A Stitch in Time saves Nine

“What are you stitching?” I asked the cat surprised.

“A stitch in time saves nine,” he said with a twitch of his tail.

“Nine?”

“My nine lives, I am revising them for my autobiography,” the cat said.

“Why don’t you get a sewing machine?” I asked him.

“You can get one for me,” he told me.

“I don’t think they make one for cats,” I replied.

“Then you can get me one that the tailor uses,” the cat said.

“You want to do some tailoring on the side?” I asked.

“Nothing like that, you can step on the pedal while I do the sewing, many paws make light work,” he purred.

“My lights work properly, thank you,” I said.

“Even the one in your belfry?” the cat asked.

“That one helps me to navigate in the dark,” I acknowledged.

“Do you use diesel or nuclear power?” the cat asked.

“Diesel and nuclear power for a sewing machine?” I asked not understanding.

“One day the world will run entirely on nuclear power,” he said prophetically.

“I wonder what a nuclear-powered sewing machine will be like,” I said.

“Public opinion on the fallout has to be tested first,” the cat said impressively.

“The press will have a blast reporting on it,” I said.

“I could give them a byte,” the cat said.

“Bite? Surely you don’t need to bite a sewing machine,” I asked surprised.

“I meant news bytes, as different from bites, love bites and chomping,” the cat said stiffly.

“Shall I call a press conference?” I asked eagerly.

“If you do, make sure to lay in a supply of beer, fish and chicken cutlets,” the cat said, “the fourth estate is always thirsty and hungry for news.”

“What makes them so dehydrated and famished?” I asked awed at his knowledge.

“Four letter words,” he said.

“That’s blasphemous!” I ejaculated.

“Four letter words as in cats, mice, and news,” the cat replied.

“Do they have nuclear-powered printing presses these days?” I asked anxiously.

“They do, the newspapers are always nuking their rivals,” the cat said.

“It’s all out nuclear war in the fourth estate?” I asked.

“Nothing’s fair in Loves Labours Lost and nuclear war,” the cat replied wisely.

“The press does give fair coverage and breaking news,” I said trying to sound positive.

“It all makes it or break it these days; the making of rules and then bending them here and there,” the cat said.

“They could sew all the rules together and display them on a tailor’s dummy,”I said.

“”That would be dumb,” the cat said, “as in dumbbells.”

“You mean newspaper readers are dumb? I asked.

“I did not mean the newspaper readers,” the cat said stretching out his legs and yawning,”I meant you.”

“I am dumb, then how am I speaking to you?” I asked craftily.

“Dumb as a tailor’s dummy,” he insisted, “you ever notice that they don’t have a head?”

I nodded brightly. “But how do they talk then?”

“They only talk to tailors when they are burning the midnight oil during Easter and Christmas?” the cat said.

“What do they talk about?” I asked.

“About other dummies that the cat brought in,” he said.

“What did you bring in?”I asked suspiciously.

“Nothing, except my reputation as a gentleman cat,” he said.

“Were you out scavenging with the alley cats?” I asked still suspicious.

“What’s wrong in whooping it up with the boys?” he asked.

“Have you been drinking?” I asked skeptically.

“Only a couple of drinks with an interesting female I picked up at the bar,” the cat said.

“Then you must have invited her home to have a look at your etchings,” I said.

“How did you know that?” he asked surprised.

“I thought I heard some strange sounds last midnight,” I replied.

“That must have been Caspar the Friendly Ghost,” the cat said dismissively.

“So her name’s Caspar?” I demanded.

“What’s in a name? Her owner must have been stupid to name her Caspar,” he said.

“Or was it Catspaw?” I asked.

“That was the name of the female that I met two days ago,” he replied, “but she did not want to follow me home.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because she has lived seven of her nine lives already and did not want to stray from the straight and

narrow path again,” he said.

“Very God-fearing cat!” I exclaimed, “If you had brought her home, I would have presented a

diesel-powered sewing machine as your wedding gift.”

“What about some naughty gifts?” he asked with a wink.

“Not again?” I said dismayed.

“Naughty, naughty!” he purred.

“You don’t want to cross dress again!” I asked appalled.

“I will first try it out on the tailor’s dummy to see if it spooks the cook,” he said cockily.

“Too many cooks have spoiled the broth getting spooked by you,” I replied.

“They will be if they can’t get my clear chicken soup right,” he said snootily.

“Cats shall not live by soup alone,” I said authoritatively.

