Fleas and Friends -- by KittyCat

The house next door to us is empty, but its owner is fixing it up, so new folks can move in. I hope it’s just people, with no big dogs or a mean cat like Bicklesworth. Bicklesworth was the orange tabby who beat up on me, and I had to go to the vet. Mom hopes it’s a young family that she can invite over sometimes.

Mom says you gotta have friends of all ages if you wanna stay in touch. Mom was going crazy cleaning house one day when a twentyish gal, Mia... Monica... something like that, came by. Ha, ha. I’ll bet she left thinking her “in touch” granny friends was getting touched –in the head.

Here’s the scene:

As Mona, or whatever, comes up on the porch, Mom halfway greets her. But Mom acts more interested in the dirt she dumped from the vacuum cleaner's cup to a big piece of white paper she had spread over the porch’s table. Frowning at the stuff on the paper, Mom says, “I'm checking for black specks.”

I'm thinking, Wow, Mom—you got black specks outta the sweeper's cup? Tsk, tsk. I don't know what Mila Whoever thinks, but she sure looks puzzled.

Without explaining, Mom wets the dirt with a spray bottle. No kidding! Then she blurts out, “Oh, m'gosh, there are specks—tons of them, turning red.”

I can tell the only reason Myrna, or whatever doesn't turn and run is she's got what my brown tabby friend Snookie (and Mom, too) call breeding. Once, I told Snook what I call breeding, and, well, put logic plus Snook in the same sentence and you got a whole other story.

Staring down at the paper, Mom continues. “When a wet speck turns red, you know it is extra-mint from a flea that bit an animal.” (I found out later that extra-mint is poo.) “I wish I had a microscope,” she says “so I could make slides to see the extent of the flea problem.”

Mom is serious! No fooling! And, ha, ha, just as this poor M girl takes a look to show polite interest, a flea hops up and zaps her on the forehead.

Better her than me, right? I'm shaking with silent snickers. Like, if hopping fleas aren't funny enough, both Mom and the M-lady (I could tell they were horrified) pretend not to notice.

Folding the paper over the dirt, the fleas, and their poo, Mom says, “Let's go in. I have tea, lemonade and root beer.” She drops her dirt package in the trash bin.

Mumbling something about getting kids from day care, the M gal says a few nice things, and leaves.

I hate fleas, and hate getting flea powdered, and hate to see Mom go all bonkers because of the critters. But seeing What's-her-name's expression as she fleed ... Well, it made all that 200% worth it.

It would be nice if Mom could have a new 20-something friend next door, cuz I don’t recall that Mia (was that her name?) ever came back.

April First for Fun -- by KittyCat

ME -- KittyCat Simpson, a handsome tuxedo cat

The picture is me in Mom’s rock garden one year in March. I think what’s neat about rock gardens is all the different critters you can find under the rocks. One time I collected some so I could play a good April fool’s joke on Snook.

See, Snook stays in nearly all the time cuz she can’t climb a tree if a dog chases her. I heard Mom say that’s cuz a doctor took out Snook’s claws when she was a kitten. But Snook says she stays indoors because (and she gives me her uppity look when she says it) “outdoor cats are flea-infested.” And she usually adds something about how I was an outdoor cat before I got adopted.

“Well, I don’t got no fleas!” I said, real miffed, the first time she talked about stray cats and sick and nasty stuff they spread around.

“Obviously,” Snob replied. “You reek” (oh, that means smell bad) “of flea repellent.” (That is flea go-away stuff.)

I’ll say this for being around Snook, when she’s hateful, I learn lots of new words.

Anyhow, Snook had been staying with us--I forget how long, but too long for me to put up with her put downs. Besides, a guy's gotta have fun for April first fool's day, right? That March day, it was sunny and real warm—good weather for hatching flea eggs, I figured. I went out looking for some critters to bring back and put on Snookie’s pillow. I got excited thinking what fun it would be. I couldn’t wait to hear it: “Oh, no! Gracious! Mercy! A flea...A-h-h!!! Two fleas!”

I figured her high-pitched, I’m in distress meows would bring Mom running, but by that time the fleas would have hopped on Snook and would be all comfy in their new digs. In zip time Mom would know precious Snookie was a flea bag.

Think of it—a pedigreed flea bag! Does that tickle your whiskers, or what?

I haven’t come up with any April first jokes this year, and guess I won’t cuz it’s on a Sunday. But I got an early one played on me. “Doggie” is still around. I guess she wasn’t hauled off to jail, cuz it would cost a bundle to spring her. But somebody did fork out a few bucks for her. When she’s out now, it's mostly with people, and she's wearing a collar and leash.

Ha, ha. I can still have fun on Sunday. When Doggie comes walking down the street, pulling at her new leash, I can sit in the rock garden and watch her bark at me from the sidewalk.

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson