6.2 on the Richter scale

Scene: Penthouse apartment on the Upper West Side. Dawn. The only sound is the occasional rumble of an early morning bus on Central Park West.


Suddenly, a screech of epic proportion rips through the apartment, then into the hall,. It echoes down the elevator shaft, through the lobby then across the street into the park.  Several cracks appear in the foundation of a nearby gatehouse. Joggers and bicyclists stumble in their tracks

Inside the apartment:

Duchess of Yowl: I'VE BEEN MAIMED!

Me: (clinging to the chandelier in terror) Egad and little fishes!!  What the HELL is wrong??

DoY: MAIMED I TELL YOU, SCARRED FOREVER.

Me: (slowly lowering self back to hammock, dusting off shark pjs) Come here, let me look at you.

DoY: (from not just under the chair but under the carpet beneath the chair) NO! I'm maimed! I can't be seen. I must retire from public life.

Me: Come over here, let me see what you're going on about!

DoY: No.

Me: You'll starve if you don't come out.

DoY: Good. My life as a celebrity is over. I have sung my last aria, danced my last electric boogaloo.

Me: You have not nuzzled your last tuna, and you know it. Now come out!

DoY: Make sure that filthy paparazzi camera you call a phone is NOT in your hand!

Me: The phone is charging in the kitchen. We are in the bedroom. Some us would like to stay here for a while longer. Quit kvetching. Let me see what's wrong.

DoY: (crawling out from under rug, under chair) Someone has stolen three of my royal whiskers!

Me: (looking closely) wait, I'll need my magnifying glass. It's here somewhere.

DoY: You can't see this horrendous loss of whiskertude??

Me: (peering) no, not really. How many did you say are missing?

DoY: THREE!

Me: You count your whiskers?

DoY: You count your gray hairs.

Me: I didn't think you saw that.

DoY: I see everything.

Me: Except your three whiskers which appear to be on your silk covered heating pad on your royal chair.

DoY: (squinting) oh.

Me: Whiskers fall out. It's normal. Others will grow back in. More even. Your celebrity days are not over.

DoY: Well, then! Time for breakfast. And, I'll need new headshots.