“As long as they don’t get into the soup,” the cat said.

“Do they put a dead fly in it as decoration?” I asked eagerly.

“Dead as a doornail,” the cat replied, “and a rusty nail or two for the flavor.”

“Chicken soup must be responsible for your extended lives,” I remarked.

“More like a long-playing record,” the cat replied.

“Do you have extended play too?” I asked curiously.

“Yes, extensions are always possible and then there is a pension at the end of work life,” he said.

“You get a pension too?” I asked.

“At the end of each of our nine lives,” he said proudly.

“When it is ‘out, out brief candle’ as some obscure poet said you get a pension,” I persisted.

More like a ‘Candle in the Wind’,” the cat said.

“How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world,” I said loftily.

“Have you been mooning over Shakespeare again?” the cat asked.

“I have been merely spoon-feeding my intellect,” I said.

“I always knew there was a bee in your bonnet,” the cat smirked.

“I only knew about the birds and the bees,” I replied, “that too when I was a kitten.”

“You were a kitten?” the cat asked astonished.

“I mean when I was a bee,” I said confused.

“Do you think you are a bee all the time?” he enquired innocently.

“I also think I am the early bird that gets the worm,” I said confidently.

“You must have worms in your stomach,” he said polishing his whiskers, “you need to call the vet.”

“I saw him the last time I had a cold,” I told him.

“What did he suggest?” the cat asked.

“That I should be baptized,” I replied guiltily.

“Then you should have your eyesight checked as well, you might be color blind you know,” the cat said earnestly.

“I believe in black and white,” I said resolutely.

“I know the symptoms,” the cat said thoughtfully, “something like black and blue.”

“I know about the blues,” I said proudly, “Even Bob Dylan sings the blues.”

“Does he have cats?”

“No, he has the Nobel Prize,” I said informatively.

“Oh! He is a noble cat?”

“Sort of,” I replied.

“I can trace my ancestry back to the Mayflower,” the cat said snootily.

“You think you are a flower? Then you must have bats in your belfry,” I snorted.

“That’s why you failed to bell the cat,” he sniggered.

“Yes because the mice failed to call the fire-brigade,” I said defensively.

“I am not speaking about the Felis catus, but the biped variety you sometimes ogle,” the cat said.

“I don’t ogle them,” I sniffed, “I put them on a pedestal.”

“You could easily buy them high heels,” the cat pointed out.

“It’s not the same as platform shoes,” I replied firmly, “and if I’m to buy you a sewing machine, I’m not going to buy your high heels.”

“Don't’ get so high and mighty,” the cat snapped.

“I won’t buy you a sewing machine,” I said angrily.

“Go oil your own machine,” the cat replied with a snarl.

“I don’t have one,” I replied simply.

 “Get one on installment,” the cat said, “and also a dishwasher, I hate doing the dishes after dinner.”

“Next you will say, you can’t use the microwave,” I said annoyed.

“I am tired of roast chicken,” the cat said, “you should employ a French cook or take me to the French Riveria.”

“I can’t break my piggy bank for you,” I said indignantly.

“You could have had many pigs in your sty if you had only taught them to fly,” the cat said.

“That’s sheer poetry,” I said in amazement, “I didn’t know that pigs had wings?”

“What did you expect? Pigs in briefs and football boots?”

“Like winged victory you mean?” I persisted.

“Yes, Nike,” the cat replied eruditely.

“But they are branded boots!”

“Studded with hobnails,” the cat said.

“You mean ‘These Boots Are Meant For Walking’ by Jessica Simpson?” I asked happily.

“You like her?”

“She is very hot,” I said grinning.

“Like a cat on hot bricks?” he asked.

“What a cat!” I exclaimed.

“Stop drooling!”

“My tongue is insisting on hanging out,” I confessed.

“Then give the dog a bad name and hang him,” the cat said spitefully.

“I will never do that, he’s man’s best friend!” I exclaimed.

“But I thought I was your best friend,” the cat protested.

“Certainly you are the best after Jessica Simpson and Aishwarya Rai,” I said soothingly.

“They are females and I’m not,” he said.

“Not female, but a person, don’t be insensitive to gender,” I said.

“Fair enough, as long as they stitch in time and save nine lives with the sewing machine,” the cat said.

“I’m not getting you a sewing machine,” I said firmly.

“Then you must cut your coat according to your cloth, stitch in time to save nine, brush your teeth before breakfast and stop wearing a loincloth to late night parties,” the cat said piqued and wandered off.