by M. E. Kerr
Look what he had come to! Look how far he had fallen!
A boat! They expected him to live on a boat!
Last night the man had opened a can of smelly fish and put it on top of a newspaper, on the galley table. Then he had put Placido on the table, too, and said, “I have a date to play Santa Claus at the mall, Placido. This is din din, buddy boy! Eat it all up! It’s mackerel!”
Placido had had all he could do to keep from gobbling it down. But he had decided not to. A good thing to do was take a whiff, then use his front paws to make the motions, back and forth around the cat dish, of covering up some foul thing. Just as though he had been served roadkill.
A good mood to be in on a boat was a bad mood.
The thing about the girl was that when she decided to listen to music, she listened to the same songs over and over. Last night it was “Sighs in a Shell,” “Sunken Skies,” and “The Dragon Is Dancing.” Over and over.
This morning the girl watched the same tape. Over and over.
There she was dancing with the bulbous-eyed Boston terrier. How many times was Placido to be subjected to that vile Christmas song?
Nobody knows
But Twinkle Toes
What fun it is to dance!
Her doggie knows—
Yes, Dancer knows,
For see him up on his doggie toes!
But no human soul,
Nor the sole on a shoe,
Will ever dance the way you do.
Twinkle Toes!
Twinkle Toes!
Dance while it snows!
Twinkle Toes!
He had to watch the girl and the wretched Boston terrier dance about in a fake snowstorm on a large stage.
The girl was going to New York shortly, minus the dog, for the pitifully unattractive Boston terrier had gone to bye-bye land forever.
“Placido?” the girl called out. “Placido, I have a one-o’clock appointment and a two-o’clock curtain! I am leaving! Wherever you are, good-bye, Placido!”
A good place to hide was up in the master’s cabin behind a bunk. There he could see everything without being seen.
On the tape the girl was introduced as Twinkle Toes, “with her precious pet, Dancer.” But her real name was Jimmie, the name her father called her. Her father had left early that morning, dressed again as Santa Claus, heading for a nearby mall.
Both the girl and the father talked to themselves when they were alone, which they seemed to think they were even though Placido was there. Not by any choice of his own.
Jimmie would say things like “Working on Christmas Day sucks.”
Sam Twilight would ask her not to say “sucks.” It made her sound too tough.
Placido would never have chosen to live with performers. He had had enough of that at Madame de Flute’s.
He had learned there that performers were even more self-involved than parrots, who were known to be content in a cage with nothing but a mirror to entertain them.
Performers were basket cases right before auditions, and thus Placido was on a boat with a basket case who had an appointment before her show with Quintin Quick, the C.E.O. of BrainPower Limited.
“PLA-CI-DO!”
It was a desperate sound like a coyote howling in the moonlight, but it would get her nowhere. She had a lot to learn about the feline disposition, quite different from the sickening, desperate-for-attention canine personality.
Then there came a knock on the door.
“This could be my limousine, Placido! If this is StarStretch, I have to leave immediately!”
Leave! Placido shrugged. Don’t worry about a new cat in strange surroundings!
Knock, knock again.
“Hello? Who is it?” Jimmie called out.
Her long blond hair bounced as she walked from the galley through the cabin to the door. She was in her street clothes, of course. Only a nonprofessional ever walked around in costume in public. Placido had learned that from Madame de Flute. He had learned quite a lot from Madame until a certain parrot had entered their lives and ruined everything.
Jimmie had on a pink miniskirt over black leggings, with a black sweater that had been her mother’s.
Mr. Twilight had asked her how long she planned to wear clothes that were too big for her, and she had answered, “When you stop humming ‘Eternity Spin,’ I’ll give away her things.”
“Touché,” he said, which was a French word meaning whatever it was you said was to the point. Sometimes fencers used it when an opponent’s foil nicked them. That was the trouble with human language. There were many words for one thing, and the same word for many things. Why? Placido had no idea why. It was the way things were in this cock-eyed world, which was both cruel and kind, so never mind those who tell you that you cannot have it both ways.
