Meetin up wift Mai Homeez

Mom Says:

Long blog. Visit your litterbox or equivalent. Kthx.

Musashi Sez:

In his faymus book, The Hobbit, Perfessr Tolkien sed that the fun stuff gets told reellee eezee an goez reellee fast, but the borin stuff tayk wae too mutch time to tell. Or somthin lik that. (I din’t pae too mutch attenshun cuz the book got no kitteez in it. Yah. Non at all! Kin yu imajin?).

Aneewae, we skeddaduld unner the bar whyl the tall laydee egsplayned to the Grrranada polees about the stoopid barfigt. We kept an unconshus ninja bak ther wift us, an the polees took the rest awae. An I noe yu’r goin to be surpryzd (tho neethr the laydee or the polees showd the littlest surpryz), but mai fren, gud old Paco? Yah. He jus kept singin:

La luuuuna brillaaaaa con friàldad.
Aay yaaa yi yi yi yai! Aay yai yi yi!
Suuu luuuuz se meustraaaa al mundoo
cooooon claaaaaaridaaaad
looo que haaaaaa hechoooo.

(The moon shines coldly.
Ouch! Ow! Ow! Ouch! Ow!
Her light shows the world
clearly what you have done.)

Mom Says:

After the police left, Alek and another man helped the bar’s owner sweep up the glass and mop down the floors. Still on the floor behind the bar, Octavian, Perro and Gato woke up the ninja and interrogated him.

Well, okay, that’s the nice way of putting it. Actually what happened was this: Perro licked his face (the black mask had long since gone the way of most shoe-shine rags), and Octavian tested his claws on the man’s neck. Gato, whose HyprNip high (long story, Alek will catch you up later) had finally receded, sat back in the corner, groggily licking his legs and occasionally glaring at the ninja when the poor man faltered in his tale.

He spoke in Japanese, haltingly, rubbing his jaw. “Ano, neh, boku wa nigatsu kara…watakushi-tachi no onna-no-hito no nekko no jinja ni… hatarakimashita. Hai! Hai!...”

And the LingwaTron translated into English. “Ah, well, since February I have been working at Our Lady of the Cat shrine. Yes! Yes! Honorable Lord Brother hired us for defense and for a future danger he was awaiting. My fellow soldiers and I only found out what the danger was when these two, er, honorable animals, with their honorable dog-friend, arrived at the shrine. All was uproar. As for the Honorable Lord Brother, his face shone like the sun. He summoned us and gathered us around the Honorable Dog-the-Prophet, and we guarded him. Then today, an alarm sounded. Enemies threatened! We meditated and polished our swords and stood ready. But then…”

Octavian sent a few needle-like claws into the man’s throat, gently, but still the man whimpered. Perro said, “Now Octayvion, we mus be paysient wift thees fellr, as he has been cleerlee tromotyzed frrrom theee battul, no? Com, now, Señor Ninja, tell us yu naym, eh?”

“Tanaka Kumo desu. Ano…hajime mashita?” (I am Spider Tanaka. Er…How do you do?”

Perro yawned hugely, managing to show the length and sharpness of his teeth without making it seem like that had been his point; after all, surely, it had been a very long day, had it not? Perro said, “Si, wee arrr verrrree glad to meetchu, Señor Tanaka. But yu got to noe that wee weel bee eeevn morrrr glad eeeef yu tell us thee trrrruth about, mmm, yerrr employerrrrz, eh?”

The ninja, no doubt to his everlasting shame, fainted. Since Alek had tied him tightly, the three friends let him be and came out from under the bar to be welcomed by the lady in the red dress.

“Ahhh, so yuuu arrrr thee onez who brrrrought theez, whatchucall, ninjaz heeer?”

“Er,” said Perro, ducking his head.

Octavian said, “Whu me?”

And Gato looked up at her with huge dark eyes and purred, “I ammmm soooo sorrrreeeeee, Señorrrrita! Had I noen wherrrr mai direkshunz werrrr leeedeeng us, I wud nevverrrr hav led them heeeeerrrrr.”

Octavian noticed with surprise how the human woman responded less to the content of his statement than to its feline harmonics.

“Well,” she said, and sighed.

Octavian leaped in. He whipped the flat, black Spanish hat off his head and bowed elegantly (it was the hat, he thought; there was no way he could have pulled off such a gymnastic feat otherwise). “Señorrrrrita! Yu hav intrrrodoost me to the incomprrrabl joyzzz of flllamenco! How can I evvvvr repay yu?” He wondered if he had gotten the harmonics right.

He had. She softened, spine first, and bent down and pet his silky fur. “What? The flamenco ees new to you? But you arrrr a natchurrrallll…”

“Perrrhaps,” suggested Octavian, “we shud sit an talk!”

Evrbodee Wuz Barroom Figtin!

