Animal Stories

                    

Blue Mountain Lake in Arkansas is a place to relax, take long walks, and read. While my husband fished, I read three books last month—all relating to animals.

Orphan by Harry Haines, a fellow club member of Panhandle Professional Writers, has been on my reading list for five years. One aspect I found fascinating was how Harry intertwined local history and the business of quarterhorse racing into his novel’s plot. Author Diane Mowery, who homeschooled her youngsters, mentioned a fact not often included in book reviews: although the book is targeted to an adult audience, she can recommend it to teenagers. Here’s a suspense novel free of vulgarity and expressions that offend readers with religious values.

When our precious KittyCat died, my friend Suzi gave me and my husband Aubrey a copy of the book, Dewey: the Small Town Library Cat Who Touched the World. That same day I gave Aubrey Going Home: Finding Peace When Pets Die by Jon Katz.

I can’t say Going Home met expectations. It has not lifted the grief that has lingered for more than three months. But at least now I understand it.

  

You may have heard of Dewey, the library cat. Although he died in 2006, Dewey’s fame continues to flourish through his image on postcards, jigsaw puzzles, and especially sales and circulation of the book, Dewey: the Small Town Library Cat Who Touched the World. It’s a moving story about a bedraggled kitten, rescued by librarian, Vicki Myron, after being left in the book drop of her town’s library.

Spencer, Iowa, was in the throes of an economic downturn when Dewey, almost dead, arrived on its library scene. Beginning with newspaper coverage of the contest that gave the kitten his official name--Dewey Readmore Books—the orange tabby garnered publicity.

As Dewey’s popularity increased among library patrons, the library evolved from a book warehouse to a community’s gathering place. His entertaining personality helped to revive the spirits of area residents fighting for survival in hard times. Stories about Dewey spread, at first from library newsletters to newspapers to national and then international media.

As an international celebrity, Dewey proved to be an economic asset as well. “When Dewey died in 2006 at the age of 19, his obituary appeared in over 250 newspapers, including the New York Times, USA Today and the Des Moines Register, and was announced on the national television evening news.”—www.deweyreadmorebooks.com.

“We still have 3 people (Kim, Joy and Paula) that worked at the library when Dewey was here. I was actually here the day he came,” said Kim Peterson in an email.

The sale of bookbags and other “Dewey” merchandize helps support library programs. Spencer’s adorable library cat continues to draw interest—daily emails, said Ms. Peterson, and “a few phone calls a month.”

Beach reading season is almost here. You can purchase the books through most book sellers or borrow them from many public libraries. All three books are available for loan from Amarillo’s public library system. Dewey (I give it two thumbs up) is also on a CD. 

© 2013, Bernice W. Simpson

At a Future Time; from Another Place

Monday's blog belonged to KittyCat. He's gone. His voice is gone. Perhaps he'll laugh, complain, and present his point of view at a future time--from another place.

No doubt, I'll soon wish to laugh, complain, or present my point of view--on a future Tuesday or Wednesday.

KittyCat's readership surprised me at times. Thank you.

--Bernice W. Simpson
  February 18, 2013

Loss

“I’ve learned of a baby who needs a good home—just like yours.”

Would you say that to a person who had just buried their child? Of course not. Yet you are quick to offer a stray cat hanging around your sister’s house to acquaintances, grief-stricken over the death of their cat. You beg them to take the sweet-natured calico an infirm neighbor can no longer properly care for, or the tabby of a coworker who is relocating, and can’t take her pet with her. You feel so sorry for those hapless creatures.

So do I, but like you, not enough to offer them our home. And certainly not enough to feed them from my baby’s dishes, play with his toys, or sleep in his favorite places.

At times I see him in those places, and smile. I also see him cock his little head as he sits, his two white-booted feet pressed tightly together in front of him. “What…you’re busy? Like I should care you’re busy? I want to play. With you. Now.”

