Babou's Best Day

Babou was really tired of the cape, which is perhaps why he retaliated, shredding the lithographs at the gallery in Paris. The damn thing was always sweeping and swirling about, a phantom threat which always seemed to arrive without warning. It always caused him to cringe, and his hair to bristle for fight or flight.

The evenings were always better, when the cape was draped across an armchair like a deflated black cloud,and its owner was occupied with fanciful musings or attending to his signature moustache, twisted and uplifted in a state of permanent surprise.

Yet he had to admit that no ocelot had ever had it so good, as his owner doted over him as one would a cherished mascot. In a way he was famous just like his master. He really couldn't count the number of times he had been photographed with Salvador, who insisted on his company regardless of wary passersby. Babou liked to believe that he was an influence on his master's art, a spotted, furry muse who only needed to be petted, pampered and fed as was the case for others who served such a role. Such ministrations were most certainly an accepted part of the lifestyle when one resided in the Royal Suite at the Hotel Meurice.

Yet, since he was a special sort of cat, he was always quite curious about his master’s artistic obsessions. The Apocalypse of St Anthony reminded him of an accident he once had on the floor of the suite after he had consumed tainted oysters left over from a raucous party where the guests attended dressed as wild animals. There were scorpion cocktails and sea urchin flambe along with the oysters, which had turned after sitting out overnight. Another work, Laocoon Tormented by Flies was mystifying to Babou, largely because he knew a fly when he saw one, and there was no fly in that painting. His personal favorites were the botanical pieces, gorgeous flowers and flutters of butterflies he would have loved to have chased through rainforest canopies in a different life.

His master was prolific though, so Babou supposed it was quite unlikely he would ever view the hundreds of pieces of artwork created before his time. There was often much talk about something called The Persistence of Memory, which he heard dealt with stuff called existence and mortality, whatever those things were. After all, he was a cat, not a philosopher. His demands were those of comfort, appreciation and regular feedings. He was also addicted to the opulence of the suite which offered a number of cushy opportunities for frequent naps and a bit of climbing and leaping. It was all a far cry from his old home in the murky alleyways of New York.

Babou yawned and stretched his tawny legs, uncurling his beautiful claws across the carpet, lush with an intricate weave of sumptuous textiles. A third nap of the day seemed in order, though the sudden commotion from an adjoining dressing room suggested otherwise. He knew from the scent of fish glue, regularly applied by his master as an introduction to his flamboyant persona, that an outing was likely in order. Perhaps it was time for a daily strut to a food place where he was sure to be included in table snacks of fish or pork, Surely he would also get a pinch or two of that luscious camembert. It was  an obsession of his master, who believed that the cheese was a catalyst to his artistic dreams and imaginings. For Babou, the stink of that treat was exceptionally seductive. Though he was not a picky eater, he was gratified that he no longer had to hunt rats and mice as he had once done of necessity, not choice. There was little doubt he was now quite spoiled with the leavings from the hotel kitchen left at the door each morning.  Yet, the fare at his master’s favorite dining venues offered different gustatory delights quite often famous for their preparation and presentation. He was looking forward to what  pleasures might soon come his way.

The door of the dressing room opened and his master appeared, tailored in a black striped suit and a blood-red cravat. His moustache was freshly waxed, and stood at rigid attention like the black-capped guards he once saw at Buckingham Palace. The master stared at Babou for a few moments, which caused him to twitch his tail and bare his fangs a bit, just to demonstrate his independence and impatience. Salvador opened a nearby closet and clumsily donned his favored coat to guard against the October chill. The coat was custom-made and  had all the texture and markings of Babou so there would be no mistake that they were a pair to be noticed on their amble. The artist walked over to the hat rack and removed the leash which would attach to Babou’s stone-studded color. The final ensemble would provide the dinner crowd the illusion of safety accompanied by  the prospect of entertainment and lively conversation. The sight of the leash made Babou’s stomach growl in anticipation.

In the way of a feline he was quite pleased with his status as the master’s favorite. There were others in the past and present of course which Babou had little knowledge of, as Salvador was a great admirer and occasional owner of many creatures. Oscar the rooster of course, but also doves, elephants, a crash of rhinoceros and that silly lobster, which is no doubt where he got the idea for that insane dress for a famous duchess. There was also, of course, that notorious walk with the giant anteater, which caused quite a stir on the streets of Gay Paree. Salvador was oddly fixated on the anteater’s peculiar tongue and pronounced the creature “angelic” like his rhinos whom he thought  also had magnificent mouth appendages.  

But none of this was of any matter or significance to the daily life of Babou.  After all, he was the only animal residing comfortably in the Royal Suite, and the only creature who was privileged to accompany the master on nearly all of his outings. He leaned gratefully toward the leash as the master snapped it on for the walk to the restaurant. His mind turned again to seductive smells and treats from great ovens preparing tasty nibbles which would be shared with  him. His stomach growled again, this time more insistent.

At that very moment there was a knock on the door, The master hesitated briefly, but then pulled hard on the leash, bringing Babou closer to his heel. Salvador opened the door and some words were exchanged before the man at the door handed the master the lead of a second leash. Babou’s whiskers twitched and his ears rose sharply along with a low hiss. At the end of the other leash was a mirror image of Babou with an unusual scent, that of a female.

The master announced:

“Babou, Me encantaría presentarle a Bouba.”