Diary of a Feline Flaneur

My fourth evening in a New Orleans still lacking public water and electricity. Ikey, Ivan and I rambled dark streets when abruptly the southern horizon blazed brightly. Curious, we made like moths to a flame.

We came upon a floodlit stage with faux Colonial paneling and Las Vegasified Imperial Roman drapery, like those constructed for Hollywood awards show parades of couture gowns. A “Patton: The Movie” American flag backdrop told us: juntahead Bush photo op.

Security personnel swarmed thicker than mosquitoes on undrained floodwaters. “Fascinating,” my protege Ikey waxed, “one sees so much security only in the presence of politicians, celebrities and criminals!”

“Young fellow,” I laughed, “that third category is redundant!”

We crept past guards to the Green Room, where, eyeing a pinup photo of Condi, Bush washed down Xanax and M&M’s with an airline-sized bottle of whiskey.

Flanked by Ikey and Ivan, I asked Bush, “Know who I am?”

“A cat? Uh, S ...? Where are ...?”

“I’m Rocky. The CIA kidnapped me off an Italian street. I was then tortured on a U.S. naval vessel.”

“Italians. Jenna said ... once Axis powers. But not on my index cards. Rogue states, who we call the Axis, will receive the fire of freedom, our duty, to whom to spread fire to.”

“Hey, POTUS! What’s the capitol of Iowa?” Ikey smirked.

“Duh, ‘I’ is the first letter! Iowa’s a really, you know, when you’re gonna be president you have to visit it ... Hey! I am commander in chief, so I command you: fetch! Or, do only dogs that do that?” Bush said, burping.

“My man,” I said, “ you are in command of nothing — least of all, your senses.”

We encircled him, lifted our tails and sprayed.