Hazard Cat

Note to Contributors

2011-08-22T07:10:00.000-07:00

When I started this site, I heard most last around a year. We made it a year and a half and the money's run out. I will complete posting all my submissions as the wallet allows, but I'm closing submissions indefinitely. Thanks for all the wonderful kitty love and bad cat weeks.

So Are the Cats of Our Lives by RD Hartwell - Essay

2011-07-29T10:56:00.000-07:00

So Are the Cats of Our Lives
by RD Hartwell

Gibbs and Jamie

“Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.” Now that is a nice maxim, but not one to which I can attend as guidance. My life has been far too filled with the jolts and boredom, joys and tribulations to think of it as one of smooth regularity. I am sixty-five, one of those ages that supposedly define one’s life, but I find that that maxim does not really mean much to me. I do not number my life in years, but in cats.

How do you quantify your life? Notice that I did not ask how you qualify, or analyze, your life. That would be far too personal and subject to much deep consideration. I will ask again, “How do you quantify your life?” It is one of those questions you encounter all the time and it appears on almost every form you fill out. It is a question asked of you so often that it is probably only surpassed in number by “How are you?” or “How have you been?” These are rhetorical questions, questions of a type that no one really wants or expects an answer. Anyway, “How do you quantify your life?”

Now wait a moment! Before you answer, truly or falsely, with a given number of years, stop and think about those years. I would venture that, upon reflection, some of those years you were “older” than your chronological age and for other years you were considerably “younger.” What makes that so is highly individualistic? For me, it is cats. Yes, CATS!

It would be a tremendous understatement for me to say that the cats that have owned me (small giggle for those in the know) for sixty-five years have given me great excitement in their acquisition and great joy in their lives and equally great sadness in their passing. For me, it is these cycles of catdom that define my age. Recently, Gabriel and I have been ninety-eight, or thereabouts. Gabriel is the last of his generation and the oldest in our family of ten felines and seven humans. Both of us had been feeling and acting a bit long in the tooth and short on the energy. Well, colluding with her sister, my wife took care of that. It seems that about three or four weeks ago one of my sister-in-law’s cats gave birth to a single kitten, possibly her first litter. So, of course as she has quite often, my wife decided that we needed that kitten to make a nice, rounded eleven cats!?? I do love my wife, but she sure counts funny.

So Leroy Jethro Gibbs (his naming is another story altogether, with a foundation in the television show NCIS) has joined the family. All of a sudden Gabriel and I are teenagers again. Some of you may have encountered just such a fluctuation in your “days of (y)our lives.” Anyway, Gibbs has served to make most of us in the family younger and a couple of the previously dominant cats a bit older. It is a strange phenomenon how this has occurred; however, I’ll wager that this system of marking age is not unique to me.

It is much too glib to say, “You are as young (or old) as you feel.” My feelings towards this concept of age, my regulator or emotional thermostat, is calibrated by cats. We currently have eleven cats from five different generations allowing us to stay here. In the backyard are cats from three other generations. We have been in this house for twenty-four years. Allowing for some error in my computations, or perhaps my memory, it appears we are acquiring a stray or a litter every three years of so. Now if that won’t keep you young, I just don’t know what would.

Gibbs and Sally

How Not To Get a Cat by Toni Dwiggins

2011-07-27T15:09:00.000-07:00

How Not To Get a Cat
by Toni Dwiggins

Introduction:

I got into this cat thing for one reason: my daughter desperately wanted a cat.

At the time, I was wrestling with a mess of a novel, and I figured getting a cat would prove a great diversion. Wrong. Trying to get my daughter a cat proved as tortuous as trying to get my novel into shape.

Neither my characters nor my daughter were holding their breath.

Flashback to…The Setup
We’re a family of four and up until this cat thing making do with pet guinea pigs. But eight-year-old Emily wants a cat. She has eighteen stuffed cats; she crawls on all fours meowing. This kid has wanted a cat half her life and she swears she’ll clean the litter box.

I resolve to get my daughter a cat.

In theory, I’m a cat person; my husband Chuck is a dog person; hence, the guinea pigs. My fourteen-year-old daughter Molly leans toward the dog camp but she’ll go along with the cat thing. Chuck agrees: just do it.

But first I need to research.

