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

Unhappy Halloween Week -- by KittyCat

Way back when, people looked up to cats (even to cats snoozing on a floormat) and treated them like gods. Now cats are treated like goods, or worse, like they’re kinda worthless goods.

Well, not all cats. A famous artist said cats are masterpieces, and there are people who really love cats. There’s even a word for them: ailurophiles. Bet Mom can’t even pronounce it. Well that’s no big deal cuz I can’t either. Besides Mom shouldn't love all cats—just me.

And she does, but it gets crazy sometimes. Like today, so warm, you’d thought it was summertime outside, and Mom decided I should come in way before supper—“don’t want you out after dark,” she said.

Mom hardly lets me play outside at night, and specially not on Halloween. Monday, though, when it was freezing and barely daylight, Mom kicked me out to go potty first thing—before breakfast. How loving is that?

No sense in being cold, starving, and miserable I thought, so decided to catch a bird. Hidden by the Jeep’s tire, I felt my body twitch as a starling landed close to the driveway. I inched forward in the tire’s shadow. Clueless about its fate, the bird was checking under leaves at the driveway’s edge. Clack, the front door opened. Swoosh, the bird flew away. I hissed at Mom.

Mom made me come inside. I saw she had filled my dish to the top, but I wasn't gonna act happy about it after what she’d just done. I got up on the plant table and looked out the window. And guess who was in my yard? Stewie!

His family left some stuff behind when they moved to an apartment. Mom heard Stewie got dumped at the pound, and felt bad for him. When she saw him Monday, she got leftover steak from the fridge, pinched off a fly-sized bite for me, and took the rest out to Stewie. Can you believe it? Steak!

In a bit, I figured by the way Mom had dressed and was hurrying around she was going somewhere. Well, the morning hadn't started good, but at least I could have the computer to myself without the scary vac monster messing up my day.

Wrong. Mom had closed the office door.

That night it was worse. She came home smelling like she’d been to the pound. I smelled dogs. Mom’s a sucker for their brown eyes begging attention. I smelled cats all around and up and down Mom’s pant legs. I was so ticked!

I’ll bet a ghost in an empty house had more fun than I did this week. The up side is Halloween’s over, Tomorrow’s a brand new month, and the month after that I’ll get lots of goodies. I may not be a god, but when I think of that red stocking full of toys and treats, I feel like one. 


(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

Leaf Chasing and Cricket Catching - by KittyCat

I didn’t scratch or hiss at Mom when she scooped me up from my chair outside and plopped me on the living room floor. As quick as I thought about it, I remembered she turned on the computer, and I could write while she’s out today.

When she comes home, I’ll go outside and stay there until suppertime. That’s what I did all day yesterday and Monday. It was too nice out—like summer days, but better. Balmy, all day long.

I asked my tabby friend, Snoook, (not last time I saw her—there was no balmy in that conversation) why bombs were bad but bomby was good. She explained a whole bunch of words to me, and was so nice about it, I wondered if her real name is Snooker instead of Snookie. She could make me think something is true when maybe it isn’t.

For now, I’ll take her word for it. The week has been balmy—not oven-hot like the summer. Prettier, too. Colored leaves all over the grass, it looks something like candy sprinkles on cupcakes. That’s better than it looked all summer.

Tomorrow fall is coming back, and the next day it will even freeze. In winter I stay in most of the time, curled up on Dad’s jacket except when Mom puts it on a hanger, and mumbling how she’s not the maid, puts it in the closet. Dad and I like it on the chair. If we had a maid, Dad could fire someone for sticking stuff where he doesn't want it to go.

Since Vondell, the schnoodle moved away, I can't pester her from the brick wall in her yard, so yesterday I played savanna cat. I chased crickets, slapping one around until it wouldn't hop anymore, and then hunted for another. I caught leaves flitting down from trees or scooting across the grass. It wasn't as much fun as watching Vondell go crazy but when you don’t have someone to play with, you have to make up fun stuff.