When the girl opened the door, who stood there but Mr. Larissa and Mrs. Splinter’s grandson, Walter. Ye gods and little fishes! Had they come for Placido?
Placido fled to an upper bunk.
“Are you Mr. Twilight’s daughter?” asked Mr. Larissa.
“Maximum, five minutes. I have a show to do, babes,” said Jimmie, slipping into the jaded jargon of the fast-living stars of stage and screen. “What are you selling?”
“I’m Mr. Larissa,” the man said, “and this is Walter Splinter. We’re from Critters. How is Placido doing?”
“He just got here yesterday,” said Jimmie.
“I know. But we’ll be closed tomorrow, Christmas Day. We like to be sure the adoption is working, that both you and Placido are satisfied.”
“We’re doing okay, I guess,” said Jimmie.
“It is better for both you and the animal, if there is anything wrong, to nullify the adoption.”
“We always check right away,” said Walter. “Some people will just put the animal out the door if it doesn’t look like it’s working. That’s how Percival Uttergore gets most of his.”
“Who’s Percival Uttergore?”
“The dogcatcher,” said Walter. “He wears red gloves.”
“There’s a snowstorm predicted,” said Mr. Larissa, “and it’s getting colder. We brought your mail in so it won’t get wet.”
“Placido was once a very famous cat,” said Walter. “He was a star who won many prizes.”
“How did he come by that tacky faux-leopard carrying case?” said Jimmie. “I can’t bear to see him plopped back in that thing and toted off to Critters.”
“Is Placido eating?” said Walter. “Is he purring?”
The man said, “Walter always worries when a new pet is adopted, particularly when it’s a surprise for someone. We call him the Worry Wart.”
“How are you two getting along together?” Walter asked.
“It’s hard to say.”
“But do you like him?” Walter persisted.
The girl shrugged. “Sure,” she said. “Sure.”
Then Jimmie saw the very long StarStretch limo pulling up at the dock. You could hear its expensive motor running.
“There’s my ride,” she said. “I have to rush. Come back another time.”
“I’ll leave your mail here on the table!” said Mr. Larissa.
Saved by the Bentley, Placido said to himself as he eyed the elegant motorcar and remembered better days, when he rode behind a chauffeur and received catnip balls from the cashier at the drive-in window of the Morgan Trust bank.
4
Exmus Card
5
An Average Child
HE WAS AN AVERAGE child with a face no one ever seemed able to remember, including his parents, who called him Quintin, for he was their fifth boy. That made him easy to spot among the others, as he was shorter and in a lower grade than they were, and if he spoke he was easily identifiable, for he lisped and stuttered. He much preferred listening. He listened to the radio, books on tape, teachers, and his older brothers.
His parents were disappointed when he brought home his failing report cards with the only As in managea
bility, but that was one less son to send to college, saving them thousands and thousands of dollars. While his brothers became lawyers and doctors and talk-show hosts, he would undoubtedly have a less glitzy career. He could sell things behind a counter or become a dogcatcher. The Smiths’ other boys would bring them honors. This fifth one was a maverick, a word Quintin Smith had heard on the radio and believed described him: a person with unorthodox ideas.
“Whatever you say,” said his parents, who had no clue what his ideas were, since he seldom spoke.
After high school he invented a word game that brought him some earnings—until his idea was stolen by Barker Brothers, and he was left to his own devices again.
The ordinary name Smith bothered him, even though he did not love his parents any less. He changed his name to Quintin Quick, simply because the clerk at the change-of-name bureau grew impatient with his stuttering and stammering and shouted out, “Patience is not my forte! Quick!”
That was how Quintin Smith became Quintin Quick, soon to be a corporate head.
But not before he touched the impatient clerk’s sleeve and said, “Excuth me? You just pronounced forte fortay. Tch! Tch! It’s never pronounced that way except by musicians and f-f-f-fools. You must say fort. People will think the b-b-b-better of you for it.”
