"What I'm looking for is a blessing that's not in disguise" - Angie Skelhorn
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
It's a Cat's Life by Jane Lobb
It’s a Cat’s Life
by Jane Lobb
You may think that Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday or Sunday,
Make no difference to your sweet little honey,
But I’ll let you into a secret, you clearly don’t see,
The different days of the week, put my life all at sea...
From Monday through Friday, at the crack of dawn you clear off,
For the majority of the day, I can laze, snooze or scoff,
In the evenings you return around six o’clock,
Just in time to feed me and satisfy my body clock...
But Saturday and Sunday – who invented those days?
When children and adults descend and splay,
You get up at different times, my breakfast is late,
This different routine, I have grown to hate....
I get interrupted in my sleep, have to rest in different places,
To avoid the noise and the busy ways,
And when I’m ready for my evening cuddle
You go out the door and return really late; and all in a muddle...
So, spare a thought to the Cat on those horrible weekends,
When you change the routine for your own ends.
I live here too, I’ll have you know,
A little extra consideration, is all I ask that you show.
by Jane Lobb
You may think that Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday or Sunday,
Make no difference to your sweet little honey,
But I’ll let you into a secret, you clearly don’t see,
The different days of the week, put my life all at sea...
From Monday through Friday, at the crack of dawn you clear off,
For the majority of the day, I can laze, snooze or scoff,
In the evenings you return around six o’clock,
Just in time to feed me and satisfy my body clock...
But Saturday and Sunday – who invented those days?
When children and adults descend and splay,
You get up at different times, my breakfast is late,
This different routine, I have grown to hate....
I get interrupted in my sleep, have to rest in different places,
To avoid the noise and the busy ways,
And when I’m ready for my evening cuddle
You go out the door and return really late; and all in a muddle...
So, spare a thought to the Cat on those horrible weekends,
When you change the routine for your own ends.
I live here too, I’ll have you know,
A little extra consideration, is all I ask that you show.
Friday, June 25, 2010
If Life Could Be Like That by Angie Skelhorn
IF LIFE COULD BE LIKE THAT
by Angie Skelhorn
I enjoy my morning coffee in the company of the sun, wind, and wildlife. On this day I sat alone for some time without distraction. My cat, Oscar, decided to attract my attention. He made his way under the balcony, on to the brace-boards and was calling out.
Oscar playfully rubbed himself along the wood. I stood, walked over, and gave him some love before I directed him how to come down.
My little friend rushed, tail in the air, to where I waited at the bottom of the stairs. Again we shared niceties. Once I knew he was safe and could decide for himself to stay or come, I returned to where I sat. Seconds later Oscar came running. He gave me a sharp meow to announce his presence. Two seconds later he jumped into my lap. He rolled over on to his back, then on to his paws. I reached out to stroke his soft hair. His purr said it all. His joy for the moment quickly spread into me. I'm grateful for Oscar even though before we met I didn't want another feline.
Let me start at the beginning. Many, many, many years ago I dreamt in my arms a smoky grey cat. Upon a visit to the family farm I heard a panic meow. Amongst the tall weeds I found a scared smoky grey kitten just old enough to be on his own. I named him Chucky and brought him home with me to the city.
The delicate little kitten stayed by my side for twenty-three years. He possessed the ability to calm. He brought me great comfort.
Chucky was a rough looking cat when he had a stroke. I tried to bring him ease in his hour of need. After Chucky was laid to rest I didn't want another feline. The scar on my heart needed time to heal.
Oscar and I met on a sunny afternoon about four years go. I was living down town, when Oscar adopted me as his friend. The truck I was in pulled up into the parking spot. I stepped out. I saw an orange lightly, striped cat coming toward me from a distance. I invited him in to my ground floor apartment for a meal. He ate stayed for awhile and, with a loud meow at the front door, requested to be let outside.
His visits were quite frequent. I named him Oscar. He is the perfect silhouette of a sleek golden statue.
I moved to the home my grandfather built for my grandmother. There is a love story behind the construction.