The best thing about playing savanna cat is the pretend part, cuz I don’t have to watch out for getting tromped by elephants, and I can nap instead of hunting for food. Housecats get fed—some of them too much—I won’t mention who, or say that f-word that rhymes with cat.

I just heard Mom’s car. Good timing, cuz I’m gonna take a nap in my porch chair under the hanging plant that’s still got flowers. Or maybe I’ll lay on the porch table cuz kids coming home from school always smile, point and say how I’m so good looking. 

It’s a pretty good life, being a handsome tuxedo cat.

     

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

Welcome Home, Snook -- by KittyCat

          

Last week I was so happy to see my tabby friend, Snookie, but right off she started arguing with me. She accused me of throwing insults at her. “Snookie,” I tried to explain, “I didn't say you’d gotten fat over the summer.”

“You most certainly did.” She put on her all-uppity look.

I tried again. “I didn't even say the word fat. You’re the one who said it. What I said was...”

She jumped in, not letting me finish the sentence. “You may whisper one word while your body language screams another. I saw what you were thinking the moment Mother walked in the door with me and set me down on the floor.”

“I merely noticed you were a little rounder than usual, and said if you needed to pee or something, Mom cleaned the litter pan in the bathroom.”

“How crude,” she said in her Snook-the-Snob voice.

“What? Are we in the same conversation?”

"That word you used is crude,” she said.

“What word?” I asked.

“That three-letter word,” Snook replied real high-and-mighty like.

By now, she’d got me so flustered I felt itchy all over. Scratching my neck and thinking three-letter word, my question just popped out. You ... or fat?

With Snook right behind me, I flew past Mom and Aunt Pen, and found safety in a skinny spot between two plants Mom had brought inside for the winter. Snook hissed from the other side of a plant pot, threatening to bite my ear off if I moved from my little nook.

“What on earth has gotten into those two?” Mom had panic in her voice.

Aunt Pen isn't one to get rattled much. She looked at us like nothing special was happening. “It’s been five months,” she said. “I suppose they are getting reacquainted.” She took a sip of her Irish Cream and added, “And the exercise is good for Snook. She’s been idle and has gotten much too fat.”

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

Playthings -- by KittyCat

Dad was taking off his shoes getting ready to stretch out on the couch and watch football. 

"KittyCat is staring at the baseboard," Mom said.

Dad kinda shrugged, like that’s not something he needs to reply to.

Mom said a little louder and slower, "KittyCat – is – staring – at – the - baseboard."

By this time comfy on the couch, Dad raised his head a bit, just to show he was listening. Then, I guess cuz Mom sounded serious, he acted more interested. "...And?"

"AND." Mom said that kinda loud, like it was real important. "And that means he smells a mouse."

"Oh, he was probably asleep and was just facing that way when he woke up."

"Look at him," Mom said. Now her tone was real flat, and I just had to look at her to see if she was getting ticked

"He’s staring off into space, probably he has nothing else to do."

It’s a good thing Mom doesn't throw things. Well, she does, but it’s words. They’re not TV bad words but if they were heavy or sharp things, they’d bonk a guy pretty hard. But this time she took a deep breath, cuz  she and two friends had made a deal they'd be nice to people. “A minute ago he acted exactly like he does when he smells a mouse,” she said.

“Weather’s changing," Dad said. "Could be he can smell one under the house.”

“Under the house is just under the floor, and under the floor is almost on the floor, and on the floor is like mice running all over the house.”

It really bugs Dad when Mom connects dots that aren't even dots yet. But I guess he could tell she was upset, so he made a joke. “I think if you get enough mice eating them, you don’t need to worry about termites” Dad’s smile looked as big as a painted clown’s.

Mom didn't smile at all. “Fine, she said. We’re overdue for a termite inspection anyway, so I’ll call tomorrow, and while they’re here they can exterminate the mice.”