For Quintin Quick’s forte (rhymes with sort), after years of listening, had become words. They would make both his lisp and his stutter disappear eventually. They would make him rich, and they would make him obnoxious.
6
Consensus of Opinion
“I’M MR. QUICK, THE C.E.O. of BrainPower Limited. Do you remember me? We met in Miami last summer, after your show. You’ve grown taller.”
“Not much taller,” said Jimmie Twilight.
“Not an inch taller,” said Ms. Fondaloot, a casting agent of importance. “She’s the same height exactly!” Ms. Fondaloot paced around the studio in her high-heeled boots, wearing her rose-tinted shades.
“You see, I’m looking for someone who’ll look like a teenager.”
“I believe you’re right: She has grown taller,” said Ms. Fondaloot, “and she’ll shoot up some more, too.”
“She seems taller,” said an assistant to Mr. Quick, who was eager to wind up this casting call and have Christmas Eve with his family.
The girl spoke up again. “The consensus of opinion seems to be that I have grown taller.”
“Do you realize what you just said?” Mr. Quick asked the girl.
“I said I guess I have grown taller.”
“That isn’t what you said,” said Mr. Quick. “What you said was the general agreement of opinion of opinion.”
“I didn’t say that!” the girl said.
“I didn’t hear her say that!” said Ms. Fondaloot.
“Consensus means a general agreement of opinion. When you say ‘consensus of opinion’ you’re saying the ‘general agreement of opinion of opinion.’ It’s redundant … and worse, it’s not smart. I’m looking for someone who’ll appear to be very smart.”
“She’s very, very smart,” said Ms. Fondaloot.
“Thank you for coming in on the day before Christmas,” said Mr. Quick.
“No problem,” said Ms. Fondaloot. “Jimmie works at Radio City Music Hall every year in the Christmas show. She’s Twinkle Toes.”
“If you get this job,” Mr. Quick said, “you’ll be called Jane Brain. You’ll be the spokesgirl for our hot new learning game, Brainstorm. Jane Brainstorms French. Jane Brainstorms history. That sort of thing … Do you still have that smart little dancing dog?”
“Not anymore,” said the girl.
“Of course, if you want a dancing dog with her, that’s easy to arrange,” said Ms. Fondaloot. “I have animal clients, too.”
Mr. Quick waved away the suggestion. “No, no, you couldn’t find a dog as smart as that one. He was a pro!”
“I happen to have a pood—”
Mr. Quick didn’t let Ms. Fondaloot continue. “Good luck, young lady. I’ll be back in the booth watching.”
After the assistant led the girl to a small stage, she was handed a sheet with her dialogue underlined in blue pencil.
Waiting there was a boy called Art Smart, with his own sheet of dialogue.
“Ready?” a woman shouted from the shadows.
“Ready!” the boy shouted back.
“Go!”
GIRL: I’m Jane. I wasn’t always a brain.
BOY: I remember. You thought Cuba was in Brazil.
GIRL: Now I know that Cuba is in the Caribbean Sea and its capital is Havana; population, eleven million; currency, peso; area, forty-three thousand square miles.
BOY: Excuse me, Jane, but have you been Brainstorming geography?
GIRL: Geography, history, French, Spanish. Name any subject, Art Smart, and I bet I’ve Brainstormed it.
BOY: How about Buddhism, Jane?
GIRL: A yogin is one who practices mental training or discipline. Eh ma! is a Tibetan exclamation of astonishment or wonder.
BOY: Eh ma, Jane. I’m impressed.
GIRL: In one short month I have managed to impress Art Smart. You can impress people too. You can buy the Brainstorm books, or learn from the Brainstorm tapes. However you choose to do it, you’re going to like yourself.
BOY: You’re going to like being a brain.
Ms. Fondaloot was waiting by the door, holding Jimmie’s coat for her, telling her not to bother with her boots, there wasn’t time.
“We have a car waiting,” she said. “We’ll just make it to Radio City.”