Yes, animals do talk. Like humans, they express themselves with body language. At times it can be as clear as any sound uttered out loud. As with person-to-person communication, sometimes we miss the message. My husband and I missed it with KittyCat’s illness. So did his regular veterinarian. The next vet we rushed him to, Dr. Christy Webb, caught it. But the antibiotics and breathing treatments that could have saved him, had they begun earlier, mocked us with false hope. KittyCat endured horrific distress his last night on this earth.

“Oh, KittyCat,” I’ve sobbed a thousand times, “how your daddy and I loved you. How your suffering tortures us still. And we miss you terribly.”

“People, stop!” I’ve wanted to scream several times. On behalf of anyone who has lost a precious pet lately, stop. Please stop giving us  your ideas about what will fill the vacancy in our homes and hearts.

We may appear to have moved on. We act with our usual professionalism at work. We attend functions, hopefully displaying courtesy and friendliness. We perform our daily responsibilities.

But in private moments, we cry.

Turkey, Catnip, and Other Good Stuff -- by KittyCat

What’s good about Christmas? Well, for one thing, Mom and Dad get real busy. This year, they were busy as ever. On top of that cuz the flu shot zapped Mom pretty good, she cancelled a bunch of stuff. The best bump off her winter to-do list was my annual doctor’s appointment.

But the very best thing about Christmas is turkey. Dad doesn't like it, so I get lots. I get so much I don’t mind sharing with my tabby friend, Snookie, who spent Christmas with us. I even didn't care that Mom gave some to Meaka.

Meaka is a German shepherd, a dog that walks by our place with his mom, Dagmar. She’s a German human. The first time I heard Mom say that name, I got confused.  The lady was some distance away, and Mom, holding the garden hose, called to her, “Dagmar!” I kinda though it was strange—hearing Mom swear at someone and threaten them with a blast from the garden hose. I swear, Dagmar is the lady’s name. And I had it wrong. Mom had plants to share with Dagmar, and was getting ready to put water in a pot for Meaka cuz it was hot outside.

Aunt Pen forgot to bring Snookie’s stocking, so we just had one filled between us. We got lots of treats and some little cans of yummy food. Mom’s catnip plants died last summer, so she bought a bag. “It’s not organic or even USA-grown” she said to Dad. “I hope their hair doesn't fall out.” I figured she was just making jokes. But just in case, I let Snookie play with her catnip-filled toys before I touched mine. Ha, ha. Snookie thought I was being real nice letting her be first.

I was pretty nice to Snook the whole time she was here. Snook always got her breakfast first. I let her have the office chair, and didn’t use her litter pan. I even let her sit beside Mom on the sofa when she wanted to.

“You must be sick,” said Snook one day. “ You've actually allowed me to get some attention.”

And there’s lots of Snook, the flabby tabby, to get attention. Tempting, but I didn’t say that out loud. Truth is, I did have a tummy ache. Like I said, Mom gets real busy at Christmas. That day she didn’t notice when I ate my breakfast and most of Snook’s. I ended up with the runs.

Tons of food is what’s not so good about Christmas. But at the time I forget all that from the year before, and just remember the best parts. I'll bet you do, too.

© Bernice W. Simpson

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

Open up and Swallow Fast -- by KittyCat

I was too pooped to write yesterday. Sophie, my favorite dog friend, stayed with us at Easter and then came again on Wednesday. She didn’t leave until yesterday afternoon, and I didn't get a good nap the whole time she was here. We’d be out in the yard enjoying quiet friendship, and just as I’d nod off, she’d find something to bark at—a bird, a squirrel, people out walking their dogs, and even moths.

Yup moths. And I’ve been chasing those big fuzzy moths that are all of a sudden around by the thousands.

This morning Mom, drinking coffee on the porch with Dad told him they must keep a camera handy. I had just caught one. “Too cute,” she said, then almost choking on her coffee, she said, “KittyCat, that’s disgusting.”

“What?” Dad asked. He’d been watching a squirrel chittering at me from an elm tree branch.

“He ate it!” she shrieked.

I’m licking my chops, but Mom looks like she just swallowed bird droppings.

