Category Archives: Animalit

PI (Pigeon Investigator) III

I was dog tired of my dogs life – Sit! Workies! Sniffing out old clues like bones. Squinting and sweating.  I needed a change. Something where I could try sleeping with two  eyes shut for a change. Marriage, kids maybe…..Nah! Nothing that radical. I knew deep down though. Yip, I wanted to be a pigeon. The confidence, the waddle – who wouldn’t want it? Sure, they had their social casualties – the bums, the bags. Heck, they even got mafia victims! You seen ‘em – those scruffy looking birds with one foot – payback for some avian misdemeanour. I went about it with the only skills I had – shamus skills. Getting to the head honcho was too tough – they said find the grey bird with striped wings – jeez, I’d still be looking.  So I went for the disguise. It was the snazziest I had ever looked. Forget shades. Man, this was way beyond shades. For weeks I waddled around parks being thrown crumbs by short-sighted pensioners and chased by kids. I was a pigeon. I was happy. But the money sucked, and someone had to pay the rent on my new crap encrusted loft. Even taking in some pigeon roomies didn’t cover it. It was the toughest thing I ever did, but I sold my soul and went back to being a private dick. But no-one could make me give up the loft.

The PI (Pigeon Investigator) III

I’d made some good buddies when I was a pigeon. Still drank with a few of them at the big puddle on Wisteria and 4th. Times were good. I was still riding high on the back of the Town Hall affair. But I knew by the look in his eye that it wasn’t all shortcake crumbs for Bertie the Wings. He was called Bertie the Wings because he had some, lucky sonofab… Mine just never grew. And I  tried EVERYTHING. As he strutted into my office, I could see the secretary staring. He was a fine looking bird. That pigeon pride. But the secretary had to go. She made ace coffee, typed 150 wpm, woke me when she arrived each morning and smelled like toffee. But I couldn’t have her staring at clients. I told her to type a letter to the agency asking for her replacement forthwith. Meanwhile, Bert was pacing up and down on  some important files. He paused to drop one and then walked on. He let is set for a couple of minutes and then scrawled the urgent message – I’d never learned to croon pigeon properly, despite the expensive lessons and Frank Sinatra tapes. It couldn’t have been worse. “Loft Window Shut”. I grabbed my had and coat and ran.  I tried to stick to the shadows. Couldn’t afford another B&E arrest, but I couldn’t let a pal down. It was shut real tight this time, but with some chewing gum and a medium sized ship’s anchor, I opened it. I tell you, it brought a lump to my throat to see those little guys flutter back in, perching to their hearts content. Next day, I heard a gentle coo and felt a soft plop on my shoulder. It was all the payment a guy could want.

Notes on Cat Opera

Notes on Cat Opera.

Cat opera differs from human opera, in that it is thematic, rather than following a conventional narrative. A cat opera does not have repeat performances, though strands of previous performances do recur.

The beginning of the cat opera season is normally taken to be the first clear full moon night when the trees are heavy with cherry flowers.

Common themes in cat opera include territory, aggression, fear and the moon. It depends not only on the central performers, but on energy derived from and participation by the audience.

Human opera is, in general, as alien and distressing to feline ears as cat opera is to uncultured humans.