Good afternoon. It is I Gigi the parti poodle here to introduce chapter eleven of my story Catzilla. My novelist does not go in much for tradition. However, there is one annual event here in the pacific northwest that happens every July during which my novelist goes insane. She spends hours figuring out the strategy and how she will carry it out. She becomes like an artist who is never completely satisfied with her sculpture. A little more here, a little less there. She focused on this so much the last couple of days I thought I might have to alert the paramedics. This tradition, of course, is called the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale. And it is utter madness. If my novelist cannot find the perfect items made from the perfect material at the perfect price, she goes mad. The name on the label means nothing to her. It’s all about the content and the value. Having studied theatre in college which included costume design, her tolerance for synthetic fabrics is zero. She does not understand why anyone would wear things made from petroleum and natural gas unless it is required for an occupation.

Her tolerance for jewelry made from anything less than sterling silver is nil. She says she would accept titanium, but Nordstrom does not carry much in titanium, a metal which is excellent for those with sensitive skin. She tells me she would rather get one or two pieces made from proper materials than several made from, and these are her words, utter garbage.

This fastidiousness makes for an utter nightmare to stay within a proper budget. But I must tell you, this insanity has been going on since before my time. So enamored is she with this sale she has kept the very first item she ever purchased there: a black sweater with a chain of teddy bears motif. She has also kept the first piece of jewelry she purchased at the sale: a petite sterling silver teddy bear ring. And she’s not even a collector of teddy bears.

The best I can do is have patience, sip on the occasional non-alcoholic mint julep, and continue to write the next chapters of my story. And so, here is chapter eleven of Catzilla. Enjoy!

Catzilla

by

Gigi the parti poodle

Chapter Eleven

Lyle crept toward the kitten as he grabbed the cuff of each glove and gave it a tug to make sure they were secure. I watched the ravenous feline continue to devour her food as if she were a lion who’d taken down a dozen gazelles. Lyle moved behind her stealthy step by stealthy step. As he did, the kitten suddenly sensed his presence. It turned its glowing green goblin-like eyes towards him.

“Nice kitty,” Lyle said timidly.

The cat that should have been a kitten glared at him and licked its lips.

“I’m just going to put something on your collar.”

The cat continued to stare him down. Lyle tiptoed closer…closer…

The kitten hissed a horrible raspy hiss and opened its mouth to bare a double row of needle-sharp teeth as its head twisted in a full circle, its glaring eyes never leaving Lyle.

“I think I might need something more than your dad’s gloves,” Lyle said. 

I did not disagree with this assessment. “Holy cow! What in the world do you think we need?”

“I’m thinking…tranquilizers.”

“My dad used to have some, but I think he may have taken them to the pharmacy and disposed of them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes…sort of.”

“Do you think you could check?”

I thought about this for a moment. I didn’t want my mom to know I was sneaking my dad’s tranquilizers. “I guess I could ride back to my house and look.”

“Okay. I’ll wait here.”

I looked at the cat who had returned to eating its food which was quite a bit different than watching it bare its double set of teeth and spin its head around in a circle. “Won’t that be a little dangerous, not to mention conspicuous?”

“Hm. Maybe. But I don’t want to leave and then come back to find the cat isn’t here.”

“That’s true. Maybe you could hide over there against the fence. Text me if it does anything…creepy or otherwise.”

Lyle turned and looked at the fence. “Yeah. That might work.”

“I’ll be right back.” I hopped on my bike and headed towards my house. I carefully parked my bike on the side of the house, crept around to backyard where my window faced, opened said window and listened for my mom. When I didn’t hear her, I climbed inside.

I had been wise enough to lock my bedroom door with instrumental music playing on my laptop. I knew my mom had probably retired to her office and was working on her next consulting project for the new company that had hired her. I opened my bedroom door and headed to the bathroom. I slipped inside and opened the door of the bronze framed mirrored medicine cabinet.

“Did you want some desert?” my mom called from the kitchen. She must have gone in there to brew tea.

Yes, I thought. But I’m in a huge hurry. “Maybe later.”

“Are you feeling well? You never pass on lemon shortbread with white chocolate chips.

“I feel fine. I just have a lot of homework.”

“Okay.” She didn’t sound convinced.

I searched the medicine cabinet for my dad’s tranquilizers. I thought he would put the bottle on the top shelf, but I couldn’t find it there. I moved on to the second shelf pushing aside a box of band aids and a bottle of Pepto Bismol. Still no luck. I searched the bottom shelf certain I would find it amongst my mother’s nail polish bottles. But the tranquilizers were nowhere to be found.

At this point I was certain my father had indeed taken the pills to the pharmacy and disposed of them but on the offhand chance I could be wrong I opened my father’s toiletry drawer on the left-hand side of the vanity. It was a troublesome drawer filled with implements like dental floss, hairbrushes, nail clipper, a tiny hand polished mustache comb, a Star Wars tin filled with Q-tips and tweezers. An odds-and-ends drawer of sorts. I moved a small catch-all basket aside and set it on the counter. All I found there was a forgotten electric razor brush. I rummaged around but could not seem to come up with anything else but a hand-polished hair comb.

