Saturday's Storyteller: "When the kitten opened its mouth, only the sound of swing band saxophones came out."
by Belinda Roddie
When the kitten opened its mouth, only the sound of swing band saxophones came out. Dr. Simon Smithy had never experienced such a phenomenon, and wrote it down in his notes.
"What have you been feeding Sergeant Cuddles?" he asked a recently post-pubescent Frankie, who gazed at him cluelessly through pink-rimmed spectacles and twirled her reddish blonde hair.
"I dunno. Usual stuff. He's never had a problem."
"And do you play with him?" asked the veterinarian.
"Yeah, occasionally. But Timothy plays with him more."
"Timothy?"
"Yeah. My boyfriend. He moved in a few months ago. Sergeant Cuddles loooooves him."
Dr. Smithy wrote up a prescription for anti-inflammatory jazz stabilizers and gave the poor feline a great big dose of Mozart through a dripping needle. Sergeant Cuddles yowled out a ten-minute tenor saxophone improvisation as Frankie, rolling her eyes, pulled him back in his carrier and marched away.
***
"Mudslide, Carlos. Extra thick."
"You don't order sweet drinks unless you're in a weird mood, hombre," said the fat Latino bartender, crinkling his wispy brow in concern. "¿Qué pasó?"
"More Feline Music Syndrome. Swing this time."
"¿De veras?" gasped Carlos. "What was it last time again?"
"B.B. King," griped Dr. Smithy as he groped for his drink. "And before that, Pink Floyd."
"Ah, dios mio. What album did that poodle keep barking? Dark Side of the Moon?"
"Wish You Were Here."
Dr. Smithy sighed as he indulged in the sweet Kahlua and Bailey's. Just for him, Carlos had added extra vodka.
"Sometimes, I wish I had been a biologist."
"Oh, you don't want to do that," sighed Carlos. "You hear how stuff in petri dishes have been singing opera, amigo?"
Dr. Smithy blinked. "Pavarotti under a microscope?"
"Like a little blob clone."
The poor veterinarian raised his glass in defeat. "I'll drink to that."
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
When the kitten opened its mouth, only the sound of swing band saxophones came out. Dr. Simon Smithy had never experienced such a phenomenon, and wrote it down in his notes.
"What have you been feeding Sergeant Cuddles?" he asked a recently post-pubescent Frankie, who gazed at him cluelessly through pink-rimmed spectacles and twirled her reddish blonde hair.
"I dunno. Usual stuff. He's never had a problem."
"And do you play with him?" asked the veterinarian.
"Yeah, occasionally. But Timothy plays with him more."
"Timothy?"
"Yeah. My boyfriend. He moved in a few months ago. Sergeant Cuddles loooooves him."
Dr. Smithy wrote up a prescription for anti-inflammatory jazz stabilizers and gave the poor feline a great big dose of Mozart through a dripping needle. Sergeant Cuddles yowled out a ten-minute tenor saxophone improvisation as Frankie, rolling her eyes, pulled him back in his carrier and marched away.
***
"Mudslide, Carlos. Extra thick."
"You don't order sweet drinks unless you're in a weird mood, hombre," said the fat Latino bartender, crinkling his wispy brow in concern. "¿Qué pasó?"
"More Feline Music Syndrome. Swing this time."
"¿De veras?" gasped Carlos. "What was it last time again?"
"B.B. King," griped Dr. Smithy as he groped for his drink. "And before that, Pink Floyd."
"Ah, dios mio. What album did that poodle keep barking? Dark Side of the Moon?"
"Wish You Were Here."
Dr. Smithy sighed as he indulged in the sweet Kahlua and Bailey's. Just for him, Carlos had added extra vodka.
"Sometimes, I wish I had been a biologist."
"Oh, you don't want to do that," sighed Carlos. "You hear how stuff in petri dishes have been singing opera, amigo?"
Dr. Smithy blinked. "Pavarotti under a microscope?"
"Like a little blob clone."
The poor veterinarian raised his glass in defeat. "I'll drink to that."
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
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