The helicopter touched down on the rooftop of Gaga’s Malibu
estate at precisely 11:47 PM. Catherine Zeta-Jones stepped out first, her silk jumpsuit rippling in the ocean breeze. Rihanna followed, resplendent in a floor-length fur coat that was almost certainly fake and almost certainly worth more than most people’s houses. The rosella, Penelope, was perched on her left shoulder, while Gerald the king-parrot rode on her right, both birds looking remarkably unfazed by the helicopter ride.
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“Did she say why she needed us urgently?” Catherine asked, shielding her eyes against the rotor wash.
“Something about a crisis,” Rihanna replied, adjusting her sunglasses despite the darkness. “Something about needing our expertise. She was very vague. Very dramatic. Very Gaga.”
“Could be anything,” Catherine mused. “Could be a fashion emergency. Could be a creative block. Could be she accidentally glued herself to a piano again.”
“Or,” Rihanna said darkly, “it could be a trap.”
The birds chirped in agreement.
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They descended into the estate through a secret elevator disguised as a lighthouse. The corridors were lined with taxidermy, disco balls, and framed photographs of Gaga with various world leaders. The air smelled of incense, hairspray, and something vaguely metallic.
Finally, they arrived at a set of massive steel doors that slid open with a theatrical hiss. The room beyond was dimly lit, filled with flickering candles and plush velvet furniture. In the center of it all, seated on a throne that appeared to be made entirely of old Grammys, sat Lady Gaga.
She was wearing a floor-length gown of crimson velvet, her hair sculpted into impossible peaks. On her lap, purring contentedly, was a large grey cat with eyes the color of gold.
“Welcome,” Gaga said, her voice low and resonant. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Rihanna and Catherine exchanged a glance.
“You summoned us here in a private helicopter,” Catherine said slowly. “With a code word and everything. ‘Operation Feather.’ What’s this all about?”
Gaga stroked the cat’s fur with long, deliberate motions. The cat arched its back and let out a rumbling purr that seemed to shake the room. Rihanna’s birds ruffled their feathers, clearly unnerved.
“Before we get to that,” Rihanna said, stepping closer, “I need to ask the obvious question. What’s the cat’s name?”
Gaga paused. Her hand froze mid-stroke. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face.
“Plumber,” she said.
Silence.
Catherine blinked. “I’m sorry. What?”
“His name,” Gaga repeated, enunciating each word with theatrical precision, “is Plumber.”
The cat looked up at her with what appeared to be deep approval.
Rihanna’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “You named your cat… Plumber.”
“Plumber,” Gaga confirmed. “Plumber the Cat. Not to be confused with a cat who is a plumber, though I suppose he could be. He has the thumbs for it. Look at these thumbs.” She held up the cat’s paw, displaying a set of remarkably dexterous toes. “These are the thumbs of a tradesman. A craftsman. An artist of the pipes.”
“Gaga,” Catherine said, stepping forward, “you called us here in the middle of the night because—what? You wanted to show us your cat’s thumbs?”
“Don’t be reductive, Catherine.” Gaga set Plumber down on the armrest of her throne and stood, sweeping her gown around her. “I called you here because I have realized something. Something profound. Something that changes everything.”
“And that is?” Rihanna asked warily.
Gaga gestured dramatically at the cat. “This cat understands plumbing. Not metaphorically. Literally. He can sense when a pipe is about to burst. He can detect leaks before they happen. He’s a diviner of drainage. A prophet of pressure. He saved my estate three times last week alone.”
The cat, Plumber, yawned and began grooming his left paw.
“The sinks?” Catherine asked, deadpan.
“The sinks,” Gaga confirmed. “Also the toilets. Also the irrigation system in my lavender garden. He is… blessed. I believe he’s a reincarnated plumber from the Victorian era. A man who died tragically while fixing a pipe in a London mansion, and was reborn as a feline sentinel of sanitation.”
Rihanna pinched the bridge of her nose. “Gaga. You called us here. With urgency. To tell us about your cat’s supernatural plumbing abilities.”
“I called you here,” Gaga said, “because I need you to meet him. To witness his gift. To validate his genius. You’re the only people I trust. Catherine, you understand performance. Rihanna, you understand power. Together, we can help Plumber achieve his destiny.”