“Golly gee, my mom can see,” I want to say, “I’m kin to the great cats. Y’ think my savanna cousins eat canned kitty kibbles”?

As I ambled toward the backyard, I wondered if Dad would tell Mom that she’s eaten tons of insects. A government guy on TV last year said insect parts were in lots of foods—chocolate (mom’s favorite), peanut butter, mustard, and ketchup, even Heinz.

Wish I could talk human. Next time Mom and Dad had a bar-b-q, I’d just watch while Mom did all that work. Then just when she sat down and got ready to take a bite ... Ha, ha, I could get her so freaked out.

By summer, the moths will be gone, but you know what they say about flies coming to a picnic. Tasty or not, betcha I can have all kinds of fun with them.

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

It's Spring -- by KittyCat

I missed writing yesterday, but that's OK, cuz I heard today is special--the first day of spring.

But I don't understand how one day it's winter and the next day it's spring, just because somebody printed it real tiny on the calendar. It's been spring around here for weeks. I know cuz our neighbor's tree got its branches decorated with pretty white flowers. A bunch blew off, but it's still pretty. Now you can see just a bit of white between new green leaves. That's what says it's spring--trees, grass, daffodils and such start putting color all over the place.

Our yard isn't nice and green like the yards on Julian Boulevard. But we do have bare patches that I get to roll in. I also like how our yard is dotted with yellow flowers called dandelions. Mom told Dad to get rid of them. Dad said he figured she'd want to dig them up and put them in our garden spot. He reminded her about a package of mixed greens she bought for supper last winter. "Dandelion leaves right on the front label," he said.

I was looking at one then the other during that conversation, and I'm real glad about Sunday's note in tiny print on the calendar, "Daylight Savings Time Begins." That means I can be outside later now cuz it won't get dark so soon. That means it will still be daylight when Mom makes supper tonight, and I plan to be outside when she sets out Dad's salad plate.

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

Still Cogitating -- by KittyCat

Mom said the crocus flower is Manitoba’s flower, and it’s tough. I believe that. Last week, I flattened a bunch of those flowers in front of the house cuz I was mad at Mom. By the time I sat on the last one, the first clump was standing up again. What I got for all that work was a tired-all-over feeling. I jumped up into a plant container where passing dogs wouldn’t see me stretched out there—the perfect place to plan my runaway trip.

Except for the odd can rolling in the street, or plastic bags flapping against tree branches, it was real quiet. In a few minutes, cars driving past our house sounded like they were on nearby street, and then on blocks far away.

Yikes! I woke up shivering, not from the cold, but from the loud bark of a dog. He’s come down to our place before, and bothered me when I was in my chair on the porch. I guess he could see Mom through the window so didn't come real close. That time I stood up, looking like a mean Halloween cat. He kept barking, but did back up. This time, he was a foot from the planter, and could easily reach the top of it with his front paws. If I ran, he could catch me. If I tried to leap to the porch, he could get me as I stood and turned to spring.

“Listen, doggie, you’re being naughty.” It was Mom’s voice.

Suddenly, I was my fierce self--an African cat who could scare a pack of hyenas with a half growl. I stood and hissed while the beast bounded after a piece of chicken Mom threw across the lawn. Of course I intended to outrun the brute, and grab the chicken, but Mom had a treat-sized piece for me in her hand. Mom picked me up. “Doggie” had wolfed down the chicken before we reached the front door. Mom threw another piece in Doggie’s direction, and still holding me, opened the door and went in the house.

Fuming, I had to come up with a plot. Before I run away, I gotta teach Doggie a lesson. He wrecked my runaway plans (well, my almost plans). He downed a chicken breast in two gulps—more chicken than I've had in my whole life. But the most unforgivable is he left me red-faced (except it didn't show under my fur). What great savanna cat wants to be rescued by a puny human? It was my mom, a graying granny, right in the front yard where the whole neighborhood, including Doggie, could see and wag about it.