Oscar wasn't going to be left behind. During the move my friends daughter put Oscar in the bathroom until all was settled. Oscar never fought his relocation. He slept while a few of my closest friends organized what needed to be done.
My friend's daughter cared for Oscar. She kept him safe from harm. When it came time to leave she wrapped Oscar inside her coat. She talked gently to ease his travels. He rested in her arms like a baby.
Oscar adjusted quickly to his new environment. My little friend will sit by the front door and release one large meow when he wants outside to roam. No matter how long he is in the hay fields, he'll always come home.
I'm not impressed with the chipmunks, birds and other small creatures he brings to me as offerings of devotion. That I could do without. I never scold him for I understand what he does is only part of the circle of life.
I value Oscar's psychic sensitivity. He has the same ability as all cats; Oscar is sensitive to energy vibrations. His radar reacts when Spirit are especially active allowing me to know it is time to tune in.
My little friend is polite pet. When he returns home he lets out a quick meow to say thank you as he charges through the door on his way to his food dish.
Oscar spends his life being pampered because he doesn't expect much. His wants
are small. His needs basic. A safe home, a clean litter box, fresh water, food for his tiny belly and every now and then some affection.
Oscar brings me as much comfort as I bring him. A solid friendship of giving and receiving love and support.
If people could be more like Oscar what a world we would have; the power to bring out the best in each other. There, through the good times and bad. A loyal companion. A true friend.
Author Bio- Angie Skelhorn's web site. Her first novel "On The Edge," will be released by http://clublighthousepublishing.com in August 2010.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Stalin's Cat by Larry Lefkowitz
Stalin’s Cat
by Larry Lefkowitz
She sits, belled light blue ribbon around her neck, on
an orange pillow, plump and prissy. The painting is unsigned.
The painter, they say, disappeared in the gulag. Others claim
that he still lives in Moscow. Others, that Stalin himself
painted it. It once adorned Stalin’s office wall, they say.
Or that of his dacha on the Black Sea. Now rumor has it in the
Hermitage museum. Or sold, or given, to an American magnate.
Some say Southeby’s is tracking it down for an auction on
Soviet non-realistic art, though a dispute about whether it
falls within this category remains unresolved. There are
rumors that the painting was destroyed by Stalin after a
midnight drinking bout with cronies in the Kremlin, that
he, sober the next day, ordered a new painting, but that
the artist (the original or another) could not capture the
essence of the first (despite the leader’s description), and
was exiled to Siberia. Maybe it is the second painting that
exists, maybe not. Oddly enough, nothing is known of the fate
of the cat. Svetlana, Stalin’s daughter, who of course called
it “the Cheshire cat,” claimed that it never existed.
by Larry Lefkowitz
She sits, belled light blue ribbon around her neck, on
an orange pillow, plump and prissy. The painting is unsigned.
The painter, they say, disappeared in the gulag. Others claim
that he still lives in Moscow. Others, that Stalin himself
painted it. It once adorned Stalin’s office wall, they say.
Or that of his dacha on the Black Sea. Now rumor has it in the
Hermitage museum. Or sold, or given, to an American magnate.
Some say Southeby’s is tracking it down for an auction on
Soviet non-realistic art, though a dispute about whether it
falls within this category remains unresolved. There are
rumors that the painting was destroyed by Stalin after a
midnight drinking bout with cronies in the Kremlin, that
he, sober the next day, ordered a new painting, but that
the artist (the original or another) could not capture the
essence of the first (despite the leader’s description), and
was exiled to Siberia. Maybe it is the second painting that
exists, maybe not. Oddly enough, nothing is known of the fate
of the cat. Svetlana, Stalin’s daughter, who of course called
it “the Cheshire cat,” claimed that it never existed.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Skat by Floyd A. Hyatt
Skat
by Floyd A. Hyatt
Far below, through the picture window, flashing yellow lights sent waves of colored shadow over the mounded snows of the deep ravine, punctuated by pin-points of bright, oscillating red. These glittered too, but didn't seem to spread across the ravine as did the yellow. Stuck in the snow, were small black and broken strut affairs strewed across a ten yard spot, intermixed with brightly painted shards of wooden panel. The snow's surface there was disturbed, like lumpy scrambled eggs on a clean white plate. From my window high on the ravine's edge, the hook and ladder looked to be about ten inches long. I couldn't imagine why they had sent it, the EMS truck would have been sufficient, as there wasn't a fire. Two black-and-whites sat off the threading road's berm, like match box toys abandoned by some distracted child.