Dad can do math in his head real fast. “I’ll get bait and put it out tomorrow,” he said. “In the morning,” he added, cuz Mom was already reaching for the phone book. “First thing in the morning.” He gave her that honest-you-can-believe-me look.

So fall is here, and the big fuzzy moths disappeared, grasshoppers have left, crickets are almost gone, and now the mice are zapped. My toys are boring. Vondelle moved away, and I only see Snookie when Aunt Pen comes over.

Well, I guess I can play at chasing leaves as they flutter off the trees. Flutter... Ha, ha. Thinking of mice and crickets, I almost forgot them. Look out birds.

(c) 2012 Bernice W. Simpson

Nice? Yuk. -- by KittCat

Last Monday Mom didn't get the noisy, rug-eating monster out. She didn't wash stuff and make the house smell like bleach. She sat at the computer, instead—working, nice and quiet all day. Nice.

The Saturday before that, Mom had friends in. They started out poking fun at how a lady I’ll call Mrs. Rude cuz I forget her name, was really rude to Mom. Wow. I couldn't believe all the things three women could do to make Mrs. Rude wish she hadn't been tacky. I was thinking the next time Mrs. Rude saw them, she might wish she’d never been born.

But then they got serious and agreed the witch was in worse shape than a soggy kitten caught in a storm drain. Poor thing was not creative, not too smart, not pretty, not ever dressed nice, not from a happy home, and if her husband is nice, for sure the one before him wasn't  Poor Mrs. Rude. Sad, really. Worse. Pah – thet – ic. They said.

They might have joined hands and prayed for the poor woman, but Mom spoke up. “All those nots are not an excuse to act the way she does.”

As fast as I was thinking the talk was swinging back, it speeds forward. Or maybe “up” is a better word, cuz Mom added something about being thankful for blessings. Next thing I hear is how they can take the “high road.” It took me a bit, but I learned it was different from a highway, and “no more barbs” didn't mean dolls. Get this—they would be nice if they saw Poor Thing again. In fact they were finished with jibes (they’re not dances) and all forms of being catty about anybody, anytime.

When I heard “catty,” I took it as a pass for me. If catty is not so nice, but that’s how folks say cats are, I asked myself why I was on the floor instead of checking out the goodies on the coffee table. Oops! Guess I didn't catch on 100%. The “paws off the edge of the coffee table” message filled the air pretty much not-so-nice.

Well, except for Mom’s comment about my paws, she’s been real nice lately. I think she didn't trust herself, though, cuz she didn't get out much last week. She sat by the computer all day a week ago Monday, so I didn't get to write anything. Then later, she thought the computer got a germ, so she couldn't write tacky emails. As it turned out, the computer was OK, but the telephone company had gone crazy.

I didn't get to write yesterday cuz Mom had to call about the computer. She was nice on the phone, nice to the guy who came out, even nice to me when I sat on her best printer paper.

Nice. Nice. Nice. Wanna know what nice really is? --Boring. Boring, boring, boring. 

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

Escape, Part II -- by KittyCat

Chased blocks away from my home by dogs and people, I finally stretched out under a car on a cool garage floor and fell asleep. I woke up to the smell of fried chicken, and voices—a man and woman I learned were Charlie and Sharon. Hungry, I picked up and ate a line of chicken pieces that took me close to them. Trapped. Charlie pushed me into a pillow case while Sharon talked to a vet.

At his office, the vet said I didn’t have a chip. Wrong. I do, too. You don’t forget a day like when I got my chip—and it wasn’t one you eat, like I expected.

Kimberly Holt, a famous author who went to New York and got on TV was in a Hastings store near us signing a skinny brown dog book Mom wanted. When Mom called for information about the book signing, she learned a group called AKA was selling chips real cheap, and I could get one.

I never found out what was skinny—the dog or the book, but I did find out about the chips, and they weren’t food.

At Hastings, we were in line with all kinds of dogs—from horse-sized on heavy leads, to small breeds shivering in their owners’ arms. A woman beside Mom looked at the name tag on my kennel and laughed. “Kitty Cat?” Then she saw me inside. “Oh, it really is a cat!”

