What do the letters YSL mean to you?

If you are a fashionista or keep abreast of au courant lists of Who’s Who in the world celebrity-name sweepstakes, you would promptly say, Yves Saint Laurent, of course, the twentieth century’s most celebrated high-fashion and therefore highfalutin French dress designer.

Alas, YSL died a couple years ago, although his fashion brand lives on.

But the YSL I am referring to is not a fancy label flaunted on a handbag. It is that immortal trio (besides the Three Musketeers) of Yvette, Solange, and Louie.

Of course we all have more than a single name. It is the Divine Yvette, the Sublime Solange, and Midnight Louie.

However, as I stare upon the startled faces and almost unrecognizable forms of the Divine and Sublime ones, I fear I am going to have to find new sobriquets for the darlings of the purebred Persian set … such as the Disheveled Yvette and the Shredded Solange.

“Yvette!” I yowl in disbelief. “Solange!”

“Louie!” they wail in echoing chorus.

The Persian formerly known as Divine turns her face from me. “I have not had my hair done in ages, Louie; you must avert your eyes.”

The Persian formerly known as Sublime is more practical. “We have been taken out of solitary confinement and put into a common holding cell full of ruffians and bullies and shorthairs. You must save us!”

This is a tall order, even for Midnight Louie. Not only R & R—rescue and release—but C & C—coiffure and comb-out.

“How did this happen?” is all I can ask.

“Our mistress sought to enhance her failing career and profile,” Solange says, idly running a clawed forepaw through her bedraggled golden ruff, “by forsaking the reigning breed of the cat world—we luxuriously furred Persians—for the chic but déclassé bug-eyed, bony, nearly naked purse pooch of the dog world, the Chihuahua.”

“Dyed pink, no less,” Yvette wails. “As if my tender pink ears and pads and rose nose were not enough!”

I can testify that the formerly Divine Yvette’s witnessing is true. Her silver-gray coat was formerly so soft and lustrous that she almost looked faintly lavender in some lights.

Who would kick out a lavender cat for a faux-pink dog? Someone very mentally disturbed, but what does one expect from Miss Savannah Ashleigh, who tried to have me totally de-tommed?

Solange brushes near so I can feel the wadded lumps in her once full and smooth shiny coat. Her huge green eyes fix on mine.

“Overnight we were considered passé by all society, Louie, even Excess Hollywood. Our mistress left us here as a temporary shelter, but she never considered that we were not suited to push and shove for our places in the world. Granted our mistress was facing a fading career of her own, but she did not understand the degree to which Miss Violet was declining both in health and mind. We had no one to aid us, to even know of our plight.”

Miss Midnight Louise is pushing past my shoulder to inspect the sorry sight. “Did it ever occur to you pampered showgirls to save yourselves?”

This challenge drives She Who Was Formerly Known as Divine to spin, hissing and spitting.

“We cannot,” the Divine Yvette answers with some of her usual, charmingly adamant hauteur. “We are French.”