It had been a typical day for Skat, our short haired tabby. Coming downstairs Christmas evening, I had almost tripped over the Tom, as it lay on a tread in the staircase's middle. Then later, after dinner, we had caught him batting bulbs off the tree, almost toppling our evergreen. It wasn't until he jumped on the table and knocked over the holiday candle arrangement that we had temporarily put him out.
What with presents still to wrap, and all the last minute bustle, we had remanded the cat to the front yard. This was not a cruelty for the big tom. The front is fenced, and with his thick fur, he actually likes this for short periods. What happened after wasn't his fault.
The presents were ready and the stockings tacked up over the fireplace. Exhausted, we trudged up to bed, Scat forgotten. Terrible to say, but on the rare occasion we forget to call him in, he generally climbed the elm in the front yard and leaped over to the window casing, shredding the screen until we let him in. It wass usually only summers that he parked himself on the roof to sun. On such occasions I've had to get the ladder out and get him down.
Anyway, we had forgotten, and left Scat out.
About four AM, there had been a clatter and scraping impact on the roof, some surprised exclamations, and a loud Tom-cat yowl. I arose from my bed to see what was the matter and ran down the stairs in time to see a large colorful mass, preceded by some deer, pitch past the picture window through the dark. I wonderingly eyed the window for a second, stunned, then remembered Scat. I threw on my coat and ran to the garage, retrieved the ladder, and mounted to the roof from the side yard, to inspect the rear pitch.
I fumbled out the flashlight and clicked it on. There was a small cat shaped depression in the snow at the roof center, and from there, a snow trail led off in that clear and mess manner cats do when leaping away. Preceding this, clear in the snow, were two rail straight tracks and deer hoof prints for twelve feet, then a messy skid just before the cat nest, skewing downward, ending at the roof-edge on the ravine side.
Even from here, the ravine had been just a black shadow stretching away from the yardless rear of the house. We have a small retaining wall there and four feet beyond that, a mandatory snow fence just before the drop off.
There was a second yowl from the base of the ladder, so with some relief, I climbed back down. Sure enough, Skat was winding around the ladder's legs, looking agitated. I picked him up, and went back inside.
It was almost daylight when I called the police - anonymously, I didn't want police knocking on my door Christmas day to make some droll report. I just mentioned that there might be some animal carcasses on the ravine road, and since I knew the mile marker by heart, they must have sent someone right out.
Just before turning away from the window, I saw two EMS guys carrying a stretcher towards the ambulance. I could just make out a bright red snowsuit on it.
by Floyd A. Hyatt
Far below, through the picture window, flashing yellow lights sent waves of colored shadow over the mounded snows of the deep ravine, punctuated by pin-points of bright, oscillating red. These glittered too, but didn't seem to spread across the ravine as did the yellow. Stuck in the snow, were small black and broken strut affairs strewed across a ten yard spot, intermixed with brightly painted shards of wooden panel. The snow's surface there was disturbed, like lumpy scrambled eggs on a clean white plate. From my window high on the ravine's edge, the hook and ladder looked to be about ten inches long. I couldn't imagine why they had sent it, the EMS truck would have been sufficient, as there wasn't a fire. Two black-and-whites sat off the threading road's berm, like match box toys abandoned by some distracted child.
It had been a typical day for Skat, our short haired tabby. Coming downstairs Christmas evening, I had almost tripped over the Tom, as it lay on a tread in the staircase's middle. Then later, after dinner, we had caught him batting bulbs off the tree, almost toppling our evergreen. It wasn't until he jumped on the table and knocked over the holiday candle arrangement that we had temporarily put him out.
