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Friday, February 24, 2017

The Bitch From Boränge – Chapter 12

By Smoothy

The auditorium is huge—hundreds of cages, a commercial prison. Tails of travesty in my opinion, but they seem well cared for, pillows, rugs, and fancy food bowls. Show off stuff. A few felines are getting poked and prodded by the contest judges. There’s a large display of trophies. I pass by to get a closer look. There’s nothing here worth stealing, just a pile of shiny brass cups, a few plaques and . . . Holy cow! Is that a rat I see before me?


“Smooth . . .  it’s me. It’s Willie. I’m disguised.”

“You had me fooled. You look completely different.”

“Yeah. I know. The ‘king of coats,’ they call me. So, found anything worth taking? I have. Over there—ten cages down and to the right, Magnolia. But she’s been around the block a few times—won’t be easy.”

“Um . . . I’ll go and check her out,” I wave my tail and move on down the isle a way. Ah, here she is. A Siamese. She’s not bad looking, but a bit too slim in my opinion, nice pelt, light gray with black trim. A sapphire as big as the Ritz is dangling from her neck. Magnolia licks her paws in a disinterested way. Looks bored with her surroundings. I can fix that, but does she speak Swedish?

Hey. Vad heter du?” I ask her name. She looks at me with some distain at first, and then with curiosity. She thinks I might be something she can toy with.

“It's Magnolia, silly boy. I’m sure you know my name already.”

“I’m new in town,” I tell her. “Do you live around here? Malmo?”

“No. I move around a lot this time of year, summers in Florida, or South of France. I spend my free time at my pad at the Emirates—Dubia,” she adds. “Are you here just here to look at fancy females, or on business of some kind? You don’t look like the average Tom.”

“Name’s Smoothy, but my friends all call me Smooth.” I wink at her.

“Thanks so much for the privilege Smoothy. Tell me, what is it you do?”

“Security.” I glance around as if scanning the area.

“Indeed,” she flips her tail. “Was someone katnapped? Do they worry someone will be?”

“Always possible,” I tell her. There's an imfamous jewel thief in the crowd to night—a French window climber. Pepe, the Parisian Plunderer, they call him. Pepe’s wanted for a string of robberies. He stole the Pope’s ring from the Vatican—it's an alternative fact. Pepe accidently slashed the throat of a victim as he was trying to cut off her diamond collar. My job is to warn affluent kitties like you that he’s around. If you want I can put your necklace in our vault, until its show time, then . . .”

“I can take care of myself,” she says. “Time for my beauty nap.” She lies down gracefully—on top the sapphire, yawns again. “Catch my act later, Smooth. I’m sure to be in the finals.

*             *            *

Now what? I wondering as I glide away. There’s Willie, underneath a snack bar.

“Any luck?”

“Not yet,” I tell him.

“I found out where Lulu is.” He stops to finish off what’s left of a discarded hot dog. “In that fancy cage next to the katwalk. I think she’s best of show as far as we’re concerned. Covered with ice.”

Friday, February 17, 2017

The Bitch From Boränge – Chapter 11

The Bitch From Boränge


Chapter 11 – by Ellie                                                                                 18 February 2017

I was dog tired after a hard day, but still kilometres to go, I guessed. No sign of Smoothy, or lucky rat that got away. Seems odd they should be hanging out together—doesn’t smell right. In the mean time, I believe I’ve sniffed out what The Smooth is up to. There’s a kat show up ahead, a big one. World Show. International. I’ve read about it. ‘Kitties Karry Karat Weights of Gemstones’ Aftonbladet’s headlines read. Lulu Rashid is expected to appear this weekend, wearing a diamond collar worth millions. A bejewelled Siamese named Magnolia will also be showing off.  The Diamond Devas, they were called—the main attractions. Very interesting.

There was a Norwegian rat . . . some kind of diamond heist a couple years ago, I’m thinking as I trot up to the entrance. It might cost a bone or two to get inside the show—but I see the signs. “No Dogs!” I can’t believe it—Racist bastards, here, in Sweden. I’m starting to attract attention, so I leave, trot down the steps back onto Johannesgatan. Now What? Smooth is in there . . . and the rat. Is he there too? I decide to catch him and his little friend on their way out, but Smooth is not spontaneous, he plans things—takes his time.

I cross the street and take a snow bath in the park. Feels good to wash the dye off my expensive coat. I shake loose from the snow and see a bar across the street, The Fatal Feline. They might not refuse a drink, if I say who I am—won’t be on friendly crowd, I’m sure.

