn’t at ferst see the big brown mousee who wuz watchin me off to the syd, unnr the awning.

An sins he is sutch an old hand at The Game, I bet he pland it that wae. Huh.

Wen I see him, I figgr, he is eethr tryin to figgr out if I’m fer reel or he is tryin to get up the curridj to approatch such a big kittee as me. So I sits and licks my front paws, ferst 1 an then the othr, slowlee and methodikul, so he kin figgr whut he wants to do. Then, cayrfullee, I sneeziz, and saunter ovr to wher he sittin an switch on my trustee LingwaTron. Then I say the coupl of pfrayziz I perpayrd in advans:

“Zdrastvuite!” (Hello!)

“Pryvet,” he said. (Hi.)

“Kak dee-lah?” (How are things?)

He snorted. “Kak vas zavut?” (What’s your name?)

“Octavian.” I had rund out of Russhin werds.

He seemed to guess this. “Parlez-vous Francais?”

Mai releef must hav shown. “Oui, un peu!”

“Bon. Venez avec moi.” (Good. Come with me.)

I follrd him in an out of the alleez of Grrranada, movin from the mor hoomin-peeple oriented areas to the mor 4-leg-dryv areas, if yu noes whut I meen. Ther wer mor brokd stones on the ground, but ther also mor innerstin thins to sniff at an more leaves an stuff wher yu cud hyd suddenlee if yu hadsd to.

Yu noe: mutch mor civilyzd.

I follrd him around a curv in the street that led to this weerd tunnel-lik thin that seemd to go unnr sombodee’z hous, wher we caym to a hoomin-peeple-syz door, and nearby that, a kittee or small doggee peeple syz door.

He turnd an kinda frownd at me. (This hard to tell wift sombodee that small.)

“J'ai confiance en toi. Ne me trahissez pas. Comprendez-vous?” (I am trusting you. Do not betray me. Understand?)

“Oui! Oui!”

The dull blak eyz of the littul mousee sent chillz down mai spyn. Finallee he sed, “Suivez-moi…” (Follow me…)

An I follrd.

Wae Up Ther on Byootifulest List

Mom Says:

It wasn’t even midnight when Octavian and his friends sat down with Malena, the bar owner/flamenco dancer, so it wasn’t a big surprise that, as they talked, customers—new (no bruises) and old (lots of Band-Aids)—came to the Vista Granada and began (or resumed) their eating, drinking, and listening to the music. Because of course, Paco, that old trouper, just kept on singing out the pain of all the cats of southern Spain, the human gypsies of Andalucia, and all those of every species and every region whose love had ever been betrayed, whose hearts had ever been shredded.

La luuuuuna es fría, pero honestoo.
Aaaay yaaaa yi yi yi yi yai!
La luuuuuna se ve mi dooolooor,
el suuufrimentooo que me causaste.

(The moon is cold, but honest.
Ouch! Ow! Ow! Owww!
The moon sees my pain,
the suffering you caused me.)

Octavian sat next to Malena in the corner booth, one front paw on her leg, and listened adoringly as she described the history of flamenco music and dance.

“You see,” she said. “The gypsies heeer have been mistreated, spat upon, called outsiders, and pushed out, overrr and overrr. So when the gypsy stamps the foot in the flamenco, he is saying, ‘Heer, thees my home, wherre I stand!’ So, you know, next time other peeeples make heem move on, well, the land is deefferent, yes, but hees feet are the same, and he can always claim the place he stand as hees home. You see?”

Octavian and Gato purred. Alek nodded quite seriously, saying, “Señorita—“

But Malena’s attention had shifted to her feet. She looked down and said, “Si, dígale a Javier para configurarlo para usted.”

The Spaniard who had helped clean up dragged a table in front of the musicians and wiped it down with a rag. Nodding to the guitarists (because Paco was in a world of his own), he stepped away again. Octavian and Gato, who saw the flash of white and red move from the floor to the table, flexed to leap at it, but Malena’s strong hands fell on their collars and restrained them. “You no attack Señora Timidora. Sheee eeez one of our best dancers. You heer mee?”

And the cats purred penitently, but Malena did not let go.

They watched breathlessly as a tiny white mouse, in a scarlet dress and a lacy black veil, began to dance. If Octavian had been impressed by Malena’s easy human gracefulness, he was absolutely floored by the natural elegance of the little mouse.

“Wow!” said Octavian, betraying his American roots. “She the bomb! Whu is she?”

Malena let go his collar (while still holding onto Gato’s). “Shee eez called Timidora, because she marreed a Russhian whu did not approoov of her Christian name: Maria de los Gatos Timidoro Garcia.”

Octavian said, “So her husbun, the Russhin, is a Garcia? That don’t sound rigt.”

“No, no. Her mother was Garcia. Her father was Timidoro. What does her husband have to do weeeth eet?”

Alek turned to Octavian, saying, “It’s cultural, old man. I’ll explain it later.”

The little white mouse, Timidora, danced with her tiny eyes closed, passionately,

Poooodré amar de nuevoooo,
después de suuuuuu traicióooon
espiadada? De la luuunaaa
brillaaaa de nuevooooo,
después de que ha disminuidooo?

(Shall I ever love again,
after your heartless betrayal?
Shall the moon shine again,
after it has waned?)

“Wow,” Octavia said again. “Whut’s her husbnd’s naym?”

“Heem?” said Malena disparagingly. “Oh, hee neverrr com heeer. Heees naym is Mysh Medvyedovich Myshov…”

Alek sat up very straight. “Really,” he said. “What a fantastic dancer she is. Do you think we could express our admiration to her later?”

Malena said, “Si, right after thees song.”