Right. A putting-on-the-dog event, I was the only cat there. It was awful. When the chip lady picked me up, people laughed cuz I was a cat, and I could see the big dogs betting on who’d catch me first if the lady dropped me. Using a scary-looking needle, the chip lady put one in my back. “Now if you’re ever lost,” she said, “with this micro-chip you’ll be home in no time.”

Back to the present and in the pillowcase, I felt about as happy as a chicken waiting to get its neck chopped. “Bring him in Monday for an exam,” the vet said. “Except for a handful of fur missing from his tail, he looks fine. His ears aren’t torn, and fur isn’t matted, so he hasn’t been on the lam for long.”

My new home, I learned, would be that garage I’d mistaken for a safe resting place. My food? Well, they didn’t buy cat food when Sharon insisted they’d need a litter pan. “We’ve needed a good mouser,” said Charlie.

They drove into the garage, let the door down, and then dumped me out of the pillowcase. Thirsty and starving, I headed for the door to the kitchen. “Charlie!” Sharon’s voice hit the air like a firecracker. “Get that cat. I’m not having an animal in my house.”

Charlie closed the screen door to block me, but in a minute, he did put water out. “What do you want to name her?” 

“Her?” I’m thinking Charlie’s a bird brain and Sharon’s meaner than the bitch that started the mess I’m in.

Closed in and feeling helpless, I did nothing for hours but stare at walls and wish for Mom and Dad.

Mom! -- Mom’s says something’s always better than nothing. I jumped up on garage shelves and knocked stuff down—jars, paint cans, plastic boxes that scattered stuff everywhere when lids came off. I’d already started yowling louder than Sharon’s screeches when the house door crashed open.

I scrammed as the garage door went up and Sharon screamed, “Get that cat outta here.”--Was after midnight when I got home. I could tell Mom had been crying. She told me how happy she was to see me, and cried some more. Go figure.

I’ll bet Sharon was glad she bought cat litter. I hear it’s good for cleaning up paint messes. And I’ll bet on Sunday Charlie bought some mouse traps.

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

Escape -- by KittyCat

I stayed so close to Mom yesterday, I'll bet it looked like she wore unmatched slippers--a little white one and a big black one shaped like a cat.

See, Saturday I think I lost half my nine lives--maybe eight of them. Who has time to count when you're barely holding onto whichever one you got?

The day started good with Dad and me sitting on the porch while he had coffee. When my buddy Chris joined him, I took a long drink so I could overspray where a tomcat left his logo around my place. By the time I reached the backyard, I was lost in deep thinking about how I was gonna kill the nervy tom. Two posts and the gate itself, and I'm out of pee.

Holy @#*@!! I took one leap to the fence and another over it. A dog looking a whole lot like laughing hyenas you see on TV was after me. She was bone lean, hungry, and for sure not laughing.

I felt the sting, and figured my tail got shortened, but I didn't have time to check it. By the time I jumped on top of a dumpster, she'd left my yard and caught up. Using furniture garbage piled beside the dumpster for a spring, she was on me again--almost. I made it to a tall wooden fence, took a few shaky steps along the top rail, and fell into rose bushes that stabbed me all over. At least I'd got away. Uh oh... Hello pit bull.

Whew! I was saved by the yellow-eyed bitch that wanted me for breakfast. She growled. The pit bull turned and threw its weight against the gate, snarling at the bitch. While the dogs growled at each other, I used the bushes for a shield and limped behind them to a space between a shed and the fence. Safe, but barely. I had to escape from that yard. 

I crept along the side of the shed, then eyed the distance to the fence that divided the lot between the dog's half and street side. With luck I could make it--dash to the doghouse, ("Killer" printed over its door) from its roof, to a planter on the fence, and over it. I just hoped if I fell again, it would be to the other side.

