Pretty Things

Pernod

“More than likely, the fire broke out in a void behind the airing cupboard in the kitchen, and the most probable cause was squirrels chewing through cables,” Chief inspector Radwell said. “The rest of the property was damaged by smoke and heat. I’ve never seen a place go up so quickly—almost as if gasoline had been spilled in each room. Lucky this didn’t happen late at night, when you were asleep.”

Dale and Pinky knew differently. They exchanged knowing glances, as they surveyed the blackened ruins of their cherished home.

Pernod was no ordinary run of the mill cat. He was as hairless as one could possibly imagine a Peterbald to be. He lived on Bella Vista Drive, overlooking the shady hills of Ventura, California. His owners, Dale and Pinky Wasserman, doted on their beloved cat, and treated him in a manner befitting the child they never had.

The problem, as it seemed, began a week before Pernod celebrated his first birthday. It was at that time, that the Wassermans felt that he was sufficiently trained to accompany either of them during their daily business routines in the workplace.

Pinky Wasserman, a heavy set, big boned woman, whose comings and goings, were always heralded by the noisy clank of her gold and silver arm bracelets, dealt in high end Real Estate, showing exclusive homes in the Thousand Oaks West area of Ventura, California.

Dale Wasserman, diminutive in stature, with sizable finger rings on both smallish hands, was the proprietor of Firenze Salon (“Never say shoe store,” he would be quick to admonish) in downtown Ventura. Manola Blahnik, Jimmy Choo, and Zanotti, were the names on tips of tongues of the ladies who shopped there.

Pernod had a heritage of Russian, Oriental, Siamese (and some said Balinese and Javanese) blood. He had very large set-apart rat-like ears, flat cheek bones, and an elegant white body on very long legs. His paws were oval, with very lengthy toes, capable of undoing complicated latches and rotating ornately decorated door knobs. Extremely agitating, was his ability to unfasten his name tag collar, which the Wassermans had gone through great expense to customize with aqua marine and jade insets.

Pernod’s first day at Firenze, (which was to be his last) found him gnawing on a Salvatore Ferragamo ‘carry all’.. “Very bad Pernod….bad, bad cat,” Dale Wasserman scolded, wrenching the leather bag’s handle from Pernod’s steel-like jaw. The cat, suffering instant humiliation, angrily skulked flat bellied along the thickly piled carpeted floor, before jumping onto a Grecian style pedestal, knocking over a hand painted Crown Staffordshire vase (circa 1920) which miraculously survived it’s fall, upon landing.

“First time out of the house nerves” Pinky Wasserman said to her husband, later that evening. She rationalized that Pernod was merely cutting his teeth, so to speak, in a new and untried environment. As any parent might believe, this behavior would be outgrown.

Perhaps if she took the feline along with her, he would sit quietly in an ‘open house’ that she would be conducting, later that week.

It was not to be a good day.

“Your cat did what?!!!!!!!” Mamie Hosslager screamed out (actually it was more of an echoing shriek). Pinky was trying to prepare her for what she was about to see upon entering her living room, after the ‘open house’ had terminated.

Mamie’s bay window coverings, superb antique Chenille Portieres, (inherited from her grandmother’s collection of fine woven German fabric, circa 1900) had been shredded with knife-like precision; ribbons of flowery remnants strewn about the living room floor. Pernod had gone wild.

“Why I had only gone into the kitchen for just the quickest of moments for a glass of water,” Pinky explained. “How this could have happened is beyond me. I’ll replace the drapes, of course.”

Pernod purred preciously, head poking out from under the vestibule credenza.

“Twelve grand for curtains?” Dale Wasserman hit the roof. “That’s insane! Whoever heard of twelve grand for curtains?”

“Well that’s what she said it was,” a perplexed Pinky sighed, and if we don’t pay up, Ill lose my roster of clients.. She’s got a bad tongue, that one does.”

“Well, that’s the end of that cat’s friggen’ fancy feast…where’s that damned cat? Where is it?!” Dale hollered out twice. “I’ll kill it!”

Pernod was nowhere to be seen.

It was eight o’clock that same evening, while Pinky and Dale were finishing up their main course of buttered Bay scallops and grilled scampi at ‘La Maisonette’ when Pinky received the call on her cell phone. She blanched, eyes bulging, and gagged. Dale tried slapping her on the back. All she could do was flail her arms and push him towards the exit of the charmingly decorated eatery. ‘Put in on my tab,’ Dale motioned in pantomime to the Maitre D. ---

The Wassermans did not exchange words with each other after the fire inspector left. The damp and charred ruins of their home had been cordoned off with yellow tape, and they were told that it would not be safe to investigate the property for at least three days. There would be a security guard on site every eight hours to keep prowlers and curious neighbors away.

Near the fireplace, (or what had been the fireplace) Pinky caught a glimpse of an aqua marine and jade cat collar sparkling in the setting sun. With a heavy sigh, she cast her eyes upwards toward the fading sunset and the silhouetted hills of the Ventura landscape.

Located in the Sayward Valley on North Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada, nestles the small coastal settlement of Kelsey Bay (population, about 100). As with all communities on northern Vancouver Island, Kelsey Bay was only easily accessible by water in the past, but now proudly boasted a 12km pave road off the island highway of Sayward (population 400). A boat launch ramp is located at the end of the old British Columbia Ferries parking lot, and it is here that wealthy American tourists can dock their small luxury craft, and avail themselves of scenic splendor, magnificent wildlife trails, and a handful of cozy inns.

Some say the first sighting was about 8km south of Sayward Junction, where Dalrymple Creek crosses the highway. An unidentified sleek white animal was seen tree leaping, about twenty-five feet upwards. Binoculars were of no use; the animal’s swiftness caught everyone who saw it by surprise. About two years later, at nearby Schoen Lake Provincial Park, through a dense thicket of rough shrubbery, a large rat-like creature was spotted, jumping with kangaroo strides; a thrashing badger, gripped in his steel tight jaws.

To this day, no one has been able to identify this animal. When seen on rare occasions, it is talked about in a ‘sassquatchian’ manner…and who is to say, if it is, or it isn’t.