"Well, Quigley, I have to say I'm rather relieved that I won't be entertaining your friends Tolliver and Combs tonight. It's for the best that they were called out of town. You know it was a rather stressful day for me today-the Osso Buco simply wouldn't have been ready until near midnight."
"I'm glad that tea is lifting your spirits my friend. Yet a lively political debate might have been just the thing to take your mind off Phillipa."
"Really, Quigs, I fear you might be getting in over your head. These two-Tolliver and Combs-I'm afraid they 're nothing more than agitators." Mr Mews lowers his voice, "you haven't given them any money Quigley."
"Goodness no. And yes, I agree they are a bit over the top at times, but one must be loud and as they say, "in your face" these days to gain attention, no?"
"Really, I think not. All this shouting and name calling simply gives me a headache and makes me want to retreat into a long, heady Victorian novel. I'll give them a chance though, for your sake. Let them know I will reschedule. And we'll have veal. Good God, they aren't vegetarians are they?"
"Quigley, really, this isn't the time or place for a political discussion. We'll have to reschedule dinner for tomorrow. Phillipa won't return my phone calls and I'm feeling dreadfully morose. I simply can't bear this black hole that is my heart."
"Mews, my dear boy. You really must buck up. What am I to tell our guests? That Mews is curled up on the couch crying his eyes out over a prissy sass who won't give him the time of day?" Quigley leans over and pecks Mews in the nose. "I'll give you the afternoon my boy. Dinner is at 8 and Tolliver and Combs will be bringing a stiff Cabernet. I expect you'll be recovered by then. Mews. Mews?"
"Yes, yes, give me the afternoon. I'll pull myself together for our guests. Blast that enigmatic Phillipa. Damn her hold over me."
Mr Mews and Quigley engaged in a rare occurence last week over a botttle of sherry and some delightful beluga caviar-they watched America's Got Talent. "Good God man. What flash, what a gauche display in all manners of exploitation. And who are these so-called judges? A bald man, a transexual, and a fop?"
"Indeed, Mr Mews, garish indeed. A human freak show really. I dare say if hell is anything like being a contestant on this abhorrent program I really must start going to confession a bit more frequently."
"I concur Quigley. It's unimaginable, but I believe I'm actually at a loss for words. If I were forced to watch this program on a continual loop for the course of a week I believe I might confess to any manner of abominations I did not commit."
Over an afternoon tea, Mr Mews rethinks his plan to relocate the neighbor canine. "Perhaps I've been too rash. After all, this beast hasn't caused me any trouble-as of yet. His mere presence is of course unnerving, but I believe that Quigley and I, in our excitement, may have perhaps spoken too soon. Amidst my brash attempts at eradication, I've lost sight of a the civilized methods of restraint and tolerance. After all, the beast has done nothing to impair my quality of life aside from existing. I shall invite Quigley over for a local Pinot Noir and escargot and we will discuss this matter further.
"You, my dear friend, could use your lovely gossamer wings to distract the poor fellow while I pounce, leap and then lead him to the back fire escape upon which we close the door and bam! Problem solved."
"Not bad, not bad, however I'm concerned as to how we open the door in the first place. Not to mention closing it."
"Yes, that does present a problem, good friend." Mr Mews, however, being educated at one of the nation's finest academic institutions is not accustomed to being nonplussed and at a loss for new ideas. "We'll simply have to be opportunistic about this. We will use one of our greatest assets-patience. We will wait and wait for that door to open and when it does, by God we'll be ready. That canine won't stand a chance." Quigley, pleased, nods rapidly in agreement.
"Again, Mr Mews, you have done it. Your adept commiseration and brilliant stratagems never cease to impress. It is fortunate for me that we are not enemies."
"Yes, yes indeed Mr Quigley."
Riveted by one of his favorite episodes of Frasier, Mr Mews relaxes with a glass of port after a simple but delightful Cioppino. "There is no substitute for fine entertainment, a good drink and a hearty laugh after a long day's work of contemplation and review."
This was Mr Mews' reaction to the British woman who gingerly yet surreptitiously placed a friendly kitty from Coventry into a garbage can or as the Brits call it, "a wheelie bin." Mr Mews was not only irritated that his morning philosophical debate with Quigley was interrupted by such a disturbing news bite, but that the "victim" was such a lovely, young Tabby-one of his own. "It's appalling. I'm aghast, and this information has my indigestion all willy nilly. Lola is only four, but she is beautiful, naive, and much too trusting. It's a shame that this brutal act of barbarism will change the poor puss forever I'm afraid. Still, it's a blessing that she was found and we can't count that out, no we can't."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eYdUZdan5i8
"If it's not one thing, it's another," Mr Mews declares settling his haunches quietly with agitated albeit calm precision. "It's come to my attention that canis lupis familiaris has taken up residence next door. While I tolerate this intruder, this sloppy beast, this creature that sniffs bottoms with reckless abandon, that eats decayed matter-for instance-spoilt, discarded pepperoni off of soiled pavement and who has a decided taste for chasing felines such as myself, I shan't like it...this Grendal, this beast of beasts, I shan't like it. Shan't like it a bit. Familiaris indeed." Disgusted, but always the gentleman, Mr Mews settles in for a long day filled with thought, patience and long suffering resolve.
After a difficult night and a fitful sleep tormented by pteradons, vacuums and two-headed dogs, Mr Mews retreats into a sort of Zen meditative state. The regular swish, swish of the washer cleanses his troubled mind and allows for him a monk-like clarity with which to view the world and tackle his next challenge.
A nightmare, really. As Mr. Mews describes it; "Two enormous prehistoric birds were swooping down on my head as I became trapped in an alleyway between a large, brightly lit, roaring vacuum and Cerberus-the mythical two-headed hell hound. Often, it's best to simply return to sleep. I'm still a bit peevish from last night's discussion."
Mr Mews really can't be bothered today. He was up half the night with his broker discussing which, indeed, if any of his assets were aligned with Koch industries. Having given in to peer pressure while sipping Courvoisier V. S.O.P with some liberal friends (or rather, just trying to get them to talk about something more interesting like mice, flies, a rare new catnip hybrid) he told them he might look into his portfolio and "see what he could do."
Rather grumpy after only 13 hours of sleep, he said he'd "Get back to me," and before he drifted into a twitchy nap he mumbled, "Damn those Koch brothers and their Dixie Cup fortune. They'd better not get me into any more trouble with my bleeding heart, organic vittles crowd."
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