“His destiny?” Catherine asked weakly.
“To become,” Gaga announced, “the world’s first feline master plumber. Certified. Licensed. With his own van and everything.”
Plumber the Cat meowed, a sound that seemed to say, That’s right, and don’t you forget it.
Rihanna’s rosella, Penelope, let out a sharp, chattering laugh that echoed through the room. Gerald the king-parrot shook his head slowly, as if processing a profound disappointment.
“Oh, you think this is funny?” Gaga said, rounding on the birds. “You think this is a joke? Plumber has already solved three major blockages in the guest wing. He’s a miracle worker. He’s a gift from the plumbing gods.”
“What does he use for tools?” Catherine asked, unable to resist.
Gaga’s eyes lit up. “I’m so glad you asked.” She reached under her throne and produced a miniature toolbox, complete with tiny, cat-sized wrenches, a miniature plunger, and what appeared to be a tiny hard hat.
Rihanna stared. The birds stared. Catherine’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Are those… are those custom-made?” Rihanna managed.
“Three months of development with a toymaker in Zurich,” Gaga said proudly. “He’s also got a tiny glow vest and a tiny headlamp for night jobs. I’m not messing around here, ladies. I’m serious about this.”
Plumber the Cat hopped down from the armrest and padded over to the miniature toolbox. He picked up the tiny wrench in his mouth and carried it to a nearby faucet, where he began to tap it with alarming precision.
“He’s priming the valve,” Gaga whispered reverently.
“He’s chewing on a wrench,” Rihanna corrected.
“He’s communicating,” Gaga insisted. “He’s telling me the pressure is off. There’s a blockage in the main line. He knows.”
Rihanna and Catherine exchanged another look. The birds on Rihanna’s shoulders began to preen nervously.
“Gaga,” Rihanna said gently, “I think you need to hear this. Plumber is a cat. Cats don’t fix plumbing. Cats knock things off counters and stare at walls.”
“Cats,” Gaga said, pointing a dramatic finger, “have been underestimated for centuries. Plumber is going to change all that. He’s going to revolutionize the industry. And you two are going to help me fund his training.”
Catherine choked on air. “What?”
“I need investors,” Gaga said smoothly. “A modest amount. Three million dollars to start. To cover training, certification, the van, the tiny hard hat insurance. Together, we can make Plumber the most celebrated master plumber in feline history.”
Penelope the rosella let out another chattering laugh. Gerald the king-parrot buried his face in Rihanna’s hair.
“I’m serious,” Gaga insisted, her voice rising. “This cat has a calling. I have a spreadsheet. I have projections. Plumber is going to be bigger than Taylor Swift. Bigger than Beyoncé. Bigger than—”
Plumber the Cat meowed loudly, dropped the wrench, and began to groom his nether regions with great enthusiasm.
“See?” Gaga said, beaming. “He’s planning his next move. That’s the face of a visionary.”
Rihanna turned to Catherine. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“The helicopter is still here,” Catherine agreed. “We can be back in LA in forty-five minutes.”
“You can’t leave!” Gaga cried. “Plumber hasn’t even demonstrated his sink repair technique!”
“Gaga,” Rihanna said, already backing toward the door, “I love you. I do. But I’m not investing three million dollars in a cat who can’t even keep his pants on.”
“He doesn’t wear pants, Rihanna. That’s part of his charm.”
“Not charming,” Rihanna said firmly. “We’re going.”
The birds chirped in agreement, and Penelope let out one final, mocking laugh.
As they fled through the corridor, they could hear Gaga’s voice echoing behind them. “Plumber! Plumber, get the plunger! Show them! Show them your power!”
Plumber the Cat meowed.
It sounded suspiciously like I’ll get them next time.
Rihanna looked at Catherine as the elevator doors closed. “We never speak of this again.”
“Agreed,” Catherine said. “Never. Not once. Not even in our memoirs.”
Penelope the rosella chirped in relief.
Gerald the king-parrot nodded sagely.
And somewhere back in the throne room, Lady Gaga was already drafting an Instagram post about her cat’s upcoming career as a master plumber.
The tiny hard hat was on. The tiny glow vest was ready.
And Plumber the Cat was absolutely, completely, utterly unbothered.