Saturday, September 23, 2017

I Dream of a Cat at a Parisian Bistro

9/25/2017 Addendum: Due to requests, I added on some more to my little tale of a feline alien beauty meeting a detective in a Parisian cafe. Also, this post is pulling in a lot of new visitors. WELCOME! Please visit me at and make sure you peruse the rest of my blog!

Dreams are innately boring to everybody except for the dreamer. Their symbols strike an intimate chord that resonates only with the person who has dreamed the dream. Yet, there are a number of authors who have written stories and poems based on their dreams: H. P. Lovecraft, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and others.

Two nights ago, I dreamed of meeting an anthropomorphic cat in a Parisian bistro. To simply relate the dream would have you yawning in moments, but I took the seed of my nightly excursion and ran with it.

I dream of pretty humanoid cats drinking tea. What do you dream about?

Erma Felna, by artist Steve Gallacci
by Alan Loewen

Just as I had instructed her over the phone, she was sitting outside Le Saint Régis on the Rue Des Barres. Her back was turned to me giving me a moment for a quick study. Regally ignoring the stares from the human diners around her, she sat, straight and elegant, drinking what I assumed would be an herbal tea. Caffeine was toxic to Felidae.

Her long golden blonde hair could not conceal the golden-furred tail and furred, pyramidal ears or else from the rear she could easily have been taken for a human. She wore a pale yellow lightweight handkerchief mini dress with a halter neckline, somewhat loose as tight clothing is uncomfortable when your body is covered with fur. It was cut low in the back, below her waist to make provision for her tail. She would be, if anything, one of the more exotic specimens of Felidae, feminine with every move one of controlled grace, but I was immune to their charms. To me, she was nothing more than just an overgrown cat in human form.

When the Felidae invaded on October 12, 1939, H. G. Wells’ novel, The War of the Worlds, prophesied how it would all turn out. A simple soil bacteria, one that had no effect on humanity, decimated the invading army and it was carried back by accident to their homeworld. A very few survived courtesy of a natural immunity, but with so few survivors, they traded in their weapons for lessons in diplomacy. However, by that time, they had decimated a good chunk of Europe ending the start of what was already shaping up into a rather nasty conflict.

But we humans are forgiving, especially since the Felidae opened up the universe to us. Now here in the Year of Our Lord, 1989, those war memories are far gone and forgiven, especially since they rebuilt the Eiffel Tower.

As we humans played with our new technology and introduced ourselves to the cosmos, we discovered that evolution was actually not as creative as originally thought. All of the intelligent species we were introduced to were bipedal with two arms, one nose, one mouth, two eyes, and two ears. None of them looked like humans, but they all mirrored, sometimes quite loosely, animal counterparts here on earth. We had growing, stable yet feisty galactic civilizations of what could be easily referred to as Terran examples of mice, cats, dogs, raccoons, lions, and tigers and bears and others. A stroll through any of Earth's cosmopolitan centers now felt like a walk through a Beatrix Potter fever dream.

It was just the bloody rabbits you had to really beware of. Unspeakably violent, they were beaten back centuries ago by a combined effort of the major galactic empires to one solitary planet in the backwaters of the galaxy. Orbiting military hardware around that planet makes sure they stay on their dirtball.

The galaxy still had some rabbits running loose and I saw one once, chemically sedated and lobotomized and kept as a pet by one of the wealthier aliens slumming on Earth. The creature still snapped at anybody who came near it.

I angled my walk as I approached my new client as one does not approach the Felidae from the rear and our eyes locked as I drew near her table. I bowed my head slightly. “Bon après-midi, mademoiselle.”

She was walking gold. Even her slitted eyes matched the color of her fur and she had the body of a ballerina.

She held out the back of her hand and I took it in my own, bowed, and kissed it. I hate the custom, but the Felidae are proud. Her fur gave off the aroma of cinnamon, but I didn’t know if that was her natural aroma or some version of Felidae perfume.