A car's brakes screeched as I ran across the street, through another yard to an alley. I spied a small water dish on a patio. No dog in sight, but the chain link fence, just like ours, looked fifty feet high. Somehow I climbed over it.

At the dish I drank and drank. A high-pitched bark interrupted my looking over the yard for a place to rest. I hissed at a terrier poised for a game of chase.

"Get outta here Cat," A man who appeared at the gate to the front yard, opened it. "Sit, Snuggles."

"Snuggles?" Any other time I'd have laughed. But this time, there was no time. Tired, and not paying attention, I walked into the path of a man with two chows on leads. One lunged at me, but its owner yanked it back. Across the street a homeowner had opened a garage door just enough to let in cool morning air--and one tired cat.

--to be continued

(c) 2012, 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

What Do You Know? -- by KittyCat

Bet you didn’t know this: humans got holes in their heads. I’m not just talking spaces between ears that maybe is a joke (I tried to check Dad’s ear the other day, but he pushed me away). These are real big spaces. So if we cats have smaller heads, it’s not cuz we got teensy brains, it’s cuz we don’t got those big spaces in our heads.

The spaces are called sinusses. I found out about it by hearing Mom tell Dad stuff after she went to the doctor.

A bunch of what she said confused me, though, and my tabby friend, Snookie, is still on vacation, so she can’t tell me about things I don’t know. Like, one thing I don’t get is the doctor had pictures made of inside Mom’s head. Well, how do you take pictures of empty spaces? Boy, Dad could have fun with that one, if Mom felt good enough to at least give him that look. Anyhow Mom’s weren't empty, and the doctor said they were a cute (a cute what I'm wondering, since ... well, like I said Snookie isn't here to explain things).  

Being a cute is good, right? But it sounds like a human maybe likes cute on the outside, but not inside, cuz Mom’s taking pills to get rid of the cute stuff. 

She didn't do much this weekend. So I didn't do much, either. I spent most my time just being with Mom, cuz folks get better faster when they have someone special like me to keep them company. I’ll bet you already know that and have a nice cat or little dog in your family. But if you didn't know it, well, you do now, and there’s a special friend waiting at the animal shelter to get adopted by someone real nice like you.

Friendship and Stuff -- by KittyCat

I’m confused.

First, my tabby friend, Snook says I spelled it wrong: soshell—it means really nice and friendly. OK, so I’ll spell it her way, but lots of times I don’t know when to believe her, cuz Snook’s favorite topic is talking about what she does better than me. I think when she runs out of real stuff, she makes things up just to bug me.

Thought I knew what social means, but now am confused about that, too. A man, Mr. President, was on TV one day—just smiling and talking to folks, real friendly like. A guy visiting us said something about Mr. President being the socialest. That’s gotta mean more social than anyone else, but the guy frowned, like that wasn’t such a good thing. “Anymore and he’d be red” said this guy.   

Well, I didn’t see Mr. President getting all red faced, and why should he? Nobody said anything to make him look stupid. In fact he was the only one talking. Red? Maybe the guy can’t see color so good. I’ve heard TV people say Mr. President is black. Mom says he’s half black and that makes him half white, and what does it matter anyhow?

Dad doesn’t say much—you can’t tell for sure if he agrees or disagrees with people. Mom’s different. She said “red” was a little strong, but Mr. President did lean to the left. Maybe I missed it, but he stood up straight when I looked. I’ve never seen him leaning left, but he does look real funny getting off his airplane. He holds his hands just like dogs do their paws when they’re begging.

Mom said Mr. President is begging—for votes, but he won’t get many from her friends, cuz Mr. President is turning lazy people into freeloaders.

About the first thing Snook ever said to me was that I was a freeloader. “And I’m proud of it,” I said, knowing she was jealous cuz I moved in. “And if I’m one, then you’re one, too,” I said. She tried to tell me how her getting adopted by Aunt Pen was different than my moving in here, but I drowned her out by saying “freeloader” over and over. She jumped at me, so I went to the door to escape outside.