I buy CATS FOR DUMMIES and read. There are complexities, I learn. Claws will need trimming (you access the claws how?). The cat will have to stay indoors because we live in the hills and there are bobcats with untrimmed claws outside. If we get a kitten, it will tear around the house like Genghis Khan. I think this through. Molly has a disability and gets around the house with a walker. Perhaps an older, settled cat is what we want.

But what kind?

I hit the Net. There is, I find, a breed of cat called a Ragdoll that loves kids and goes limp when you pick it up so you can cradle it like a baby. I imagine getting Emily a cat she can cradle like a baby. I imagine a Ragdoll sweetly sidestepping Molly’s walker. Then I hit a snag. There’s no Ragdoll breeder in my area. The cat will have to be air-mailed. What does that cost, to say nothing of the mood this cat will be in when it arrives? There’s another, more fundamental snag. Ragdolls cost in the neighborhood of $500.

I’m mulling this over while I take another pass at my novel. The plot’s working, but the characters are flat. They hang limp, like a Ragdoll.

Back to cat research. I find an ad for an animal rescue group. They have a boatload of cats needing homes.

The Protagonist
The family goes to a cat adoption fair. We meet Cyrus.

Cyrus is an eighteen-month nine-pound orange-and-white tabby. He’s handsome, with a lengthy tail in bold stripes, and seems very mellow. His foster owner puts him on Emily’s lap, where he sits quietly while she strokes his fur. He’s transferred to Molly’s lap, where he sits quietly; he doesn’t give a hoot that she’s in a wheelchair. Emily’s in love, Molly’s in love, I’m astonished—this is the first cat at the first cat fair and I have a long list of others to check out. Chuck looks at the kids and the cat and his watch and says, well what’s wrong with that? He’s an engineer; it’s not a dog but it looks workable to him.

There is one small issue. We’re told Cyrus doesn’t like other cats. We confer: all we need is one.

Cyrus turns out to be nine-tenths the perfect cat. He doesn’t claw the furniture, he’s a lap cat thirty percent of the time, he likes to play but he’ll take no for an answer, he’ll put up with having his claws clipped, he politely sidesteps Molly’s walker.

However, there is one-tenth of him that’s not perfect. It’s a fundamental flaw. He doesn’t like Emily.

He likes adults, he’ll take a teenager in a pinch, but he doesn’t like high-voiced bounce-around-the-house Emily. Not only does he dislike Emily, follows Chuck like a dog.

This really hurts. My daughter is heartbroken. After much hand-wringing I decide that Cyrus goes. I’ll look into Ragdolls again. But Chuck balks: hey, we adopted the cat; hence, the cat is ours. Besides, Chuck thinks Cyrus is a cool cat.

But Cyrus doesn’t like Emily, I protest.

It’ll be one of those life lessons.

She’s heartbroken.

Maybe he’ll learn to like her.

What if he doesn’t?

Chuck shrugs. If you wanted unconditional love, you should have gone with a dog.

I go back to my novel where I’m in charge. But my characters are still balking; they don’t believe in the plot.

Meanwhile, Emily tries to win over Cyrus, who hides under the table wrapped in his tail.

I do more research. The animal rescue group, it turns out, has on staff a cat behaviorist. Hopeful, I call in the cat shrink.

Jennifer the behaviorist and Emily and Cyrus have a meeting. Jennifer teaches Emily to read cat body language, she observes them interacting—or not—and she makes her diagnosis. Cyrus is a butthead.

Possibly, in Cyrus’s kittenhood, a small person didn’t treat him kindly. Possibly, Cyrus just doesn’t like kids, the way Emily just doesn’t like potatoes.
We embark on a program to change his mind. Emily will be the sole person to feed him, play with him, pet him. The rest of us will ignore him. If he wants love, Emily will be his only option. This program will run ten days.

Ten days later, Cyrus is still a butthead.

The way Jennifer sees it, we now have three options. (1) Wait until Emily is less bouncy, say two or three years. (2) Trade Cyrus in for another cat. (3) Keep him and bring in a kitten for Emily.

Bring in a kitten? I remind Jennifer that Cyrus doesn’t like other cats.

Ah, Jennifer says, but a kitten is not another cat. It’s small and submissive.

The Antagonist
Enter Coco.

