I am not surprised by the presence of this effete flora, but I am about to be shocked nearly out of my leather soles.
Meanwhile, Miss Electra continues to wave her arm about like an undisciplined tail. Miss Temple and the stranger stop to gawk at what I discern to be the blue and red peaks of the Camelot Hotel and Casino's fools'-capped mock-Medieval towers, kitty-corner (sorry, Leo) from our location.
The Camelot is old chapeau, pardon the expression. I have seen its pointy-hatted wizard glowering down from the Camelot drawbridge onto the Strip for several years now. I like to fancy that this maybe-Merlin has cast a spell on old Leo, dooming the big guy to eternal gate-keeping function at the opposite hostelry. Imagine sitting there day after day, able to do nothing more than light up the night with your big green eyes. This is definitely the downside of working as the house cat at a hotel.
While I crouch and contemplate the sad state of feline pride in these latter days, hordes of human feet hoof into the MGM Grand's maw of brass-and-glass doors. A subtle hissing noise, like a chorus of cicadae, cranks up all around me. Although we are far from the open desert, this sound has a terrible, impending nature, like a thousand rattlesnakes about to strike.
And then I am struck!
A dozen sites on my body sting as I am pelted relentlessly. I leap out of the pansies, crying, "I am dying, Egypt, dying." (Oops. That line is more appropriate to the Sphinx in front of the Luxor down the Strip.) Anyway, I stagger from the flora like Jimmy Cagney hit by a machine gun. Those pansies were poisonous. And the hail of bullets continues. Except that they are wet.
The awful truth triumphs. Leo, the MGM lion, has a spraying problem, and it's pretty pervasive. The pansies beam dewily through a fresh veil of waterdrops.
I shake myself off, hoping to share my bounty with the passing mob. Then I nip through the row of doors with the huge brass doorpulls formed from an intertwined "O" and "Z" behind a Nikon of Japanese tourists clicking away like beetles.
Once inside, I stop, dismayed ... even outraged. I am inside, not outside, but the sky is frowning and boiling with clouds as if ready to rain on my parade again in earnest. Lightning flashes among the clouds'
cumulus blue underbellies. Thunder growls like my stomach on another Free-to-be-Feline morning. I blink my baby greens. How can this be? I admit that I have never bothered to check out the inside of the MGM Grand Hotel, but I did expect it to at least be indoors.
In fact, the unexpected presence of water outside and the scene of impending downpour inside have an unforeseen effect on me. I suddenly remember how long it has been since I performed any actions of a deliquifying nature. Luckily, dead ahead I spot a gentle grassy knoll suffering from a measles of red poppies, so I sprint for relief.
Even more fortunately, a man's voice booms from the gondola of a balloon tethered nearby. (This is not one of your dinky helium objects so prevalent at birthday parties, but the Mother of All Balloons, big enough to serve as transportation.) Every human eye is craned upward to the gesturing figure and the scowling sky beyond, green with oncoming storm. Of course it is really a ceiling, though it is high enough to pass for a sky. In contrast, the so-called grass is barely tall enough to shelter a midget mouse, say Mickey or Minnie (though they are not MGM properties). Furthermore, the blades have a distasteful plastic feel, and as for scent--if you favor privies perfumed with polyethelene, you are in the perfect spot for happy-ever-aftering, but not in Cam-el-ot. So much for the musical interlude. I do not like Muzak in my bitty and I am not very invisible in this ersatz poppy field. While here, though, I sniff the notorious blooms for signs of harvest. Great place to hide an illegal patch of real poppies. No such luck in this case.
A wood that affords more privacy and some real dirt looms beyond the poppy fields' ever-blooming condition. I dash into its welcoming shadows and camouflaging color, earth-brown. In a wink, I have hidden behind an aluminum garbage can someone has thoughtfully plopped down between two trees.
From my vantage point I survey the poppy fields. Against the bilious sky, the crusty old dude in the balloon gondola harangues the attentive crowd while laser-green lightning boogies across the boiling clouds above. Beyond the gathering storm glows a serene, celestial expanse of gilt stars in a Midnight-blue sky, the exact color of my coat's glossy highlights when it is groomed to black satin. I recognize that odd artifice known as wallpaper when I see it, even when it is on the ceiling. Yet I remain thoroughly confused. Apparently the MGM Grand lobby has chosen to combine the worst of indoor and outdoor worlds.
Then I nearly leap into the next county when the silver garbage can beside me starts creaking into motion and begins sounding off. I dodge behind a tree ... made from another foul-smelling unnatural substance. The crowd edges my way, oohing and Ozing.
Only then do I spot the solution to my confusion: a motionless quartet--five if you count the shrimpy canine--stands frozen amid the plastic poppies. They are not collecting for the Veterans of Foreign Wars, believe me, but posing. Even from the rear they are recognizable: that miserable Cowardly Lion who has given cathood a bad name; the twin of my nearby orating garbage can, the Tin Woodman; young Dorothy Gale from Kansas in her checked jumper and red-sequined pumps (Miss Temple would shudder at wearing pale blue anklets with such spiffy shoes); and the Scarecrow who fell down on the job.
Of course that wretched, flea-bitten, cute-as-a-cupcake black mite Toto is there, too. I am in full agreement with the Wicked Witch, who appears to have won their last confrontation after alclass="underline" stuff him and put him in a theme-hotel vignette.
At least I sniff genuine dirt beneath my feet and am able to scratch up a few thimbles full so I can attend to my emergency needs. Public buildings are always short on rest rooms, although casinos are usually generous in this department. The last thing the management wants is eager gamblers distracted from the siren call of snake eyes and a natural by any calls of nature.
Relieved in all departments, I tippy-toe through the ersatz woods and out into the chiming, glittering casino beyond, where I can dart unseen among the shadows of slot machines and blackjack tables.
And dart I do, until I can catch up with the proper trio of shoes: Miss Temple's pink metallic sneakers, Miss Electra's earth sandals and Madame X's air-cushion white tennis shoes with purple and lime-green accents. As I slink under the long, rainbow archway into the casino proper, I feel a bit like that little windup pooch Toto, who spent most of The Wizard of Oz fox-trotting behind the principal players.
This is not Kansas anymore. I am not even sure that it is Las Vegas.
Chapter 10
Pirates Ahoy
"Where are we headed?"
Electra wistfully eyed empty tables spreading into the casino from a dazzling variety of restaurants.
"Look at the fabulous boutique!" Kit gazed left toward display windows crammed with wearable glitz that bounced an acquisitive glint from her eyeglass lenses.
"We are here on business, ladies," Temple reminded them. Her brisk trot did not slow to match their dawdling, window-shopping pace. The enterprise she had in mind was shoe biz.
"Where do we conduct this so-called business?" Electra huffed to catch up with her. "We've been walking for ages. I had no idea the MGM Grand was so misnamed. It should be the MGM Gargantuan."
"Theme park out back." Temple wasted no words as she hustled past gaudy neon game arcades toward the pale horizontal slit of glass doors leading to the great outdoors. "It's just about to open."
Electra groaned. "That means a lot more walking."
"Good for us," Temple sang back, hopping on a down escalator.