Happy Cat -- by KittyCat

When Mom and Aunt Pen talk on the phone, it doesn’t sound like they say anything that couldn’t wait til Aunt Pen gets home from vacation. In fact, it sounds like stuff that could wait if she never got home. Knowing Mom will ask, I listen to learn how Snookie, my tabby friend, is doing. Yesterday I got the best news. Snook’s coming home tomorrow. It’s been a lonesome summer without her.

There was more to do last year when she was gone.

For one thing, the schnoodle, Vondelle, just down the alley from us was still a puppy. She flunked puppy school twice. She went crazy barking and chasing anything she got her sights on, and a jillion things she simply dreamed up.

For sport, I’d jump up on the brick wall between her back and front yard. She’d come bounding across the yard, tearing up the new fescue sod worth a ton of money. On top of that I heard it cost three hundred dollars a month to keep it watered. New lawns don’t do so good in a drought.  Ha, ha—Vondelle’s backyard is just a big patch of dirt now. There were paw prints along her side of the wall where she’d stretch hoping we’d get nose to nose. Of course that never happened.

Another fun thing last summer was to watch a neighbor clean her black Mercedes. She’d get every bug and bird speck off it, make the whole car shiny, and then go in the house. I liked to step up on the back—I was careful not to scratch it—and walk over the top, slide down the windshield, take a few steps to the front bumper, jump off and run home. The car looked real cool—kinda like those back-to-front stripes kids put on their cars. But my paw prints, spaced just so looked fancier.

I never got caught, but both Mom and the neighbor figured it was me. Feeling guilty, Mom’s gonna put money in the neighbor’s bank. I’ll bet the neighbor wished all the Julian Blvd. folks had cats that liked decorating cars. This year, a white SUV replaced the black Mercedes. It wouldn’t matter if I wanted to climb on it, cuz it’s mostly in its garage.

Snook will notice how the cicadas are noisier this year. Maybe there’s more of them. I heard they lay eggs that stay under the grass for seven years. There’s gonna be a whole lot less seven years from now, cuz I’ve eaten so many I got sick a few times. Wings still wet, they come crawling up through the ground and with grass so thin, they’re easy to spot. I pounce. They don’t even get to find out if their pretty wings work.

I wonder if Snookie is as excited to get home as I am to see her. I’ve missed her so much, I’ll never again call her Snook the Snob. –Well, at least if she doesn’t act like one.

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

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.

Lonesome at Christmas -- by KittyCat

Yesterday, an empty ribbon spool rolled across the floor, but I didn't feel like chasing it. I got Mom worried because I'm not jumping in boxes or pulling tissue paper out of gift bags she's arranged just so. I heard her tell Dad, “He's sick. He hasn't touched the Christmas decorations. He hasn't been under foot in the kitchen, and...”

“... And you're complaining?” Dad picked me up and offered me a couple of treats. “He's growing up, that's all.”

I ate the treats just to please him, but they were both wrong. I wasn’t sick, but I did feel yukky. It’s a sad and lonesome feeling I used to get all the time before I got adopted. My tabby friend Snookie says it’s called heartsick.

She knows, cuz she gets it, too. She and her human Mom, my Auntie Gay, travel lots. Sometimes, when they’re in another state Auntie takes a side trip, and Snookie has to stay in a boarding place. Can you imagine feeling lonesome with all those other cats and dogs and people around? "It’s the very worst," she said. "There’s no lonesome like being dumped in a crowded kennel."

I thought Snookie and my friend, Sophie (she’s my dog pal), were spending Christmas with us. But they’re not. I’m not getting any people food this year cuz my doctor says it’s not healthy. Ya, right. It’s not healthy for her paycheck when moms don’t buy that cat diet stuff. On top of all that, it’s going to snow today, and be snowy for Christmas. That means cold and wet.

When Mom hung my “Precious Kitty” stocking on the mantel, she picked me up, snuggled me, and said gooey loving things to me. I purred and didn’t fuss to jump down cuz when Mom worries, it makes me feel even worse. Besides, I’m hoping she’ll put good stuff in my stocking. That’s yummy good, not good-for-you good.

I sure looked forward to my friends staying here for the holidays, but it's Christmas time. That’s joyful time. It says so in the Bible. I’ll show Mom how happy I am and climb the Christmas tree.