Mom Says:

Chairs flew. Bottles smashed. Knives were drawn. Small tables served as shields for individual fighters and as barricades for (the rare and few) noncombatants. The musicians, who like all musicians knew that they would get paid only if they kept playing, played. Paco sang:

Uuuuusted está más bellaaaaaa
que la luuuuuuna y más fríooooo.
¡Ooooooo, cómooooo me largoooo
para el sooool.

(You are lovelier than the moon
and more cold. O!
How I long for the sun!)

So, if nothing else, at least the fight was accompanied by the rhythm and poetry of love betrayed. That had to help.

Smack! Bam! Biff! And that was just the humans. The caterwauling of the cats as they attacked dogs, ninjas, non-ninja humans, and each other, was ear-splitting, but all the musicians in the venue noted that there was also a constant bass undertone, provided by the big dogs with their solemn Woofs! and a tenor overtone, provided by the terriers darting about, snarling and chewing on the calves of ninjas (and the occasional non-ninja who had unfortunately worn black trousers that night). Most (though not all) of the YIPES! that night came from the really little dogs, but some came from the men, both ninja and non-ninja, who made the mistake of crossing the women flamenco dancers, with their muscular legs and shoes with all those nails in them…

And still Paco sang:

O, amoooor, me has hechoooo sufrir,
oooo, dichoooos Doooolooores, yi yi yai!
con suuuuus ojooooos la mentira y
el engaño suuuu formaaaa. Aaay yi yi yai!

(O, love, you have made me suffer,
o, such pain, ouch!,
with your lying eyes and
your cheating ways. Ow! Ow! Ouch!)

Three ninjas down. Six ninjas down. Seven…

Sirens were clamoring in the distance, quickly coming closer… The bar was becoming less crowded by the second, leaving only the professional flamencoistas and the professional combatants locked in the fight. Because it wasn’t only humans and cats who were testing their strength against that of other tapas-and-strong-sangria lovers. The woofing, nipping, and yipping showed that the dogs of Grrranada also fought each other and whoever else made the mistake of getting involved.

Perhaps, thought Octavian, as he raked his claws across the eyes of some poor ninja doofus, this was what Jimbond had meant when he had listed the joys of spying as including fighting, running, romancing, being really smart, and driving really fast. The ninja hit the floor (which was already scattered with broken glass and splashes of wine and blood) groaning some rude Japanese. Octavian leaped! up onto a table and scanned the room for his next opponent, but even as he watched, Perro and Gato took pieces out of another ninja, and the last met his demise with a fairly solid red high heel to the head. That tall lady was pretty fierce, as well as being an amazing dancer.

Perhaps, thought Octavian, he would have to tell Jimbond about the joys of dancing.

Mai Ferst Figt wift Ninjas

Mom Says:

As one might imagine, the entrance of ninjas into a public place could cause panic, even among urban dwellers who deal with street violence on a regular basis. Screams, for example. Fleeing, perhaps. Rushing toward emergency exits, at the very least. As it turns out, one would be wrong.

Start with a group of machismo Spaniards who have been making free with the sangria. Add a group of dogs who have been forced to listen to a cat sing, a group of cats who have heard the disparaging remarks of the dogs, and a handful of women flamenco dancers with shoes that have nails hammered into them. Lots of nails.

Then, add a dozen ninjas, wrapped up in dramatic black clothes, armed with black swords and little spiky round things, and in a really bad mood due to their VW bus being outrun by a Citroen with flames coming out of its tailpipes. The outcome is a foregone conclusion.

Given the blood and pain to come, it would seem wiser just to declare the winners and call the whole thing off, honor satisfied. After all, one hates to see a dozen highly trained ninja shredded to the consistency of ground beef. Agent Octavian thought all this in the split second after Perro, Gato and Alek ran in, followed by the ninjas. In the split second that followed that, he had two separate but related thoughts.

The first was, “Huh, Mr. Conshunce, yu’r no fun!” And the second was, “Hey! They’r reellee tough an well-armd! So wen I killz them, it’ll be totullee by aksident! M can’t yell at me! Wooo hooo!”

Then, naturally, he attacked.

The ninjas were still drawing their black swords when Octavian leapd!, all claws extended, and shredded the first ninja fellow’s face like a huge ball of newspaper. He rode the man’s head as the man fell to the floor screaming, and he leaped away and wrapped himself, with all eighteen claws and all thirty teeth, around the right leg of the next ninja fellow. Screaming. Bottles breaking. Cheerful Spanish curses.

Meanwhile, oblivious to the chaos around him, with his eyes closed, Picotero Paco sang:

La luuuuna miaou luuuuna ayaa-yi-yiii!
¿Cómo pooooooodría Te amoooooo?
Tratos oooooooo Penas Cruuuuuuueles!
hermooooosa luuuuuuuuuuna!

(The moon, my moon, O! Ouch!
How could I love you?
Cruel, beautiful moon!)

Musashi Sez:

Wow! Bar figtin isn’t haf bad! I almos nevr gets a chans to let mai inner tygr out, cuz mom sorta frown on that sorta thin unless yer lyf in danjr, but hoo-wee! Fynlee mai lyf wuz in danjr an I cud let my clawrz down, if yu noez whut I meen. Fynlee I gets to let all that greshun out on sombodee whu not a nys person (lik mom an her frens an all mai onkuls an ontz—an I gots lots of them!).