What with presents still to wrap, and all the last minute bustle, we had remanded the cat to the front yard. This was not a cruelty for the big tom. The front is fenced, and with his thick fur, he actually likes this for short periods. What happened after wasn't his fault.
The presents were ready and the stockings tacked up over the fireplace. Exhausted, we trudged up to bed, Scat forgotten. Terrible to say, but on the rare occasion we forget to call him in, he generally climbed the elm in the front yard and leaped over to the window casing, shredding the screen until we let him in. It wass usually only summers that he parked himself on the roof to sun. On such occasions I've had to get the ladder out and get him down.
Anyway, we had forgotten, and left Scat out.
About four AM, there had been a clatter and scraping impact on the roof, some surprised exclamations, and a loud Tom-cat yowl. I arose from my bed to see what was the matter and ran down the stairs in time to see a large colorful mass, preceded by some deer, pitch past the picture window through the dark. I wonderingly eyed the window for a second, stunned, then remembered Scat. I threw on my coat and ran to the garage, retrieved the ladder, and mounted to the roof from the side yard, to inspect the rear pitch.
I fumbled out the flashlight and clicked it on. There was a small cat shaped depression in the snow at the roof center, and from there, a snow trail led off in that clear and mess manner cats do when leaping away. Preceding this, clear in the snow, were two rail straight tracks and deer hoof prints for twelve feet, then a messy skid just before the cat nest, skewing downward, ending at the roof-edge on the ravine side.
Even from here, the ravine had been just a black shadow stretching away from the yardless rear of the house. We have a small retaining wall there and four feet beyond that, a mandatory snow fence just before the drop off.
There was a second yowl from the base of the ladder, so with some relief, I climbed back down. Sure enough, Skat was winding around the ladder's legs, looking agitated. I picked him up, and went back inside.
It was almost daylight when I called the police - anonymously, I didn't want police knocking on my door Christmas day to make some droll report. I just mentioned that there might be some animal carcasses on the ravine road, and since I knew the mile marker by heart, they must have sent someone right out.
Just before turning away from the window, I saw two EMS guys carrying a stretcher towards the ambulance. I could just make out a bright red snowsuit on it.
Friday, June 18, 2010
The Game of Cat and Mouse by Jane Lobb
The Game of Cat and Mouse
by Jane Lobb
May I request an ear in our comfortable house,
To explain the rules of cat and mouse,
The situation is currently getting out of hand,
So please take time to listen and understand.
To hunt and kill is an innate feline trait,
One that requires careful skill and no mistake,
To become adept requires practise and precision,
A competence to be admired, not viewed with derision.
When I deliver a creature that is all dead,
Don’t jump up, scream and be filled with dread,
It’s a gift to thank you for your love and consideration,
In the only way I can provide communication.
So, when presented with a treasured mouse,
Don’t remove it immediately from your house,
Simply, give me a stroke and a little treat,
And (when I’m not looking) remove it quickly, it’s no mean feat.
I can then curl up on you lap, my work all done,
And we can share moments together, some,
I’ll be happy having accomplished my mission,
And you’ll have learnt the art of discretion.
by Jane Lobb
May I request an ear in our comfortable house,
To explain the rules of cat and mouse,
The situation is currently getting out of hand,
So please take time to listen and understand.
To hunt and kill is an innate feline trait,
One that requires careful skill and no mistake,
To become adept requires practise and precision,
A competence to be admired, not viewed with derision.
When I deliver a creature that is all dead,
Don’t jump up, scream and be filled with dread,
It’s a gift to thank you for your love and consideration,
In the only way I can provide communication.
So, when presented with a treasured mouse,
Don’t remove it immediately from your house,
Simply, give me a stroke and a little treat,
And (when I’m not looking) remove it quickly, it’s no mean feat.
I can then curl up on you lap, my work all done,
And we can share moments together, some,
I’ll be happy having accomplished my mission,
And you’ll have learnt the art of discretion.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
Naming by Jen McConnel
Naming
by Jen McConnel
He came to us with a silly-sweet name
Tiger, or Tigger, I can’t remember now
and I immediately knew
this cat was named-
-something else.