“I speak English,” she said. Of course, with non-human lips it came out as “I thee Enthlish,” but I've hung around enough Felidae to catch their drift.

“May I sit?” I asked. She nodded. I motioned for the waiter as I took my seat and pointed to my client’s cup of chamomile tea. Serveurs on the Rue Des Barres are smart and not as arrogant as other Parisian waiters. In moments, I had my own steaming cup.

“How may I be of service?” I asked.

My new client paused for a moment, her unblinking eyes taking me in. “I need an armed escort and word in Paris is that you’re the best.”

“It is one of my many skills,” I said. “I can see why you would need an escort. I’m surprised by the way you appear you don’t have humans approaching you hourly.”

“I am beautiful,” she said with typical Felidae candor. “Even among my own people I am do you say it in English? I am exquisite.”

“And far too humble,” I said with a slight smile. As Felidae have no concept of sarcasm, I knew she’d take it as a compliment that she had not flattered herself enough. “My fee is two hundred francs a day with expenses. I include 24-hour coverage which means I also stay in your accommodations at night, separate rooms of course. When would you like me to start?”

She pointed behind me. “Immediately.”

I turned to see two large humans walking toward us, their stern faces clearly focused on my client. I sighed with annoyance. I didn’t even yet know my new client’s full name.

Fortunately, I had chosen the Le Saint Régis for a reason. Owned by a local boxe française club, each of the waiters is actually well-trained in savate, using the cafe as a means of employment while they studied French kickboxing, their one true love.

I motioned for our waiter and then pointed to our two unwanted visitors.

One of the thugs made eye contact with me and pulled a Filipino Balisong out of his pocket, flipping the knife open in a casual gesture meant to make me think twice about attacking him.

I waited until he was in range and other cafe customers not in any angle of danger when I threw my cup of hot chamomile tea in his face. It stunned him enough that it required no effort to trap his hand and make him drop the knife. I then spun about--not for show, but to build up kinetic energy--to drive my left elbow into his temple. He dropped to the ground.

By that time, the other thug was down, the sole of a Bolvaint Verrocchio Tassel Loafer prominently imprinted on the front of his face. The waiter threw me a thumbs up and I turned to my new client.

“We must leave, mademoiselle. It appears we have made a scene.” And, true to my words, the other customers began to react to the sudden show.

“Please relax, Mesdames et Messieurs,” I said to the crowd in my best French. “The show is over.”

My client had not reacted at all. She overlooked the scene without emotion on her feline face as if watching one of the new reality shows that were becoming all the rage. “Mademoiselle,” I said firmly, “We must go.”

“Are you not going to interrogate them?” she asked.

I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her from the chair as she hissed in indignation. “You are touching me!” she said. “How dare you!”

“They are not alone,” I said, pulling her down the street. “There is a black Renault across the street with more men. They have been watching us since I sat down.”

That quieted her down for a few precious moments as I dragged her into a hat boutique and hurriedly made my way to the back door. Ignoring the protests from both my client and the shop owner, I burst through the back storage room and into an alleyway. As the Renault was headed east on Rue Des Barres, I turned west, came out onto a side street and quickly motioned for a taxi.

With a jerk, she pulled her arm free. I opened the taxi door for her and with a prominent air of injured pride, she got into the back seat. Running around to the other side, I threw myself into the seat beside her and gave directions to the driver to my office.

“No,” the Felidae said. “I want to go to my hotel room.”

“Too dangerous,” I said. “There would be men there waiting for you.” I turned to her. “By the bye, what is your full name?”

“In English, it would be Goldstar, daughter of Eellight, First Female of the First Litter.”

“And why the interest from whoever it is trying to get to you.”

She struck a theatrical pose showing off her profile. “It is because I am beautiful.”

Well, it’s certainly not for your common sense, I thought.

She looked down and suddenly hissed under her breath. “I soiled my slipper in that filthy alley!”

(Note: The above graphic is Steve Gallachi's well known comic book character, Erma Felna. His Amazon profile and marketplace are located here.)

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