Is reelee rathr freein, akshullee. Yu shud mebbe tryz it!

Mai Ferst Flamenco, O Mai!

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.

That Rod Longr Than I Thogt!

Musashi Sez:

So ther I wuz, on the rod wift this innerestin Spaynish kittee whu smelld a littul bit of the ‘Nip, an he talkt an talkt an talkt. I asksd him whut his naym wuz an he sed, “Paco! Pero me llama Picotero!” An mai LingwaTron wuz telling me that he wuz callin himself a chattrbox. I agreed wift him.

He telld me how it wuz to be a free kittee in Espayn, to be a kittee whu choozd to driv the truk, whu groo an seld the Bursel sprowts, an whu sung the flamenco songz. Now, of cors, I hav herd of boft Bursel sprowts an flamenco from mai mom, so I kin talk about them both, eevn tho I hav not got the persnl egspeeriens. An that a gud thin, cuz mai tinee littul noelidj carreed us fer mylz an mylz, moslee cuz Picotero-Paco gotst lotsa opinions about evrthin, but partiklr about Bursel sprowts an flamenco. Yu migt not egspekt it, but, accordin to him, together, they ar the pinnakul of sivilizayshun. Huh. Whuu’da thunk? I bet eevn mai mom didn’t noe that…

Mom Says:

Meanwhile, even as Agent Octavian was having his cultural horizons broadened, Alek, Perro and Gato were facing the more distressing situation of ninjas following them with the clear intent of cutting off their horizons entirely. Even though the ninjas were traveling in a VW bus of uncertain vintage, our heroes naturally did what any of us would do in a similar situation: they panicked.

“Dooooooo somtheeeen!” howled Perro.

Alek did something. He shifted the car into “fifth gear.” A loud WHUMP! came from the rear of the car as it shot away from its own flame. Alek saw the speedometer hand race from 100 kilometers per hour to 115 to 130 to 145…

The ninjas’ VW bus disappeared behind them in a cloud of dust.

On the Rod wift a Verree Happee Kittee

Mom Says:

Agent Octavian leaped into the old blue pickup truck driven by a tabby cat who seemed really quite relaxed. Once Octavian had slammed the door shut, the tabby accelerated, and Octavian admired the contraption that allowed him to drive the truck.

“Ah, si,” said the Tabby, and he babbled at Octavian until the LingwaTron was buzzing to keep up. Its screen read: “My previous truck had bicycle bits, but this pully system is quite an improvement!”

Octavian said, “Ah! Fenómeno!”

“Si!” And the screen was kept quite busy as they drove into late afternoon and evening along the green highway. “Muchas personas creen que…”

And Octavian read: “Many peeples thingk that cats should not to drive the car and especial, the truck! Hah. But I believe betterer! I has the ingenious friends who create the admirable pully system that you see before us. This allow, however the short legs of my latter half, to engage the system of transportation more than all cats in the Spain! I am Loco-Motor-Kittee! Heh heh heh…”

And Octavian thought to himself, Loco, yes. Motor, yes. Kittee, yes. Out loud he said, “Loco! Si, si!”

Meanwhile, back at the shrine, Alek and Perro had jumped into the Mysiz car and burnt rubber as they followed Agent Eight’s advice to skedaddle. Dust rose on either side of the car to show how fast they were going! Gato lay on the back seat, giggling softly, while above him Perro looked out the back window and barked, “We’r sayf! No followrz! We’r sayf!”

Still, Alek pressed his foot down on the accelerator, not sanguine about their prospects. After all, if their protagonist wasn’t actually with them, he reasoned, how good were their chances for survival, really? He knew that a spy’s “thumbs” wasn’t cannon fodder, and the Guild of Narrators knew it, but did this strange order of humans and cats? From the little he had seen in the past few hours, it seemed that the order followed no rules but their own.

“Hey!” Perro barked as Alek accelerated further. “Whatchu doin? Ees not lik them monks follr us, eh? Ees onlee a blak van full of hombres, but not so muchos thos monks.”

Gato giggled, and batted at the seatbelts.

Alek squinted into his rearview mirror. “Hombres? But how do you know they’re not monks?”

“O, ees eezee,” said Perro. “The monks we saw wer wayrin the red an the brown robz, yu noe? But theez hombres wayr the blak.”

Alek wiped the rearview mirror with the back of his free hand, then changed gears and pushed his foot all the way down on the accelerator.

“Hey! Bark bark bark! Yelp!”

“Whoa, yu cowboy!” giggled Gato.

Alek barked a little himself. “Perro! Do you know what a ninja is?

“Huh! Ninja! Lik in mooveez?”

“Yes!”

“O, but them aren’t reel. They’z jus monk-lik actrz whu playz assassassinz wayrin the funnee blak—O NOOOES!!!”