I waited for him to tell me his name
for days I waited,
all the while trying every name
I could think of on for size
none of them fit for more than a
blink
finally I decided on
Merlin
a noble fit for a grey and black cat
with deep, powerful eyes.
Now, I wonder in exasperation if perhaps Loki
wasn’t a more apt choice
given his antagonizing tendency towards mischief
especially within the confines
of the kitchen.
Jen McConnel's Website
by Jen McConnel
He came to us with a silly-sweet name
Tiger, or Tigger, I can’t remember now
and I immediately knew
this cat was named-
-something else.
I waited for him to tell me his name
for days I waited,
all the while trying every name
I could think of on for size
none of them fit for more than a
blink
finally I decided on
Merlin
a noble fit for a grey and black cat
with deep, powerful eyes.
Now, I wonder in exasperation if perhaps Loki
wasn’t a more apt choice
given his antagonizing tendency towards mischief
especially within the confines
of the kitchen.
Jen McConnel's Website
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
California Hazard Cats and Some Changes to the Blog
California Hazard Cats
I'm going to have to drop down posting until I start getting paid at my new job, which will be in about a month in a half. Therefore, I invite you to send your kitty pics in if you'd like to have them posted on days when there isn't any writing or artwork featured. You can read how to send pictures in here.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Hazard Cat is taking a week-long break
Mr. Cloud McCloud of the Clan McCloud
Hazard Cat needs to take a break for a week, but I'll post pics of my six babies throughout the week. We'll be back with stories, poems, and purrsonal stories next Monday!
Friday, June 4, 2010
My Cat Benjamin by Ella Lobb
My Cat Benjamin
by Ella Lobb
My cat Benjamin,
Is very fat.
He sleeps all day,
And it makes him fat.
He miaows in the morning,
And prowls at night.
For his breakfast he’s calling,
When it’s light.
He hunts for birds and brings them in,
As a present,
That’s not very pleasant!
Oh, bad boy Benjamin...
I love my cat,
Who’s very fat,
He’s warm and furry and loving too,
And always there with a cuddle or two.
By Ella Lobb aged 9
by Ella Lobb
My cat Benjamin,
Is very fat.
He sleeps all day,
And it makes him fat.
He miaows in the morning,
And prowls at night.
For his breakfast he’s calling,
When it’s light.
He hunts for birds and brings them in,
As a present,
That’s not very pleasant!
Oh, bad boy Benjamin...
I love my cat,
Who’s very fat,
He’s warm and furry and loving too,
And always there with a cuddle or two.
By Ella Lobb aged 9
Thursday, June 3, 2010
A Fine Feline Friend by Jane Lobb
A Fine Feline Friend
by Jane Lobb
I was never sure whether Benjamin and Bunny were friends or foes. Sometimes they would sit together in the garden, cat beside rabbit, in the shade of the willow tree, sheltering out of the hot summer sun. Other times they would ignore each other, as if neither existed in the other’s world. Occasionally, Benjamin would hiss at Bunny and bolt up the nearest tree, and Bunny would thump his big hind feet on the ground in temper. Then one day Benjamin saved Bunny’s life, and that just about cleared it all up.
As cats go, Benjamin had always been different; those wise brown eyes displayed a depth I had not encountered in my previous pets. Being a feline lover all my life, I had kept various varieties over the years, but the large tabby with the thick, bushy coat seemed wiser somehow and very mature for his 4 years. Of course, he indulged all the usual cat habits: enjoyed his food, crept up onto my lap for affectionate evening cuddles, and sought out sun traps in the house – those little glints of warmth that found their way through windows directly on to a lovely, soft bed or sofa. There he would rest and enjoy endless, long snoozes, in the much sought after English sunshine. But there was something more to his personality, something stronger.
Ours had always been a busy, happy, family house; the children were always running around, noisily playing, the hamster rolled around the kitchen in its exercise ball, our teenage son’s music would bear down on us from his bedroom above. It was a home bursting with life and vitality.