Coco is a three-pound twelve-week gray-and-white male tabby with a splash of Siamese. He’s got huge ears, a long nose, gray teardrop markings at the corners of his eyes, and he motors like a truck when you pet him. He’s been rescued from a household of too many cats and kids, so kids don’t faze him. He allows Emily to flip him on his back and carry him around like a baby. And he doesn’t cost five hundred bucks.

Emily is in love. Molly is in love, and now firmly in the cat camp. Chuck thinks Coco is a cool kitten.

All that stands in the way of total victory is Cyrus.

Jennifer isn’t worried.

The program will run thusly: Coco will be brought out of his safe room (Emily’s room) daily in his protective cat carrier and placed on the living room floor, and we’ll go about our business as if there’s nothing there. As if, should we notice the creature in the carrier, we wouldn’t care. Kitten? So? And Cyrus is supposed to think: there’s a kitten in the room and they don’t notice, so they’re either stupid or kittens don’t matter. They can’t be stupid because they chose me, so my position in the household is secure. And gradually, the king will surely come to accept the subservient newcomer.

Cyrus reacts in three modes. Mode one is the Big Orange Weenie. Nine-pound cat cowers under the table wrapped in his tail wishing the cat carrier and its cargo would disappear. When this doesn’t happen, mode two appears—King Of The World. Cyrus circles the carrier, hissing. Coco pokes a paw through a hole in the carrier. Cyrus swats the paw. Coco thinks this is a game and pokes his paw through another hole. Cyrus swats. Coco pokes. Defeated, Cyrus goes into mode three: Bored Socialite. That gray creature is here again. Yawn. How utterly predictable and uninteresting. Think I’ll sit on the windowsill and watch the world go by.

This is not bad, the cat shrink says.

But I worry. Little Coco is sweet and cuddly…and very playful. Actually there’s a touch of Genghis Khan in Coco. He’s not aggressive, he’s simply undeterred. If he wants something, he takes it. I’ve kitten-proofed Emily’s room and armed myself, as the cat shrink advises, with a squirt bottle. The theory is, the cat goes after something it shouldn’t—the doll’s hair, say—and you surreptitiously squirt the cat. So the cat concludes that the doll’s hair has squirted it, and thus believes that a doll’s hair will forever make it wet. The squirt bottle worked with Cyrus, the few times Cyrus misbehaved. Cyrus jumps on counter, I squirt Cyrus, who levitates out of there and wouldn’t get on that counter again if you paid him. Coco’s a different kettle of fish. Coco wants the doll’s hair and you can squirt him until he drips.
It’s this tenacity, I worry, that will lead to trouble. Will Coco really let Cyrus be king? And if he doesn’t? I need the characters in my book at each other’s throats, not my cats.

Thinking of my book, I throw in some obstacles to pit my characters against one another. They have other agendas. I have nightmares in which I squirt my characters but they won’t behave. They just shrug, dripping. My characters are buttheads.

The Climax
Three weeks pass and Cyrus is, by and large, the Bored Socialite when Coco’s carrier appears.

It’s time.

What you should watch out for, Jennifer says, is if Cyrus rolls Coco, in which case assume that Cyrus is going to rip Coco’s guts out. You might want to have a broom on hand. Otherwise, pretty much anything goes.

Jennifer can’t be here. Molly isn’t here either; she hates conflict and she’s gone to a junior high dance.

Chuck, Emily, and I gather around the cat carrier. I open the door. Cyrus, sitting bored nearby, comes to attention. Coco’s long nose pokes out. He locates Cyrus, hesitates.

This is good. Coco is showing common sense. I breathe easier.

Coco charges.

Cyrus hisses, the kind of sound that if you were in the woods around the campfire and you heard it, the hairs would rise on the back of your neck.

Chuck raises the broomstick.

Coco brakes to a stop.

Cat and kitten face off.

I want Jennifer. Now.

Coco lunges. What’s he thinking? But it quickly becomes obvious what he’s thinking: I’m FREE, I’m free of that stupid carrier and I WANT TO PLAY. This is better than doll’s hair. I want to play with HIM. Coco lands on Cyrus, Chuck circles with the broom, Emily yells CAREFUL OF MY KITTEN, and I’m thinking five hundred dollars for a Ragdoll isn’t so bad. Cyrus hisses—the whole campground would have cleared out—but little Genghis Kitten just extends a friendly paw and bats Cyrus in the face.