Inside the car there was silence for some seconds, and then Ms. Fondaloot sucked her breath in with a slight ssssss sound, signaling that she was fighting to control her appalling temper.
Her voice was low and restrained as she said, “I wish you hadn’t spoken out of turn. I wish you hadn’t said ‘consensus of opinion.’”
7
“What Do You Bet?”
“IT’S FIVE O’CLOCK CHRISTMAS Eve,” said Goldie triumphantly. “We’re closed for the holiday now, and there’s no sign of Placido!”
“There’s no sign of our Christmas stockings either,” said Catherine. “I have my heart set on those lamb-and-rice sticks. Yum, yum.”
Irving said, “They’re coming. I can see Mrs. Splinter out at the desk sorting them.”
“Just a minute, Catherine,” said Goldie. “Remember our bet. I get mine and yours, too.”
“It’s only Christmas Eve. You don’t get my stocking until the stroke of midnight on Christmas. Placido will surely be back by then.”
“You are a sore loser, Catherine,” said Goldie. “I heard that no one comes here on Christmas Day but Walter and the volunteer walkers. So far Placido has made it! He has a home, at least he does for Christmas.”
“The man who took him will probably leave him at the door in that tawdry carrying case. Critters doesn’t have to be open to have Placido returned. Desperate people come up with desperate solutions.”
Irving gave a sharp bark. “Be fair, Catherine!”
“Why should I be fair?” Catherine said. “Don’t talk to me about fair. Was it fair that I was dumped here after I won every race for two years?”
“Just be glad that Mrs. Splinter took you in,” said Irving. “Most used-up greyhounds go to heaven when their racing days are over.”
“Who are you calling used up?” Catherine demanded.
Then Marshall slid up the side of his glass case, his tongue darting in and out. “Life isn’t fair,” he said. “Those policemen who found me in the bathtub tossed me into a wicker clothes hamper as though I were soiled laundry. That’s how I, a king, ended up here surrounded by such depauperate strays!”
“‘Depauperate’?” Catherine said. “What does that word mean?”
“It means ‘stunted, severely diminished, arrested in development.’ Look around you, my dear lady,” the snake replied.
“I,” said Goldie, rising up on all fours, “am a yell
ow Labrador retriever! When my master’s father took me hunting, I went into the icy bay to bring back the ducks. I am known for my ability to swim! And here I am in a kennel for the homeless, including a serpent!”
Irving chuckled at the idea of Goldie hunting. He knew from experience quite a lot about hunting, although he disliked swimming and water.
“Some hunter you must have been, Goldie,” he teased. “You can’t even point.”
“That’s right,” Marshall chimed in. “At least Irving can point.”
“Not like a setter, though.” Dewey finally spoke up, although he rarely got involved in these silly arguments. But his Irish was up, for he was a purebred Irish setter, a red-coated trained bird dog. Yes, he was old. He had outlived his master, which was how he had come to Critters; how Irving had come to Critters, too. But everyone knew the Irish setter was the most handsome, most skilled of all the pointing breeds.
Goldie said, “I was never reduced to pointing. I went right in and retrieved the game.”
Dewey said, “Ask any duck shooter whether he’d rather hunt with a retriever or a setter. Catherine? Do you want to bet? The answer is a setter!”
Now Irving was up on all fours, too, barking his irritation at both Goldie and Dewey. And down the line a water spaniel was beginning to boast about his hunting and swimming abilities. In the next cage a foxhound was remembering the chase.
Then Mrs. Splinter’s voice rang out. “Merry, Merry, Merry Christmas, everyone!” She was a tiny, white-haired woman who wore a white stocking cap with a red tassel and a white ball. “Mrs. Santa Splinter is here with your stockings!”
“Two for me!” Goldie looked across at Catherine. “And none for you!”
It is just a good thing humans cannot understand animal talk.
But never mind the mean-spirited things Goldie and Catherine were shouting at each other; Mrs. Splinter was in a festive mood. “Does everyone have the Christmas spirit?” she said. “It’s starting to snow out! We’re going to have a white Christmas!”