And the garden was no different. When you opened the back door into the long garden, shaded at the end by the apple and willow trees, the big white lop-eared Bunny invariably came running over to meet you. Benjamin didn’t escape this greeting. When he exited his cat flap he was met the by large Bunny head on, and often they rolled around on the grass together, locked in mock combat. This large, curious, fearless Bunny, who was interested in everything and frightened of nothing.
Benjamin was always saving his bacon, getting him out of scrapes. Like that wet day in June when he got trapped in the playhouse. We returned home to find Benjamin meowing loudly in the garden. We followed his calls to the playhouse, opened the door and Bunny hopped out.
And the time when Bunny, famous for his escapology stunts, dug the huge hole and escaped into our neighbour’s garden. Benjamin must have watched him dig all afternoon. I walked out into the garden just as his long, stripy cats’ tail was disappearing down the hole. When I looked over the fence I could see Bunny leaning over the pond watching his own reflection in the water. Benjamin sauntered over and gently nudged him out of the way, so that he wouldn’t fall into the water.
It seemed to me, that the Bunny had adopted the feline curiosity of the cat and Benjamin, rather than joining him in those explorations, had become his protector.
Then one day it happened, and it happened so quickly that it took us all by surprise; a dog broke into the garden.
One afternoon we arrived home to find Benjamin at the door meowing loudly; it was a desperate scream that chilled you to the bone and one that we had heard before, calling us to retreat to the garden as quickly as possible. We raced through the house to the garden not daring to guess what the problem was. Nothing could have prepared us for what we were to see. Bunny was laying flat out on the grass, unmoving, his white fur tainted with bright red blood.
We scooped him up and drove through the long, spiking rain, straight to the vets. The injury could have been worse – we were told he had one puncture wound, but it didn’t need surgery; the shock was more worrying. It was touch and go for the rabbit. Benjamin was unhurt but deeply shocked and we took him home. For three desperate days the Bunny stayed at the vets. For three days Benjamin pined for him. He came into the house only to be cuddled and stroked but refused all food and for the rest of the time sat by the Bunny house waiting.
During this time I saw our neighbour, John. “How’s that Bunny?” he asked in his loud booming voice.
“Not too good, I’m afraid.” I replied, glumly.
“Well, there’s one brave cat there.” he said. Apparently, he had witnessed the whole event.
“That dog broke into your garden and the cat was up the apple tree. It came straight down and ran at the dog, screaming like a hyena with all its nails out. Scared the dog off well and truly, it did. And he wouldn’t leave that Bunny. Sat beside him screaming until you came home. He deserves a medal, I reckon.”
Ironically, the dog had got into the garden through a hole that the Bunny had dug – trying to escape into the other neighbour’s garden. When the dog had approached, the fearless Bunny didn’t even move.
On the fourth day we got a call from the vet. Bunny could come home. When we brought Bunny through the front door in the cat carrier Benjamin immediately approached him, climbed in and lay with him. We left them both there, cuddled together. Sadly, Bunny died the next day. The vet said the shock had been too much for him. At least he had come home to be with his friend and his protector.
Sadness permeated throughout our house for several days. The noisy, happy atmosphere seemed to have disappeared for a while and was tainted and uncomfortable, like damp clothes on a rainy day. Strangely, it was Benjamin that brought it back.
A week later, he entered his cat flap on a warm, windy summer’s day, with something fluffy wriggling around in his mouth. “Oh Mum, look, what has Benjamin caught!” exclaimed my daughter. I looked down at him as he gently released his capture. It was the Hamster.”Oh, it’s Florence!” exclaimed my daughter. Then we both noticed the empty exercise ball, lying on the kitchen floor and broken in two. “Look Mum, he saved Florence.” And he had too. She had broken out of her ball and whilst nobody was looking, appeared to have found her way out of the cat flap and out into the big wide world of the garden. “Goodness Mum, Benjamin is a hero!”