Oh shit.

Cyrus has had enough. Wham-wham-wham, right between those gray-teardrop eyes, and Coco finally gets the picture and prostrates himself. He rolls onto his side and bares his neck, gazing up at Cyrus. Cyrus lays a big paw on Coco’s little belly.

Chuck and I are frantic. Is gut-ripping the next step, or is this part of the establishment of rank?

Emily dances around. Don’t let him kill my kitten!

But cat and kitten are coming to an understanding: who’s king, who’s not, and for the next several minutes there’s a minuet of batting and hissing and prostrating and so we relax and start thinking about dinner.

Cyrus, too, suddenly thinks about dinner. He switches to Bored Socialite and saunters into the kitchen.

Coco is pleased. A tail to chase that isn’t his own.

And it’s back to battle stations…

The Denouement
Well how’d it go? asks Jennifer.

No blood on the floor, I report.

And so it goes, over the next couple of weeks. Coco takes over Cyrus’s scratching post, Coco eats Cyrus’s food, Coco chases Cyrus around the house and Cyrus’s hissing begins to lack conviction.

At night, Coco sleeps on his back in Emily’s arms.

I scratch Cyrus behind the ears and assure him that kings are overrated.

And then one day I find the cats napping together, and when they wake Cyrus licks Coco’s ears and Coco licks Cyrus’s nose and the world turns upside down.

The cat shrink is a genius.

I’m thinking of calling her in on my book.

Back to the Present
Emily grew taller and quieter and one day Cyrus climbed into her lap. The king had found his princess.

Coco grew mellower, but remained the alpha cat.

I found a new subject for a book series. My characters liked it.

The two protagonists are forensic geologists, a young woman and her father-figure mentor. We’re all happiest when I’m not in charge.

Purrsonal Story "Casper and Harry" by Neal Holtschulte

2011-07-25T07:25:00.000-07:00

Casper and Harry
by Neal Holtschulte

Casper was a cat's cat, free from litter box, dry food, or human shelter, red in tooth and claw, strong and fierce. You did not pet Casper. You put your hand out and she met it with her forehead like a firm handshake.

Casper had short black hair except for a white spot under her neck. She was lean and wiry. She came and went as she pleased, disappearing into the woods, or stalking small creatures from the shadows beneath the pines. With Casper around, our sliding glass door became a window into the wild.

Harry Mudd was a dog the way we imagine dogs, a platonic dog you might say, loyal, loving, and selfless to a fault, dumb and smelly from his propensity to roll in fresh mulch, but such a g'boy, good boy, yes you are.

Harry was a black lab with hip dysplasia and a skin condition that gave him perpetually greasy fur. Oh Harry, we love you but you're a filthy creature, we would tell him though he would only understand the first part.

Before she was fully grown Casper survived on the grounds of a Scott's fertilizer plant by catching mice until humans caught her. They gave her to our family in October, near Halloween. This wasn’t adoption so much as catch and release of a miniature panther. In keeping with the season, we named her Casper in spite of the gender mix up.

Casper avoided the hard food we put out for her. Not because, like a lot of cats, she expected to train her humans to buy her the Fancy Feast, but because she could get wet gushy food all by herself. She perfected the self-confident stare: I’m disemboweling a mouse. What are you looking at? All she would leave behind would be a blood spot and the gall bladder. She ate mice the way some people peel Starbursts in their mouth, nothing left to do but spit out a bit of wrapper.

Harry made a miserable guard dog. He didn't bark or growl except in his sleep, his legs twitching in imaginary chases. He was bursting with love and compassion for all men and beasts. He learned the hard way that Mr. Skunk did not wish to be his friend and the sharp-clawed Siamese next door was not amused by friendly butt-sniffing.

I misspoke. Harry did not learn. All his learning neurons had been replaced with optimism. With optimism he tried to make friends with the skunk again. With optimism he wrapped his leash around the picnic table, tying himself in knots, and with renewed optimism he struggled to free himself as he heard our car pull in to the driveway. He succeeded only in pulling his chain tighter and stumbling in his food bowl to the delight of the ants streaming across the patio.