The only other place the tranquilizers might be in was my dad’s bedside table. And that drawer was always locked. And I had no idea where he hid the key. But he likely had it with him. Wherever that was.

I returned to my room and tried to think of an alternative plan. Either I needed to come up with a better way to get a forty-pound kitten with a double set of teeth and a head capable of turning a full 360° to allow Lyle and I to put a bug on its collar or come up with a different source from which to acquire some sort of sedative or tranquilizer. I listened to the ticking of the clock in my head knowing Lyle was standing out there by the fence attempting to guard that sinister feline.

As often happens in times like these, a nagging possibility traversed my mind: Ellery. Using the source of evil to assist me in thwarting it seemed insane if not downright dangerous even though I was certain someone like him would have access to tranquilizers. But how to convince him why I needed them seemed impossible.

I decided to text Lyle:

            R U still @ the fence?

            Yup.

            Can’t find them. Will need to acquire elsewhere.

            Who?

            Meet U soon.

I rode my bike back to Lyle’s neighbor’s driveway where the cat had finished eating and was entertaining itself with a red playground ball the boy in green overalls had likely left outside. I snuck over to the fence where Lyle was hiding under the lush overhanging trees.

“Who would have them?” Lyle asked when I crept up next to him.

“Maybe Ellery.”

“Bad idea.”

“Where else are we going to get them? Do your parents have any?”

“No.”

“We’ve got to get the bug on the cat somehow.”

“The other creep who may have them is Quincy.”

The thought made me queasy. But Lyle was right. Quincy either had tranquilizers or knew how to get his hands on them.

“Okay, but how do we get him to get us some?”

“We could go to his house.”

“His house?”

“He’s got an electric bike like Ellery. He rides it around in the evenings sometimes. If we head in the direction of his house, we might find him.”

“Let’s just do this.”

We got on our bikes and Lyle led the way as I had no idea where Quincy lived, and I didn’t want to know. We started heading for the intersection. Suddenly, I heard an electric bike pull up behind me. I could tell by the sound of the rider’s chuckle it was Quincy. Goosebumps raised on my skin as it sped past me and cut us off at the four-way stop.

“What do you have there, Lyle?” he said smugly.

“We’re looking for you,” Lyle said.

“Hey, Briar,” Quincy said, balancing on his bike. “What are you doing out this late? It’s not the weekend. You didn’t work at the restaurant tonight. Couldn’t stop thinking about me, could you?”

“We came to find you.”

Quincy gave Lyle a nasty look then he said to me, “What are you doing hanging out with this loser?”

“We need to ask a favor of you,” I said.

“A favor, huh? What kind of favor, hot stuff?”

“We need some sedatives,” Lyle told him.

Quincy scoffed. “Seriously?”

“Do you have some?” I asked.

“What do you want them for?”

“I’ll help you pass algebra two if you get us some,” Lyle said.

Quincy cocked his head and studied Lyle. “What makes you think I’m failing algebra two?”

“Because you are.”

Quincy looked at me, then narrowed his eyes at Lyle. “You need to sweeten the deal.”

“How?”

Quincy looked me up and down with his reptilian eyes. “Briar here makes out with me.”

“Burn in hell,” I told him.

“That’s a brutal thing to say.”

“It’s not like you won’t anyway.”

Quincy smiled. “Alright then. One kiss.”

“That’s sexual harassment.”

“Do I look like I care?”

“Do you have tranquilizers or not?”

“My older brother does.”

“Can you get them or not?”

Quincy chuckled. “Follow me.”

MY BOOKS

You can check out my books Chicane and all five installments of the Musicology book series Musicology: Volume One, Baby!, Musicology: Volume Two, Kid!, Musicology: Volume Three, Twist!, Musicology: Volume Four, Sweetie! and Musicology: The Epiquad on Amazon in Kindle and Paperback editions. You can also check out Musicology’s web site at www.musicologyrocks.com and vote for who you think will win Musicology!

STREAM OF THE WEEK: REALITY (2023)-HBO

Taunt, tense and terse, this new HBO film based on the play Is This a Room? by the film’s co-writer and director Tina Satter is an excellent exercise in the power of theatrical minimalism. The script is literally word for word from an actual transcript about an incident that happened on a Saturday afternoon in Augusta, Georgia in June 2017. Reality Winner (wonderfully played by Sydney Sweeny) is a whip-smart twenty-five-year-old National Security Agency contractor who fluently speaks four languages comes home with her groceries to find two men at her house. They say they are FBI agents and begin a strange ambiguous conversation with Reality outside her home. As the film rolls on in real time, the tension grows and the dynamics of the petite young woman and the men who physically dwarf her and slowly grow in number becomes more and more ominous. Isn’t it interesting how men who are trying to leverage women always like to coax them into a confined space and talk menacingly to them? This is one of the first scenarios women are taught to avoid in self-defense classes. Reality, unfortunately, could not avoid these circumstances. The movie also stars Josh Hamilton as Agent Garrick and Marchánt Davis as Agent Taylor.