And there it was. Though Bunny was gone, the hamster was saved and family life returned to its usual kind of hectic normality. That evening, when the children were in bed and all was quiet, Benjamin climbed up onto to my lap and gazed into my eyes with that handsome, wise face as if to say, ‘business as usual’. And with that he nuzzled my head, turned around and went to sleep.
by Jane Lobb
I was never sure whether Benjamin and Bunny were friends or foes. Sometimes they would sit together in the garden, cat beside rabbit, in the shade of the willow tree, sheltering out of the hot summer sun. Other times they would ignore each other, as if neither existed in the other’s world. Occasionally, Benjamin would hiss at Bunny and bolt up the nearest tree, and Bunny would thump his big hind feet on the ground in temper. Then one day Benjamin saved Bunny’s life, and that just about cleared it all up.
As cats go, Benjamin had always been different; those wise brown eyes displayed a depth I had not encountered in my previous pets. Being a feline lover all my life, I had kept various varieties over the years, but the large tabby with the thick, bushy coat seemed wiser somehow and very mature for his 4 years. Of course, he indulged all the usual cat habits: enjoyed his food, crept up onto my lap for affectionate evening cuddles, and sought out sun traps in the house – those little glints of warmth that found their way through windows directly on to a lovely, soft bed or sofa. There he would rest and enjoy endless, long snoozes, in the much sought after English sunshine. But there was something more to his personality, something stronger.
Ours had always been a busy, happy, family house; the children were always running around, noisily playing, the hamster rolled around the kitchen in its exercise ball, our teenage son’s music would bear down on us from his bedroom above. It was a home bursting with life and vitality.
And the garden was no different. When you opened the back door into the long garden, shaded at the end by the apple and willow trees, the big white lop-eared Bunny invariably came running over to meet you. Benjamin didn’t escape this greeting. When he exited his cat flap he was met the by large Bunny head on, and often they rolled around on the grass together, locked in mock combat. This large, curious, fearless Bunny, who was interested in everything and frightened of nothing.
Benjamin was always saving his bacon, getting him out of scrapes. Like that wet day in June when he got trapped in the playhouse. We returned home to find Benjamin meowing loudly in the garden. We followed his calls to the playhouse, opened the door and Bunny hopped out.
And the time when Bunny, famous for his escapology stunts, dug the huge hole and escaped into our neighbour’s garden. Benjamin must have watched him dig all afternoon. I walked out into the garden just as his long, stripy cats’ tail was disappearing down the hole. When I looked over the fence I could see Bunny leaning over the pond watching his own reflection in the water. Benjamin sauntered over and gently nudged him out of the way, so that he wouldn’t fall into the water.
It seemed to me, that the Bunny had adopted the feline curiosity of the cat and Benjamin, rather than joining him in those explorations, had become his protector.
Then one day it happened, and it happened so quickly that it took us all by surprise; a dog broke into the garden.
One afternoon we arrived home to find Benjamin at the door meowing loudly; it was a desperate scream that chilled you to the bone and one that we had heard before, calling us to retreat to the garden as quickly as possible. We raced through the house to the garden not daring to guess what the problem was. Nothing could have prepared us for what we were to see. Bunny was laying flat out on the grass, unmoving, his white fur tainted with bright red blood.
We scooped him up and drove through the long, spiking rain, straight to the vets. The injury could have been worse – we were told he had one puncture wound, but it didn’t need surgery; the shock was more worrying. It was touch and go for the rabbit. Benjamin was unhurt but deeply shocked and we took him home. For three desperate days the Bunny stayed at the vets. For three days Benjamin pined for him. He came into the house only to be cuddled and stroked but refused all food and for the rest of the time sat by the Bunny house waiting.
During this time I saw our neighbour, John. “How’s that Bunny?” he asked in his loud booming voice.
“Not too good, I’m afraid.” I replied, glumly.
“Well, there’s one brave cat there.” he said. Apparently, he had witnessed the whole event.
“That dog broke into your garden and the cat was up the apple tree. It came straight down and ran at the dog, screaming like a hyena with all its nails out. Scared the dog off well and truly, it did. And he wouldn’t leave that Bunny. Sat beside him screaming until you came home. He deserves a medal, I reckon.”