Harry came to our family as a replacement. At first we called him Harry Mudd Junior, because young Harry Mudd Senor (no actual relation) was killed by a car on the dangerous road we lived on. The road was well-traveled enough to be paved, but rural enough to have a fifty mile per hour speed limit and our driveway let out just above a hill that produced an awful blind spot.

In the winter Harry slept curled up in the garage on the filthiest mat you ever saw. The grease from his fur soaked into this mat, indelibly marking it as his. Casper came, seeking shelter and though she never let herself depend on the generosity of others, she hopped on top of Harry and curled up to sleep. Casper never sought help and Harry gave of himself without ever expecting anything in return, but in the
winter, they shared their heat.

It was quite a sight, this lump of black fur piled on top of a lump of black fur. We took a picture but in poor lighting it turned out looking more like a black hole in the garage floor than this unlikely bond between animals.

When we walked back to the woods, Harry led. He had to lead. It was in his bones, a genetic compulsion, a dog's duty to act as scout and vanguard, to go on ahead of man though there might be danger.

Casper, too, joined these hikes. We glimpsed her stealing between shadows under the pine trees, then darting into tall grass to watch us unseen. Perhaps she was curious, but more likely she obeyed her own genetically ingrained instincts. What could be more natural for humans’ domesticated creatures than for the dog to lead and the cat to follow, knowing that mice and rats too follow in the wake of humans?

Even when Harry became old and gray, though he shook while lying still, though we merely walked and he struggled to move, he stayed ahead of us. At some arbitrary point we decided we were done with our pleasure walk. We reversed direction to head home. Harry ran, though he wheezed, in order to lead us in this new direction.

In old age when Harry tried to stand, he flailed against the slippery linoleum. His motion served only to push away the rug that gave him traction. We hastened over to push the rug back beneath him and let him out to pee.

Harry showed uncharacteristic self-awareness at the end of his life. One day he made his flailing motions indicating he wanted to be let out. We slid open the back door for him. He never came back. He went out and found a quiet spot far back in the woods and lay down to die with dignity.

Casper should have lived forever. Perhaps the white spot on her neck had grown larger, but besides that she showed no signs of aging. She was as strong as ever, rubbing against our legs like a bear trying to knock down trees, leaving patches of fresh vole blood or bird feathers on the garage floor, evidence of her continued prowess.

In the winter she found the greasy blackened mat in the garage where it had always been. It smelled of Harry but remained cold and empty. She slept there all the same.

Casper died instantly, hopefully painlessly, when the twenty-four ton rock quarry truck ran over her at fifty miles per hour.

She had lived by that road for over a decade during which time Harry Mudd Jr. had been hit by a car and survived, gaining a new plastic hip in the bargain. I won't believe that she made a mistake by running in front of that truck. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Hazard Cats Are Sick

2011-07-20T14:34:00.000-07:00

Hello, Hazard Cat enthusiasts. Sorry I haven't been posting as much. I have some health problems and need surgery on my foot.

My kitties are having eye problems. If you've heard of this, please send me an email or leave a comment.

First, Devlin's eyes started. The second eyelids close halfway most of the time, but not all the time. I thought it was allergies.

Now all my cats except Spooky and kittens have the affliction. They have no symptoms otherwise, and they've had their shots. Any ideas?

Thanks! I'm also adding a donation button to the site to help pay for submissions. If you like what you read and see and want to contribute a buck, that would be awesome.

Cat People by Bruce Boston

2011-07-16T17:26:00.000-07:00

Cat People
by Bruce Boston

If cat people
were the world
we would embrace
the sharp and furry.

We would slink
along the street
and dash across it.

If cat people
were the world
we would build walls
against the sea.

We would sleep
by day and wander
the haunts and heights
of our cities by night.

We would have flesh
delivered living
to the arena
of our choice.

We would delight
in our feasting
and celebrate
the deathful grace
in our play.

If cat people
were the world,
oh how we would purr!

Cat-Butt-Be-Gone!

2011-07-16T16:53:00.000-07:00

Cat owners. We learned a new trick today. Spray air freshener into your air conditioner filter while A/C's on and it goes out every vent in the house.

