The Fox and the Cats

ATLANTA, Ga. — Yesterday, I was there at The Fab, working on computer files for several upcoming movie events.

At the end of the afternoon, we pair o' projectionists strolled through the empty auditorium, observing the quiet stage festooned with the trashy set from "Cats," the musical appearing that night in its umpteenth engagement at the theatre.

Cats: Complete Original Broadway Cast Recording
"Is this the national Broadway tour?" I asked my associate.

"Yes," he said.

"Good grief, this play has to have been on the road for more than 20 years! Are those poor cats using walkers with tinkle bells in 'em?"

Scott kept moving along the aisle through the orchestra seats.

"I bet Rum Tum Tugger is plum plum tuckered," I said. "Do they require orthopedic catnip? I think I smell Tabby Pampers."


"You are rather non-verbal."

"I don't want to be on the Internet."


We passed through the doorway to backstage. The unmistakable aroma of cats was in the air. I took keen interest in the placement of my feet.

"Is this play in English?" I asked.


"I'd come to see it if it were in Kitty."

"You mean, 'Meow, meow, meow?'"

Cats - The Musical (Commemorative Edition)
"Sure. I'd like to hear the show in its native tongue, with some vigorous yawns and implausible wild scampering not altered for the locals." I looked at the employees' time clock and punched out.

"Two hours to curtain," said a six-foot-tall cat stirring from a nap near a coil of rope. She flicked out her tongue with the precision of a switchblade and commenced to bathe before us, fluffing her coat and extended leg fur contortioned behind her neck and pointy ears. I was beginning to feel sympathy moist.

Another feline snooped about the Production Office. He wore street attire -- a big, black, rhinestone collar with "SKIMBLESHANKS" on it. I think there may have been a tattoo of The Aristocats in his tramp stamp region.

Amazingly, and absolutely true, he asked if we had a can opener.

Scott produced one, while I wondered, "Doesn't Fancy Feast have pop-tops?"

"Thanks, man," the mouser said, strutting away on two legs. "Down with IAMS!"

His declawed fist #4 was in the air with defiance. Then, I saw it.

A thumb!

Something was not right with these immensely overgrown, poetry-reciting pussycats. I phoned Animal Control, Homeland Security, and Blofeld.

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