Ironically, the dog had got into the garden through a hole that the Bunny had dug – trying to escape into the other neighbour’s garden. When the dog had approached, the fearless Bunny didn’t even move.
On the fourth day we got a call from the vet. Bunny could come home. When we brought Bunny through the front door in the cat carrier Benjamin immediately approached him, climbed in and lay with him. We left them both there, cuddled together. Sadly, Bunny died the next day. The vet said the shock had been too much for him. At least he had come home to be with his friend and his protector.
Sadness permeated throughout our house for several days. The noisy, happy atmosphere seemed to have disappeared for a while and was tainted and uncomfortable, like damp clothes on a rainy day. Strangely, it was Benjamin that brought it back.
A week later, he entered his cat flap on a warm, windy summer’s day, with something fluffy wriggling around in his mouth. “Oh Mum, look, what has Benjamin caught!” exclaimed my daughter. I looked down at him as he gently released his capture. It was the Hamster.”Oh, it’s Florence!” exclaimed my daughter. Then we both noticed the empty exercise ball, lying on the kitchen floor and broken in two. “Look Mum, he saved Florence.” And he had too. She had broken out of her ball and whilst nobody was looking, appeared to have found her way out of the cat flap and out into the big wide world of the garden. “Goodness Mum, Benjamin is a hero!”
And there it was. Though Bunny was gone, the hamster was saved and family life returned to its usual kind of hectic normality. That evening, when the children were in bed and all was quiet, Benjamin climbed up onto to my lap and gazed into my eyes with that handsome, wise face as if to say, ‘business as usual’. And with that he nuzzled my head, turned around and went to sleep.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The Solipsistic Cal by Neil Ellman
The Solipsistic Cat
by Neil Ellman
In the mirror
Sees itslelf
And nothing else
But sometimes wonders
Where and how
Its dish was filled.
The anachronistic cat
So out of place
And out of touch
And apolitical
It does not know
The month or year.
It sports its fur
And doesn’t care.
The somnambulistic cat
Wails its mournful cry
Wanders through
The alleys of our minds.
It sounds more like a poltergeist
Haunting all our dreams.
It sound
More like a ghost than cat.
by Neil Ellman
In the mirror
Sees itslelf
And nothing else
But sometimes wonders
Where and how
Its dish was filled.
The anachronistic cat
So out of place
And out of touch
And apolitical
It does not know
The month or year.
It sports its fur
And doesn’t care.
The somnambulistic cat
Wails its mournful cry
Wanders through
The alleys of our minds.
It sounds more like a poltergeist
Haunting all our dreams.
It sound
More like a ghost than cat.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Pumpkin by Justin Tate
Pumpkin
by Justin Tate
The perfect pumpkin from the perfect patch
I select to carve on Halloween night.
Vibrant orange with stem haply attach’d,
I saw an opening in sheer delight.
But from that hole emerged a wondrous cat,
Orange, too, and covered in pumpkin gut.
Wild and arched the feline poised to attack,
And as I sat marveled, my face it cut.
The scratch ran deep, from my eyebrow to chin
And from it oozed a greenish, putrid muck
That burned and hurt worse than Judas’ sin;
I fear strained breath reveals I’m out of luck.
But I won’t complain like the bourgeoisie,
Death tonight means returning a zombie.
by Justin Tate
The perfect pumpkin from the perfect patch
I select to carve on Halloween night.
Vibrant orange with stem haply attach’d,
I saw an opening in sheer delight.
But from that hole emerged a wondrous cat,
Orange, too, and covered in pumpkin gut.
Wild and arched the feline poised to attack,
And as I sat marveled, my face it cut.
The scratch ran deep, from my eyebrow to chin
And from it oozed a greenish, putrid muck
That burned and hurt worse than Judas’ sin;
I fear strained breath reveals I’m out of luck.
But I won’t complain like the bourgeoisie,
Death tonight means returning a zombie.
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