Interview with Merlin from Gaia Dreams by Pamela Davis

2011-07-15T13:53:00.000-07:00

Heard about Hazard Cat and had to stop by. I’ve been out and about with my pet, Lisanne. She thinks she owns me, but I see her as my pet human. We’re out there promoting the book, Gaia Dreams, which was just released, a book where I am featured! Well, so are some other animals and humans, but I guarantee I’m the one you’ll remember the most.

So, the end of the world is not as final as you might think. It is, however, quite messy. Disasters happening all over the place, and who is always forgotten at those times? The animals of course. Cats like me are the ones who survive. We survive by having a human completely under our, um, paw.

Hello, Merlin. We’ve never had an interview on Hazard Cat before, and we’re super-excited to have one with a cat from a book! Tell me, what do you look like?

Gorgeous, naturally. Oh, you want details? Solid black shining fur with large golden eyes that can stare right into your innermost thoughts.

I hear you associate largely with one person, Lisanne. What’s she like?

A pain in the—neck. She’s incredibly smart brain-wise, but dumb as can be when it comes to living life. Without me, who knows where she’d end up. Let’s just say that I am the reason she’s still alive.

I’ve read your story, and I’m amazed that you endured so much disaster. How did you keep clean?

By insisting that Lisanne carry me wherever there was a mess. Humans do have their uses, you know.

What did you think about riding in a car out of a cat carrier?

I refused to be imprisoned by such an inhibiting cage! I will admit there were times I landed rather unceremoniously on the floor of the car, and it is true I had to hang on by my claws a few times to keep from being thrown around, but that’s all in the line of duty for an independent such as myself.

Do you prefer laptops, or would you be able to work well with a blackberry or iPad?

An iPad might work, but a laptop is best. Anything with a mouse is fun.

What was the scariest thing you encountered with your person, Lisanne, in the telling of your story in Gaia Dreams?

Lisanne’s driving. Ha. No, it was the snakes. Don’t ask, I can’t say more.

What is happening now? Rumor has it you have more of a story to tell. Don’t give away everything! We human readers, unlike cats, like to be surprised.

There is more of a story coming—if the author could be chained to her computer it would come out sooner. I will be featured prominently. I’ve suggested a title of Merlin’s Amazing Adventures, but so far it has been voted down.

Thanks for coming to Hazard Cat, Merlin. Any advice to give cats in preparation for the end of the world as we know it?

Try not to hook up with a party girl. Stock up on cans of tuna and salmon—rather, make sure your human does so. And direct your human to a safe zone where there is plenty of fish. Lightly sauteed trout is delectable, and humans are great at catching fish.

Where can we read your story?
Gaia Dreams on Kindle

Gaia Dreams in Paperback

A Cat’s Love by Samantha Memi

2011-07-14T13:00:00.000-07:00

A Cat’s Love
by Samantha Memi

Cupid fingered the feathers of an arrow, placed it on the string of his bow, aimed, and fired.

A cat washing its paws near a bus-stop was suddenly struck with love for a woman waiting for a bus looking at a man who stood just behind a cat. The man looked down the road for a bus and then went into a shop. The woman wondered if she had time to nip into the shop, buy some chocolate and perhaps nudge the man gently, smile and say sorry. She looked into the shop and just as she decided to go in, the cat, a beautiful Siamese, pushed against her leg. As it was summer she wore no tights, and the fur of the cat was so soft and sensual she wanted to feel it in her hands and against her face. Just as she picked up the purring creature and felt it push its whiskers against her cheeks and heard its purrs and looked into its soft loving eyes, the man came out of the shop looked at the woman and said,

'That's a beautiful cat. Is it yours?'

'No. It just came up and made friends with me.'

The cat, for whom the man was a rival, narrowed its eyes as he came over and, as he reached to stroke its head, the claws in its paw opened and in a painful swipe drew blood on the back of the man's hand. Immediately the woman dropped the cat, said, 'Oh, I'm so sorry,' to the man and reached into her handbag for a tissue.

'It's nothing,' said the man, half-wishing the woman wasn't there so he could kick the cat. 'It could probably smell the dog of a friend of mine. I've just been round there. There's no harm done.'

By friend he meant girlfriend and her dog was a Chihuahua that he hated because it constantly yapped.

'I've got some Rescue Cream. It will stop any scaring.'