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

I Could Run Away -- by KittyCat

I didn’t write Monday cuz Mom hogged the computer—all day. Then, on Tuesday, she stuffed the office full of clutter junk, and closed the door so the FABS (Four Active Brains group) would think the house was nice and clean. She finally opened the door today, got Monster, the vacuum cleaner from its hiding place, and now she really is cleaning house.

Last week, my friend, (well, sometimes we’re friends) Snook, came over with Aunt Pen. Snook said Auntie read that Mom’s fixing my pomes, and plans to sell them.  I didn’t believe it, but then I saw this from last year:

 A Cat in the Corner: Conversations Overheard in a Writers’ Group is primarily a gift book for writers. The concept: KittyCat, ignored by humans, has eavesdropped on a critique group’s meetings. Now, in light verse, he spills what he’s heard, including confidential whispered asides.

The book addresses the practical—what writers need to know, from manuscript preparation to marketing. It exposes the emotional—how writers react to situations, from criticism received to sales made. And it covers the relational—how writers relate to group members as well as business professionals.

Best of all, it entertains. KittyCat celebrates members’ joyful announcements, snickers at caustic comments, and ridicules writers’ frustrations with equal gusto. Occasionally the little snoop punctuates his tattling with thoughts of his own. Nobody has had more belly laughs over the serious business of writing than KittyCat, and he’ll share the fun with all who peruse the A Cat in the Corner: Conversations Overheard in a Writers’ Group.

I’m so ticked at Mom for stealing my pomes, I’m halfway thinking maybe I’ll run away. The last time I ran away ...

Well, for now I’ll just go outside and sit on crocus flowers Mom’s real proud of and cogitate. 

Squeaking Chalk on the Blackboard

On a piece of paper write the numbers 1-6. Beside each write Y or N to indicate whether you agree or disagree with the following.

1.      An ellipsis consists of three dots which are separated by spaces.

2.      Use the ellipsis for a thought that trails off. To avoid a time-consuming discussion, I agreed, but wondered ...

3.      When expressing a thought discontinued due to strong emotion or an abrupt change, use an em dash. A second after I agreed, I remembered that conversation. I stood up and shouted—  

4.      In an article KittyCat indicated he didn’t like to have his nails trimmed. There’s a word for his ordeal: exungulate, pronounced eg ZUN gyou late.

5.      The solidus, a punctuation mark formed by a diagonal line, is also called a slash or slant mark. A common use of it is with the words and/or.

6.      The word critique is a not used as a verb in standard English.

If two up-to-date style books or grammar guides were a part of your library, would you find definitive answers to all grammatical questions? No. Therefore, relax. Study the basics. Aim for the use of standard English in your writing, but don't obsess over it. Discussions on the subject can be fun. If you have opinions about the following, please express them in the “Comments” box. 

1.      An ellipsis (plural: ellipses) indicates omitted words. As a punctuation device in today’s usage, the ellipsis is usually written as three dots with no spaces between them. Certain references still adhere to the form as three dots each separated by a space (. . .). Look hard enough, and you can find the ellipsis written to indicate a half space between the dots, but that relates to squiggles once written on manuscripts for communication between authors and typesetters.

2.      Did you notice the “trailing off” ellipsis does not require further punctuation?     

3.      Tricky. Number three is factually correct, but not well expressed. Isn’t this better? When strong emotion or an abrupt change interrupts a thought, emphasize the unexpressed words with an em dash. 

4.      Most grammar guides would use italics when writing the word exungulate. Note: the first letter of a word following a colon is in lowercase, unless the word should otherwise be capitalized.  

5.      As used in #5, there is no reason to italicize the word solidus. But, when a word is used as a word, as it is in this comment, it is italicized. Just for fun, look up the word look up the word virgule.

6.      OK, let’s not be stuffy. Thirty years ago, I might have offered to criticize a friend’s manuscript. Today, since criticize has a negative connotation, I would offer (albeit incorrect) to critique the writing, and keep the friend. Until dictionary usage panels allow the word’s use as a verb in standard English, a better word choice is evaluate.

