Part four of four. Haven't read parts one, two, or three? Go ahead! I'm going to get some coffee, and I'll meet up with you here...
I take a deep draw from my gin and tonic, then another. When one parties with cats, one will catch a buzz.
I push my empty lowball glass toward Liza Bean. "Top me off," I hiss.
The cat casts an amused glance at me.
"What?' I say.
Liza Bean Bitey, eight-year-old tabby and Minneapolitan bon vivant, shakes her head and grabs the last clean glass on the table, drops four ice cubes into it, reaches for the bottle of gin.
The large white cat on the stage at the front of the room stands on his back legs, one paw on the microphone. "Toms and kittens," he says, "friends of the four-legged and two-legged variety, we have, tonight, the kick-off of the spoken-word tour of our very own Dolly "Gee" Squeakers -- "
" -- formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers!" shouts Pupples.
The room explodes with the flickering of table lights.
The Tom leans into the mic and smiles. " -- formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers! Fresh from the kitchen table where she smokes when her human is at work and on the first night of her Guided by Friskies five-state tour, would you welcome to The Nip and The Saucer, Dolly "Gee" Squeakers!"
Flick-flick-flick! The darkened room erupts in galaxies of stars as the crowd shows its appreciation.
A fresh gin and tonic, four limes, is pushed in front of me. At the same time, a waitress slides by, drops off fresh glasses and a fresh bucket of ice. Liza Bean holds up a five-dollar bill, which the server lifts with two graceful fingers.
Cats are notoriously heavy tippers, and the bar industry in Minneapolis knows -- and caters -- to this.
Dolly walks onto the stage, smiles up into the bright lights, blue eyes dazzled. She looks out into the crowd, approaches the microphone, taps it with one curved claw.
Satisfied that the mic is still on, she takes a breath; and the Siamese mix, a cat generally silent after years of kittenhood tauntings for her lisp, begins to speak.
"Thith one ith called Theafood Platter."
The room goes silent. Dolly takes a deep breath.
"Theafood platter, pate thtyle
A late afternoon thnack
and with the thound of the can-opener,
I come running.
I thkitter acroth hardwood floorth
thkid around cornerth
My dethire reaching the food dith
Well ahead of my pride.
Thank you."
Pupples operates the light in the center of the table like a cat possessed. "I know that feeling!" he shouts toward the stage. "I know that feeling!"
Pupples stands on his chair. "House Cat!! Do House Cat!!!"
I look toward Liza Bean, who has leaned back into the crushed velvet upholstery of the booth. She smiles at me, lifts her drink. "Who knew the little bathroom dweller had it in her, huh?"
I lift my own drink, consider that I probably should've had more of the "mouse ends" that Liza was offering before the whole "drinking with cats" thing started. "To Dolly," I say. And I hiccup.
As always happens when I drink with cats, I wake up in the morning in my own bed, clothes folded neatly, two aspirin and a glass of water on the night stand to ease my aching head.
Late morning, having showered and swallowed several large cups of coffee, I pull a crinkled, ink-stained cocktail napkin, a poem by the late Orangey McStripe written there.
I recognize it from the end of the previous night. It is, apparently, a favorite among the feline drinking class.
Raise a glass with me, won't you?, and link arms with the cat closest to you.
Alley slinker
Felonious stinker!
Skirts the garden's edge.
Marks his spots
A poet's jots!
Says "mine" from hedge to hedge.