Snook can’t go outside much because this doctor had a big student loan to pay off, so he talked Aunt Pen into letting him take Snook’s front paws’ claws. I can’t see why anyone would buy them. What good’s a claw without a paw?

Snook’s on vacation with Aunt Pen. I guess I do know what social is, cuz I miss her. We argue a lot, but sometimes we just sit or snooze in the same room, and like it cuz we’re more than social (if that's how you spell it)—we’re best friends.

Cats Rule? -- by KittyCat

Dad didn’t work yesterday. So what, you ask? Well, Mom hogged the office nearly all day, that’s what. By afternoon, I could see I wasn’t getting the computer, so I went outside.

Nice and quiet-like, I was under Dad’s pickup waiting for some birds to show up. Guess who shows up instead? You guessed it—Mom. I couldn’t figure out what she was doing with a bucket of water, but with her moving around the yard, I knew the birds weren’t gonna gather on our grass.

It didn’t matter, really. After staring out over the yard, a guy gets tired. I thought about getting out from under the pickup and go to my chair on the porch, or get up on the pickup and watch Mom. But my head got too heavy to hold up, and my eyelids dropped shut. Now and again when she’d open and close a car door, I’d half open my eyes, then fall back to sleep. 

Suddenly cold water zapped me, and Mom was screaming, “Oh, poor KittyCat, Mommy’s so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

I scrambled to Dad who had come out to sit on the porch.

“He’s OK,” Dad said, pulling a cat treat from his pocket. “He’s barely wet.”

What people call “barely wet” is what cats call “water torture.” Rinsing her car, Mom had aimed the water hose at a headlight. Water bounced from it like a tornado’s downpour to where I was sleeping under Dad’s pickup.

We all went in after a bit, and I headed for the office chair. Guess what? Mom gets Monster out and starts sucking up stuff off the office floor. It wudda ate me if I hadn’t been in the chair. When she turned Monster off to move a file box, I moved, too—right outta the office.

On Aunt Pen’s refrigerator is a computer picture a friend made for her. It’s supposed to be Snookie wearing a crown (a diamond tiara, says Snook the snob). I think it’s a tabby picture lifted from a flea collar ad. Anyhow, above it in big fancy letters is “Cats Rule.” And they do, says Snook.

Oh Yeah? Wish someone would tell Mom.

(c) 2011, 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.

Let's Eat -- by KittyCat

"Oral Mature Canned Cat Food - 3 oz."Fresh Step Scoopable Cat Litter - 42 lbs. - Pet MonthFresh Step Scoopable Cat Litter - 42 lbs. - Pet Month

Mom grumped this morning cuz I woke her up. She used to get up at 6:00 AM cuz she had kids. So, she should get up at six (5:30 would be better) cuz she's got a cat.

"I’ll bet you need to use the bathroom,” she said after I ate my breakfast. It was special canned food Mom had been hiding--a Christmas present from Aunt Pen and Snookie.

I did need to go outside. But the bathroom? The bathrooms are inside, and so are all my litter pans that need fresh litter, but the box is empty. Out in the flower bed, I was wondering why people say they gotta go to the bathroom. Well, not everyone says it. Kids are honest. I’ve heard them, “I gotta pee, I gotta pee, I gotta pee.”

When she hears a kid say that, Mom gets as uppity as my tabby friend, Snook the snob. “How puh-thet-ic,” she says, “that’s such poor breeding.” Which shows Mom doesn’t know as much as she thinks. When there’s no sense in doing nothing but saying hello to a gorgeous cat cuz the vet took your parts—That’s poor breeding. Come to think of it, it’s no breeding at all.

While out, I decided to chase birds before it got hot. I like pestering birds, but I didn’t chase birds to catch and eat them till I was all the time real hungry. And that was cuz Mom put Rx food in my dish. I’d rather eat dirt than the Rx food. At least dirt has a few tasty bugs in it. Rx food –it’s just yuk.