Express yourself. If in your youth, you missed some training because you covered your ears when chalk squeaked on the blackboard, start fresh. Join a writing group, buy an updated stylebook, and have fun. A publisher who thinks your work will turn a profit, knows where to find a good editor.  

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

Sweet Snookie or Snook the Snob -- by KittyCat

They’re coming over on Saturday, and I never know until they arrive which cat Auntie (my human aunt and my mother’s friend) is bringing with her. Actually, Auntie has only one cat—a tabby, that Mom calls “Sweet Snookie,” but sometimes Snook is anything but sweet.

Lots of times I’d poo on her face, if I could sit on her and get it out at the same time. Oh, there’s also the detail of catching her first. When acting real hateful, Snook checks the area for escape routes before she throws a final zinger at me.

We first met before I got adopted. She was staying with Mom and Dad while Auntie traveled. Poking around on the porch, I saw her on the other side of the screen door. I called her Gorgeous, and told her my name was Phantom. A month later, when Auntie and Snook came over, she learned I got adopted. She was all ticked cuz I was inside the house, and it was my house now.

She was hissing big strange words at me until she learned Mom named me KittyCat. Then Snook jiggled so hard with laughter, she puked.

When recovered, she followed me to under the dining room table and pretended to introduce me to someone. “May I introduce KittyCat,” Snobby Snook said all uppity, “so named to help identify this matted lump of mottled fur as feline, and not an invading alien.” She said more ugly stuff about me and then bragged about how she was pedigreed. “We tabbies are chosen to model in hundreds of advertisements. Of course I’m too dignified to prance before cameras. Gracious! The mere thought of hawking self-cleaning cat toilets in exchange for a few kibbles makes me shudder.”

Listening to her hoity-toity act, I almost puked.

Miss Queenie kept on yakking. “KittyCat, on the other paw, would trade his soul for a meal, if he couldn’t steal it first. In fact, he--”

She was still at it when Mom let me out. I didn’t know what a “disreputable boot-licking free-loader” was, but Snook was pushing my buttons, so I went to the door.

Saturday, if Miss Hateful starts in on me, I’ll tell her to go talk to a chair leg.

At the Click, Say "CAT" -- by KittyCat

After supper one night last week, I got up on Dad’s chair to get my ears and chin scratched. “Oh, good,” Mom said, “Keep him occupied while I set up the computer.”

Dad kinda frowned trying to connect thoughts of scratching my ears and Mom turning the computer on.

“I’ll need your help in a few minutes,” she said. “I’ve already tried to hold KittyCat up for the camera to catch both of us, and he wiggles out of the picture just before it snaps. I need you to hold him for me—first while I comb his jabot—he’s been obstinate about being groomed—and then to pose him close to me for our picture.”

“Comb his what?” 

“His jabot...” She pointed to my neck and chest, “see how his fur’s not smooth and even here? He’ll look scruffy in the photo.” 

Dad kinda frowned again. He’s not interested in fashion or hair styles, and I’m not either. He said he was going to bed in a bit cuz he had to get up real early, so he’d listen to his football game while he fell asleep.

“Well, in that case, I think I can take his picture, and then use one of these programs to fix it.”

By this time I had walked across the back of the couch and sat behind Mom. I saw her type this in a search box: photo enhancement.

As she clicked around different places, I finally figured out what “photo enhancement” means. I’m thinking, she can just check around for cats, then. If I’m not good enough, she can find another model.

But a second later, I remembered the pumpkin patch photo shoot, and how I outsmarted her. I slid down from the couch to the floor, and rubbed Mom’s leg with a generous show of playful affection. Let the fun begin. By the time I got tired of mucking up Mom’s picture plans, we’d see who looked scruffy.

Four hours and a half bag of bribery treats later, Mom still didn’t have the picture she wanted. I rested on the back of a chair in the living room. “Finally…and this will be so sweet,” she said as she set up the computer camera in front of me. Cat-quick I sat up and moved over just before it clicked. For a senior, Mom wasn't so slow herself.

Want a big toothy smile when you aim the camera at folks? Forget “smile, and say cheese.”  “CAT” works fine.

