If mike made my career as a journalist possible, my nurse Roberta made my life possible.  As you already know, the savages that flowed from the north to their defeat at Martinez Creek put it to me hard.  When Walt brought me to the Aid Station, I verged on dead.  Some lying cats tried to say I got my wounds whilst running away.  I say, “Not so!”  My heroism has gone unacknowledged in San Antonio.  Calumniators talked about me being like my namesake “Crockett.”  They sneered that I had never won a fight in San Antonio.  Instead of being a cat of substance, these liars made out that I was pure flash.  Bart was never going to want a Tom light on his paws.  She and her friend Fielding Grey, a voluptuous Molly with a passion for combat, had killed whatever came onto their runs during the Battle of Martinez Creek.  Neither Bart nor Fielding had any use for a cat that the calumniators were calling a canary.  I was in need of an alternative narrative. 

            My position was a bit like fans of the Old South. That gang mob of slavers won’t get much sympathy if they give speeches on how they fought like banshees to keep their slaves slaves.  Public Relations 101 tells you you need a prettier story.  So, Old Southers (aka Slavers) talk about a Lost Cause and write ridiculous novels about aristocratic living that, as a result of depraved aggressors, is now gone with the wind.  Likely as not you turn it into a ridiculous movie. Unlike the southern apologists, I lacked the cash (for mike, every dollar is a personal friend) to film a movie or even get a decent book published about me.  I was going to need a good yarn of my own construction to get Bart’s buy-in on a tale of the Love Machine qua War Hero.

            Lying insinuations on behalf of my heroism had failed.  I had tried that. I tried wearing an Iron Cross, a Croix de Guerre, a Blue Max, a Purple Heart, and anything else that might impress Bart.  So far as I can tell, she didn’t know what any of them were.  The only things that impressed her were Scalp Locks and ear necklaces.  Blood-stained paws also made a good impression on her.  In my case, she would stare at me, sniff, then remark her memory of me at Martinez Creek was of Walt carrying me away howling from my wounds.            

What was I to do?  I mentioned my plight to mike.  He smiled and told me a truth about women.  Riches matter more than bravery.  “Watch ‘Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend’ with me.”  What an eye-opener.  Here I was living in a veritable mansion on Woodlawn, next to that Peacenik haven, the San Antonio Zen Center, and I was wearing myself out with schemes to look brave rather than rich.  Praise the gods, Bart’s luck had run out after the death of her Mexican Lady Servant.  The pack that replaced Bart’s servant had shoved Bart out of her long-standing home.  They had reduced her to living in the crawl space under the house. 

Hence I began to court Bart with tales of money whenever she came by.  I boasted about my fancy meals, and just confessed that if you wanted food, you had to deal with Chaucey’s attacks.  I worked on Nurse Roberta too.  I would beg until Roberta let Bart in.  For a nurse, she wasn’t too observant, as Bart was knocked up by then.  Bart’s being knocked up forced Roberta to do what Sisters have done since the Church started.  If the cat turns out to be a Molly rather than a Tom, put a “Mary” in front of her name.  With my love offensive, I got Roberta to open the door to Bart.  Bart’s love of luxury brought her in to me.  She began to stay with me for longer and longer stints.  Her memory of my role at Martinez Creek faded. Soon she was living with me, as she saw the benefits of living with Roberta and mike as servants.  Bart had had a reversal of fortune. Avarice and repression paved her way.