The man disliked all the fuss over a tiny scratch in front of the other waiting bus passengers but to please the woman he acquiesced as she spread the cooling, healing solution on the back of his hand. He tried to see her face as she applied the cream but as her head was tipped forward he saw more of her eyelashes than her eyes and none of her face except the ridge of her nose.

A 61 arrived.

'This is my bus,' he said.

'Mine too,' she lied.

She would be late for work but this was a chance too good to miss. The woman got on the bus. The man followed. The cat too, unnoticed by the driver. They sat together and just as the woman had made herself comfortable the cat jumped on her lap.

'It obviously likes you,' said the man.

'I wish I could say the same after what its done to your hand,' said the woman and she lifted the cat from her lap and put it on the floor.

The man said his name was David. He worked as a driver, delivering washing machines and fridges all round the south-east. Her name was Diane and she worked as a cashier at a supermarket in Holloway Road.

'You're on the wrong bus,' he said.

'I've got the morning off,' she lied, 'I'm going to see a friend,' and she told him she had to get off at the next stop. He asked her if she'd like to meet for a drink sometime.'

'Okay,' she said, fluttering her eyelashes and pretending to be shy. She gave him her phone number.

When she got off the bus the cat followed. She was in Farringdon. How the hell do I get to Holloway Road, she thought. She realised she was 20 minutes late already. By the time she got to work she would be at least an hour late. Then she felt the cat curling round her leg as she stood and wondered what to do. How weird, she thought, is this thing following me? She picked it up and loved its softness stroking against her and the breezy purring helped her relax. I'll take the morning off she decided and phoned work to say she couldn't get in till the afternoon. Then Diane and cat caught the bus home.

The cat immediately made itself at home, and when she got back that evening with cat food and milk, the cat curled round her legs and its purrs were full of affection. She lifted it up and it pushed its face against hers and she embraced its warmth into her life.

He never phoned, but she didn’t care. Her beautiful cat gave her all the love she needed.

Hierarchy by Amanda C. Davis

2011-07-07T09:28:00.000-07:00

Hierarchy
by Amanda C. Davis

The first fingernail fell out at nine-thirty at night. I was drinking a Coke and watching my cat attack the rug when the nail slid free, just slipped right out of my smallest finger and left a smooth pink slot behind.

I picked it up. It was longer than I'd thought, a half-cylinder of translucent Bakelite with one white edge. I'd paid a lot for that French manicure.

I held it up to the cat. "You did this?"

She shrugged, as cats do.

"It's not funny."

Her attention remained fixed on a snag in the rug.

"Okay, okay," I said. "I'm sorry I got you declawed. Now break the curse."

The cat yawned. She leapt from the floor to the sofa to the staircase and vanished.

The cuticle of my ring finger went rubbery, and another nail drifted to the floor. Two down, eight to go. Or would it be eighteen? "I should have gotten the poodle," I muttered, collecting the nail. Dogs don't give you this kind of trouble. And things were really going to get hairy when it came time to have her spayed.

I Am A Bomb by Mark Wolf

2011-07-05T08:54:00.000-07:00

I Am A Bomb
by Mark Wolf

I dream of being human. Unsurprisingly, I suppose, since the organic part of me still contains human brain cells, though they don't function very well, being filled with cancer. The rest of me was cremated last year when I died. Cancer does that, you know.

The part of me that is still human is in a Croid, (cat-droid), patrolling the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan, observing the behavior of Taliban forces as they move between the two countries. Waiting for my tasking order. For you see, I am not JUST an observer. I am a bomb.

The organic part of me that is cat, the part of the cat's brain that controls motor skills and behaviors, would rather sit in hiding, waiting for a rat to peek its head out from one of the ground burrows scattered throughout the region, and finds my scouting boring. It is a constant struggle to keep the cat on task.

I sat-link my observations to my handler back in Afghanistan. One of the sites I've been watching, a series of caves, has been seeing more traffic in and out of it for the last few days. My handler pulls me from my other observation sites and tasks me to move in closer and relay faces back to him; my mission is infinitely more dangerous now. My droid cat body would never be mistaken for the real thing, being made of Kevlar composites, and titanium. T-Rex/cat terminators, or T-Ts, we are called.

Red lights flash in my heads up holo display as a white robed figure passes before me. My facial recognition software recognizes a primary target. A major Taliban leader. I'm ordered to go active.