Ha, ha. Yesterday I left bird feathers on our welcome doormat, and then feathers from another bird on the sidewalk. Mom shrieked when she stepped out to the porch. “Dead birds.” She looked at Dad when she said it, like his head couldn’t figure that one. Then, just like Snook the snob, she goes on and on about how disgusting it is. Finally, she asked, “What gets into you, KittyCat?”

“A bird—same thing that’s in you when you eat fried chicken.” She didn’t understand what I said. She just thought I was purring.

After Dad put the bird remains in the dumpster (an excuse to ignore Mom’s string of words that all mean disgusting) Dad told her not to buy any more food from the vet. Maybe he’s taking my side cuz I don’t like it, but could be he didn’t like paying for the high-dollar yuk food.  

Right now, Mom’s off to the store for fresh litter, good cat food, treats, and maybe people food, too. I have the computer all to myself. When Mom gets back, she can fill my dish, and then take a nap if she wants. If I like my new food, I won’t wake her up. But I’m talking about today—5:30 PM, a whole different thing than 5:30 AM of a brand new day tomorrow.   

(c) 2012, Bernice W. Simpson

Funday Monday -- by KittyCat

I cudda done Mom’s legs like a scratching post, I was so ticked off. So, last Monday when I went out, I went over a street where I’d be a good ways from her. In a bad mood, I hissed at a pipsqueak of a Pomeranian barking at me through its chain-link fence. I postured right up to the fence. Hissing, I lifted my paw toward her nose. A cat must have scratched her once, cuz I didn’t get close, but she yelped like she’d been caught in a bear trap. I laughed and laughed.

Out for five minutes, I forgot I wanted to get back at Mom. I forgot to find mice to drop all bloody on our welcome mat. I chased the birds off that whole block, and then ran home to clear our yard of the critters.—Great fun.

Later on, I heard Mom calling, “KittyCat…KittyCat…”

Starving, I wanted to run to her and into my house to where my dish is, and beside it a cat-shaped jar of food for refills. Getting sleepy, too, I wanted to take a nap inside cuz it was hotter than a just-fried chicken out there. I wanted to go in, but …. I hate bad-before-it-gets-good choices.

This time the bad was embarrassment. A carload of church people handing out their magazines had just taken over both sides of our street. Mom says we should always be hopeful. So, I’m thinking, I’ll make a run for the porch before anybody notices me.

“Well, there’s your kitty cat,” says a lady who was all set to tell Mom what God thinks of us Methodists. “So pretty. What’s her name?”

HER!!! Her name? I'm insulted. Well, of course. Like, who would know? When you don’t have the parts, even other cats have their doubts. Next, I hear Mom’s reply--it's a double put-down in less than a minute. But “duh” on the woman’s face turns it funny.

Ha, ha. I guess the woman thought anybody so stupid they couldn’t come up with a better name for their cat is best left in their own church. She didn’t even give Mom any stuff she had to hand folks, and with another woman she headed—like walking really fast cuz they didn’t wear fancy shoes—toward the next house.

When you’re laughing at folks, you can’t be angry, and you can’t stay embarrassed. I’d been laughing too hard to eat right away, so I let Mom hug me and tell me gooey stuff about how much she loves me, and how I’m so handsome. After a bit, she put me down by my dish. Forgetting how bad the day started, I snacked, then crashed, and had happy dreams.

©2012, Bernice W. Simpson

It's short -- by KittyCat

Karina Ohmes, my best human friend, calls me Trouble. And when she's around, I sure try to live up to that name. It's Karina's birthday, so first thing I gotta do: Happy Birthday, Karina.


Mom shut me out of the office cuz I'd mess up her tax paperwork, she said. That's crazy. You can't mess up something that's already messed, and there's no way I could make this office messier. You sure can't tell by looking that it's Monday, Mom's housecleaning day.  


I only got in the office cuz Mom went to the front door when a guy rang the doorbell. She's telling a yard guy we already got a yard guy. Ha, ha. That's Dad. 