 

Mouse catching Season -- by KittyCat

Fall is play-with-mice time. Once, I almost got to play with one in our house—and could’ve, too, except I’d caught it about the same time Mom saw it and told Dad. Ha, ha...told? So I headed for the door thinking Dad would open it and I’d take my toy outside. But he’d gotten instructions by then. Mom isn't bossy very often, but when she is, Dad doesn't even take the time to say “yes’m.” 

He grabs me to take the mouse. I turn to hiss, and drop the mouse. It runs in Mom’s direction. She screams—at me, Dad, the mouse or—I pounce and pick up the mouse. It’s so scared I can feel its heart beating like a dozen drums tapping my teeth. It drops teeny poops on the carpet. Mom goes crazy—totally bats. Shocked, I drop the mouse. It runs under an easy chair. Dad tilts the chair, and the mouse is off again. Using Dad for a springboard, I give chase, but this time the mouse runs up the wall. The wall’s too smooth for me. The mouse zips across the wall; then it bolts down into its hole where two baseboards meet.   

Since then, mouse hunting’s no fun at my place, so yesterday I crossed the street to our friend, Chris’ yard. I sniffed out a mouse family’s hiding place, and stared at their entrance until my eyelids and head dropped. I woke up with a cold wind ruffling my fur. I climbed a tree and got on the roof of Chris’ house where it was sunny, and warm, and from up there I’d check out the whole back yard for critters...after my nap. 

I woke up more interested in food than play, but soon saw how it was easier getting on the roof than off. Luckily, Chris was in his back yard, and I cried out to him. He quit his work and went over to my house.

Soon Mom, Dad and Chris were all looking up at me. Dad said I got myself up there, and could get myself down. Mom gave him that look. He ignored it. I called up a heap of courage from somewhere, and after a few starts, managed to jump to a half-sturdy tree limb. I made it to a crook in the tree, but it was too steep to step down, and too far to jump. Chris found a box to stand on, and started to reach for me, but Dad took over. He picked me up, and handed me to Mom.

Maybe Chris helped because he’s Dad’s buddy. But I think he likes me too, cuz he invited me to mouse hunt in his yard whenever I want to. I think that’s where I’m headed next cuz fall won’t last much longer. Unless they're scampering around the garage, (at our house that's not likely) the cold winter is definitely not play-with-mice time.

(c) 2011, Bernice W. Simpson

An Attempt to Profile KittyCat, the Writer

Writing their own profiles is difficult for speakers and writers when their audience is described as “general.” Before they begin to write or give a presentation, they define their audience.
             
Even KittyCat does that. Originally he and his friend Snook wrote letters, one page or less, either on, or enclosed, in a card to Matthew, a child who had a medical problem. I think KittyCat envisioned the young boy’s mother handing the unopened envelope to him, and then once opened, mother and son would read the letter together. Now, with minor changes, KittyCat posts copies of those letters to my blog. He also writes new material. Maybe he imagines other children sitting alone in their rooms who would delight in receiving a short note tucked inside a card that’s addressed especially to them. 

During that time period, while supposedly catnapping, KittyCat was also eavesdropping on a critique group with the intent to organize snippets he gathered into a book and publish it. It is a gift book for writers, written primarily in light verse. In A Cat in the Corner: Conversations Overheard at a Writers’ Group, KittyCat managed to write primarily in the voice of human adults. It was easy enough, I suppose, because that’s who he mimicked throughout the book. In his asides, readers can catch glimpses of KittyCat’s true persona—


Well, now what? The thing is, a rule for profile writers is to stress the positive. A cardinal rule for writers of nonfiction is to tell the truth. KittyCat’s profile? Well, he’s a cat. He would add “a handsome tuxedo cat.” For character insight, you’ll just have to draw your own conclusions from his blogs. In his favor, he is warm-hearted toward children. If you want to copy one of his blogs to read to a child, I'm certain he'd grant permission (with limitations regarding attributions) if you ask him.

© 2011, Bernice Simpson