I stride inside the place like I’m familiar with it. Pussys everywhere, two coons, and a weasel that looks like part of an old coat. Furs stand on end and backs arch as I make an entrance, but whatever. I act nonchalant.

“Dog water, straight up,” I tell an ancient Persian katender.

“We don’t do dog water,” he says. “Kat beer’s is all we got.”


I don’t usually drink beer, but when I do, I make sure it’s not Kat beer. The Persian might be jerking my chain, but I throw him a bone and take my beer bowl to a window table. The customers settle down as I nurse my drink. More than a few of them are high on nip, but that’s someone else’s problem. I just need a spot with a view to wait out the next hour or so.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

The Bitch From Boränge - Chapter 10

The Bitch From Boränge
Chapter 10 – by Smoothy
15 February 2017


It was easy to get away from the Bitch. A double shunt and long leap were enough to lose her. Most of that was just for show. She was distracted by Willie the Яat. The Bitch has a thing for rats—genetics I guess—something she can’t resist, a good thing to know. A lot of kats are into rats. I don’t mind chasing them myself, when they cross my path, but I don’t murder them. Lots of kats do - a killing instinct I suppose. I’ve really never understood it.

I’ve known Willie for a while now. He’s quite clever in a sneaky sort of way. Street smart he is, and a grand master of disguise. The king of coats they call him. He was once an actor and stared in one of those bleak Scandinavian films, The Rat and Winter, I think it was called. Willie lost his union membership after eating an important manuscript. After that he was in and out of cages: food theft, malingering, and petty crime, some shady stock market deals in Norway - commodities I think.
A diamond heist he pulled off made the papers—must have paid off very well. He took a ship to New York to avoid the heat and hung out with a gang of notorious tunnel workers called the Fur Heads. A few months later the gang got busted, but Willie escaped and stowed away on a freighter to Malmo.  He arrived flat broke and hungry—ended up here, in Яosengaard where he’s been a useful companion, reasonably trustworthy, and with a detailed a cognitive map of town. He knows how to get into places. All this plus a hunger for action. What can go wrong?

I’m pretty sure that Willie got away . . . I think. He’s fast, but so’s the Bitch. It could go either way I guess. I don’t see either one of them, but spot the Malmö Konsthall a block away. An electric markuee writes, International Kat Show. Spot on, but Willie..? Well, he knows our destination. I don’t know how he’ll get in. Not through the front door, that’s for sure. The lobby’s draped with posters, ‘No Dogs’ signs, and promotional flyers with photos of Lulu Яashid, and the Siamese kat, Magnolia. Perfect.

A five sardine pack gets me past a ticket taker with a worn out smile. It’s like a zoo inside, a labyrinth of pussys. “Take your time,” I tell myself and go into a stealthy saunter. Lot’s to look at, that’s for sure. I pass a young Maine Coon who’s won a ribbon—not surprising. His servant is sleeping on the job with a silly grin. She might be high on katnip, but whatever. I move on.


Saturday, February 11, 2017

The Bitch From Borlänge – 11 February 2017

The Bitch From Borlänge – 11 February 2017


The Bitch From Borlänge
11 February 2017

Well, I suppose Ellie’s right. My turn to write the next chapter, but I’m not sure I’m up to it today. So much to do, so little time. Mom and the hound will be back tomorrow.
Where was I? Chapter 10 coming up. The Bitch was after Willie the Rat who escaped in a snow tunnel — I think. Where was he now?


Friday, February 10, 2017

Postcard From Ellie – 10 Feb. 2017


Postcard from Ellie

I’m on my way to an important training today and looking forward to it—I think. It’s not a contest, so they don’t give ribbons, but whatever. I will have improved skills this spring, and expect more ribbons. Hollywood has still not contacted me, but I will have an important photo and bio being published in an important hound magazine . . . sometime next month.

Car rides always end with something good, but this is a long one. About two hours and there is talk of snow. Not good, but I will probably sleep most of the way. I don’t mind the cage. Its nice and secure . . . all belted in.

Smoothy will have the run of the house without me keeping an eye on him—for two days. I hope he doesn’t break anything. The houseman is at home but will probably be lost in the loft, drinking wine and trying to write a poem, or looking for a lost notebook. He must have at least fifteen of them, half filled with important notes he didn’t want to forget—but now he’s forgot where he wrote them. Humans—go figure.

Smoothy should be writing chapter 10 of ‘The Bitch From Borläng’, but it could go either way—he’s no Heming way, for sure.

Speaking of ways, I must be on mine. Time to go.
Catch you’re act later. (That’s Hollywood talk. I’m learning the lingo.)