I am running ears-back, footpads flat-out down a dark alley.

This is not normally a problem for lithe ninja me. My skintight, full-body black catsuit is next to invisible in dark narrow spaces, and my hidden shivs are primed to scale any porous material I encounter, including the careless wandering person in my way.

The only thing in my way in this alley is a blank brick wall. I make a hard right, striking sparks off concrete with my rear brakes, and splitting enough nails to visit a pedicurist in the morning, were I a metrosexual sort of guy.

Which I decidedly am not.

Another blank and topless wall forces me left, and then right again. I sense my pursuers gaining on me, but I have no idea who — or what — they are. Or where we are. It feels like I have been running like this for blocks.

I spy a bright pinpoint at the end of my tunnel, put my paws to the pavement, and rocket toward it with my patented burst of cheetah-level speed. Midnight Louie is no easy catch.

I crash through the bright light like a circus tiger through a giant paper embroidery hoop....

Only there is no sawdust to land on, just another inescapable tunnel, this one all spotlights and aurora borealis.

My pupils have slitted needle-thin, but the light is burning so bright, I am blind as I fall through empty air into apparent nothingness, my agile spine spiraling down like a drill bit.

"Louie," a voice calls, echoes.

Wait! Stop the action. I am being called back from the brink of annihilation by a familiar voice. My Miss Temple needs me. I cannot go splat on an unseen surface. I must fight gravity. My limbs thrash.

Then something from behind grabs me, shakes me, rattles and rolls me.

Never have I been so helpless.

"Louie."

Wait! The voice is not Miss Temple's. It is female but from another species speaking through my roommate's usual whispered little nothings.

Who has the nerve to come between a guy and his girl?

I am shaken more softly, and the light fades into the dark gray of a room without light.

I feel my pumping limbs slow and slacken. Around me are dim familiar forms, the most familiar — and acting like it — is indeed my Miss Temple.

"Louie, you are just dreaming. Nothing is chasing you but the Sandman. Wake up. You're tattooing my thigh with your thrashing feet."

She is slipping her hands around my cushy warm midsection to heave it upright, and me with it.

"Sorry, boy, but that stings. You are off the bed for the rest of the night."

I am ushered to the edge of the zebra-print spread and nudged until I have no choice but to puddle down to the cool wood parquet floor.

What a way to be awakened! Tossed out on my ear, although it is actually my feet that hit solid ground first, thanks to my native athletic ability.

I sit up and wash these exiled ears of the unfriendly decree from my very own roommate, whose bacon and backside I have saved on numerous occasions.

I am surprised to find my shivs still stretching and contracting, as if yet in that state of running for my life. I must admit I keep them highly honed.

They have never run so much as a nylon stocking (although women and particularly my Miss Temple do not much wear such things anymore) in my interaction with the human female population.

And I have never been kicked out of bed before. Is that a blow to a guy's ego.

And I have never been so sure I was one dead mallard as I was a couple minutes before.

What a nightmare!

I shake my head. I must be slipping. Speaking of that, I decide to slip through the French doors to the small three-sided patio Miss Temple's condominium offers. Perhaps the cool night air will soothe my ruffled feelings.

I stretch my frame full up to work the lever-style handle with my usual light-shivved touch and fall through to the stone patio beyond, turning to push the door gently shut behind me.

I turn to breathe in night air as warm as cream of potato soup. We are heading into a Vegas summer, when the temperature never goes on vacation, particularly during these global warming times.

The palm fronds fan across a bit of full moon, making a splendid postcard shot. The neighborhood is as quiet as a harried cat could wish. No dogs barking, at the moment. No tires peeling asphalt. At the moment.

I yawn.

And then the hairs along my spine stand up and salute.

Looking up through the palm's fancy fans, I sense something hovering high above the scene. Some alert intelligence observing all, knowing all.

It is calling my name.

Louie.

My back twitches.

Louie. Come here.

No way.

Rise and climb.

It is not morning, and even if it was, I do not then rise and do anything except stretch and scratch my hard-to-reach places, which are none of anyone's business.

I stare upward anyway. Perhaps I will spot a lazy fly to take down. I need to restore my Great Black Hunter reputation...