The Undersea Adventures of Gadget the Cat
Pickyfish, the cat strolled down the boulevard that lined the waterfront, sporting strings of rainbow-colored fish guts that dangled from his teeth; like a pearl necklace, they hung. No hurricane-force winds could have dislodged the odiferous mix of a half-digested sardine and shrimp that was emanating from his belly by way of his throat. He hesitated, then checked the time, remembering that his mother, Gadget, had told him to be home in time for dinner. It was now three o’clock, and Pickyfish wondered what mouth-watering dish she would have ready by five.
Pickyfish wondered where Gadget was getting the fancy fish she was serving at supper time. There was sockeye salmon, shark steak, and swordfish; tilapia, trout, and an occasional slippery eel would slide its way across the platter and dive onto his plate, where Pickyfish would seize it with his razor-sharp claws and gobble it down.
A multitude of fish scraps lined the discarded, stinky tuna cans that lay strewn in the hundreds behind the noisy factories of the cannery row where they lived. Pickyfish was accustomed to eating tuna bits for dinner. This easy-living made the shantytown of Shipbottom a paradise for Pickyfish. Pickyfish occasionally mixed his tuna scraps with fish carcasses disposed of by local fishmongers to spice things up. Lately, however, elegant feasts had become the norm at Gadget’s table, and Pickyfish was happy to wait for another fancy dinner.
As he strolled through the salty air that hung over the street and enveloped the town, Pickyfish took note of the signs along the way. He was comforted that this small cannery town met all his needs for a safe and happy life. They read, “Dr. Dizzy Cranel, Neurosurgeon”, “Beatrice Bird’s Bakery”, “Powder Puff the Pink Princess, Clothes for Dolls”, and “Millicent’s Mercantile”. The thought of cream puffs from Beatrice Bird’s prompted Pickyfish to stop in and purchase two for after-dinner.
Cream puffs in hand, Pickeyfish surveyed the back streets and alleyways of the little town as he left the bakery. He was hoping to find a treasure of overturned trash in some alley from which he could extract a few extra morsels to round out his lunch. Intermingled among the mounds of trash were various noises. There were the scratching and screeching sounds of squabbling mice and rats, ordinary vermin going about their day, avoiding traps. Silky black cats slinked around corners. One could hear the irregular noises made by spiders and caterpillars as they dislodged things that came crashing down or sideways among the piles.
Life was humming along as Pickeyfish enjoyed the sights and sounds of his scavenger hunt. Pelicans flying overhead darted and dive-bombed as efficiently as a millimeter-ruler measures, spying from above, with eagle-like eyes, the shallow-swimming, unsuspecting fish below. Each splash could yield a tasty meal, with some leftovers for baby pelicans still in the nest. Pickyfish wished that catching fish was easy for him rather than scrape for bits, so he continued his treasure hunt.
The saloon at the corner of Egret End and Cormorant Court was bustling with activity, getting ready for the frog races that would occur the following afternoon. Lists of celebrity frogs’ names appeared on the roster of participants, as the first round of hopping, bouncing, and lunging would soon be underway. Several former trophy winners would be coming to town.
In preparation for the festivities, bowls of clean water were placed strategically along the sidelines to hydrate any dry-throated frogs, dusty frogs, dehydrated frogs, or frogs that were merely thirsty. Next to those were giant bowls filled with frosty lemonade. Sponsors of the contest made two-thirds of their yearly wage from sales of the beverage to other thirsty types who frequented the event. This year expected hordes of out-of-towners to converge on the place, and extra gallons of lemonade were on hand.
Motorcycles teeming with frogs of every size, shape, and hue began to arrive in the town square; others arrived on bicycles or in motorcars. Some of the fancier frogs wore boots, and others wore vests; some wore cowboy hats or chains, but none wore helmets due to the slippage down over their ears and eyes. Many frogs were arrayed in their Sunday finest for the party coming up this Saturday night, a prelude to the celebrated races. Townhall dancer-frogs were bussed-in and appeared glamorous in their pearls and satin, with layers of frilly petticoats peeking out from under their fancy dresses, some of them V-necked and exposing their spotted cleavage. If you’ve never seen a fancy frog or a dandy frog, you are missing out.
As Pickyfish gazed at his surroundings, he suddenly spotted Gadget, standing across the street on the pier. She was dressed in lime-green scuba gear with pink polka dots as she filled a pink tank with oxygen, enough for a quick trip down to the seafloor. Today she would be on the lookout for crustaceans. She had fastened a wire basket and a lobster trap to a belt around her waist…