Anyhow, Mom had Karina's Facebook page up, and I got this picture from her page. It's from Animal Abuse!! The Punishment Should Fit The Crime. No sense it thinking about blogging today with Mom hogging the computer. So maybe you'll like this and will think about adopting a furry friend. 

I Thought I Drowned -- by KittyCat

Dad’s home now. He went on a fishing trip, a good ten-hour drive from our house. He said he’d caught lots of fish. When he caught catfish, he threw them back in the water. Since I’m his best buddy, I guess he couldn’t bring himself to eat something called CATfish, so he only kept crappy fish. He even brought some home in plastic freezer bags. All cut up, you can’t tell they’re crappy, so when Dad has a fish fry, Mom won’t know them from store-bought ones.

I kinda wanted to go, too, but I’m also kinda scared of water. Maybe it’s cuz around here we’re just not used to it. I mean real water, like in real lakes (I’ve never seen one) with fish swimming in them. Ha, ha. Most the fish I’ve seen don’t move, much less swim. They’re inside-out and spread with herbs and butter where their innards were. They’re dead. --Can smell that way pretty quick, too.

Our water mostly comes out of taps or garden hoses or sprinklers. Some pop up from the ground. No kidding—it’s now you see it, now you don’t. A few years ago, in my case it was feel it.

I’d seen birds in the yard next door. I crept over there, hidden by a bush, ready to charge. Wham! I’m whacked hard, right in my belly. All wet underneath I just knew I was bleeding to death. I took a step. I saw I was trapped in a circle of water rushing up from the thing that murdered me.

I just gotta make it to my own chair on my own porch, I thought. I ran through the torture trap, across the lawn to my house and climbed into my chair. I lay there all wet and shivering, wishing I hadn’t pestered Mom so much, especially sorry for pulling her hair at 5 AM to wake her up. I closed my eyes remembering what fun I’d had with Dad and a strange, bouncing red dot I chased and chased, but never caught. I felt more miserable than a beer-drinking snail.

Next thing I knew, Dad was on the porch with his morning coffee, his newspaper not open yet. He was offering me treats. I slid off the chair. Still sleepy, everything came slowly. No blood? I’m alive. The chair’s dry. I’m dry. Ha, ha. I’m not even hurt from all that water.

A bit of water is not bad. Maybe next year I’ll go with Dad. So he’ll know he can keep them, I’ll take a bite from the first catfish hanging on his line, and he can leave the crappy fish for the guys out in the other boats.

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

Going Fishing -- by KittyCat

I got excited a few weeks back cuz Dad and I were going fishing—a short day trip to make sure his stuff all worked just right before he went on a long trip.

Mom thinks boats are made to sit in and read without being bothered by the telephone. She reads weird books when we’re supposed to be out having fun. Like that very day, she had a book open. It was about house parts. Boring, right? It gets worse. The very top of a page said in big letters “Functions of Carpet.” Sheesh—you can bet even a stupid dog like Stooee knows carpets are made for snoozing when folks are hogging the furniture.

Anyhow, I gave Dad a special fishing knife last year for Father’s Day. It’s called an electric fillet knife, but you don’t even have to plug it into anything. All Dad has to do is hold a fish by the tail, and toss the scraps to me when he turns the knife off.

“Raw fish,” Mom said one day… Well, you don’t want to know what she said, or much less what Dad said after that.

So we were almost ready for our day trip, and Mom yelled at me. “KittyCat! Get out of there.”

I wasn’t IN there. I would never never get in a tub of water. I was just looking over the side of the tub Dad had filled with little fish.

“We’ll see you at supper, Dear,” Mom said to Dad. “KittyCat and I are staying home. He’ll just be a bother.”

“OK,” Dad gave her a little "see you later" kiss, pretending to be cheerful.

But I felt sorry for him. He’d gone to all that work to get me a tub full of little fish so I could catch them while he caught big fish.

Mom just doesn't understand guy fun.