I feel relays clicking inside me, mixing the ingredients of the chemical bomb. I'm now toxic on two levels, the proximity explosive that will trigger within a yard of my primary target and the biological agents that will mist from my body from a dozen yards away. I'm sent in.

As the mist seeps from my body, I am spotted and fired on. I began running and leaping toward my target. Several rounds from an AK-47 hit me. I drag myself forward the last few yards with my front legs. Just before I trigger the explosive, my cat brain fixes on a memory, more of a dream, actually, of being blind, surrounded by warm siblings searching for mama's milk. It's a good dream to fix my mind on as I blast myself into oblivion.

Name That Cat by Rick Hartwell

2011-06-28T13:43:00.001-07:00

Name That Cat
by Rick Hartwell

I’m thinking about nicknames, the universality of them, the reasons for them, the ridiculousness of some of them. Almost all of us have had a nickname, or several, bestowed upon us because of a euphemism with our given name, or a physical attribute, or a mannerism, or even as a designation of complete oppositeness to a fact or reality. Some of us not only name our pets, but we then go on to create a nickname for them as well. Such was the case with a cat my wife and I acquired when we were first living together.

My son John was visiting us at our apartment in Tennessee when I was stationed at Fort Campbell. My girlfriend, who was destined to be my wife within the year, was very taken by one of the kittens in a litter from our upstairs neighbor’s cat. She, as well as my son, was so taken by one runty kitten in particular that I gave in to her request in spite of my initial misgivings.

That done, and my girlfriend and son dutifully thankful and appreciative, it came to the thorny issue of naming this new family member. Ever the pompous classicist, I opted for Pericles, knowing full well that Perry would likely be the agreed-upon nickname. Sally, the girlfriend-later-turned-wife, wanted something softer, gentler, kinder. John, about five at the time, wanted something unique and snappy and topical. What was the result of all this? Why, the cat was named Pericles Batcat Hartwell, a combination from the great minds of father and son. Now, you would of course ask, what did we call the cat? Sally said she needed a cute name and immediately called the kitten Pumpkin. The kitten meowed, apparently agreeing that cute was best, and that was that! So much for male-dominated naming conventions!

A Shade of Grey by Lorie Calkins

2011-06-20T05:59:00.000-07:00

A Shade of Grey

by Lorie Calkins

Owen squatted in the dusty street, the heat of the morning sun stinging the back of his neck as he watched the bug scuttle along in a brave attempt to cross the enormous, for a bug, distance between the raised wood-slatted walkway in front of Wylie's General Store and the dirt-level door of the Saloon. He glanced up at the pounding hoofbeats and rattle of creaking wood, and understood at once that the heavy freight wagon, hauled by two huge mud-grey Percherons had no driver to stop the team or veer around him, as folks usually did. Too late.

#

"Ettie, don't take on so."

"It's my fault," the young woman sobbed, her brazenly gaudy dress clashing wildly with her grief. "I shoulda been watching him!"

"You had to sleep some time. An' he was surely old enough to know better than to sit in the street, for Heaven's sake. Don't blame yourself."

Ettie lifted her face. Damp curls of fine hair framed a face that would have been pretty, had it not been grief-swollen. A few soft chestnut strands remained tear-glued to the old metal strong box, clutched between her arms where she half-lay on the bed, obscuring the promising paintings of horses, eagles, cottonwood trees, snakes, and owls, that decorated its dull grey exterior. "You don't understand, Clara Mae," she said, the pain in her voice so powerful Clara could feel it rasping through her, like barbed wire being pulled through her grasp. "He was all I had."

"You got us, honey." She said the words gently, genuinely, but Ettie dropped her head again to the box, weeping, her anguish still fresh.

"I'm sorry, Mama," the freckled boy said, patting her shoulder softly. "I didn't mean to, Mama. I'll be good from now on, Mama." He stopped, then, realizing that she couldn't hear him, as well as the fact that he wouldn't have another chance to be good.

He knew he must be a ghost, since no one could see or hear him, and he could pass through walls, horses, even people. It was plain to him that if he was now a ghost, he must have died. But what was most obvious to him was that he had caused his Mama pain. Again. He ran from the room, so distracted that he forgot his new abilities and fled through the open bedroom door, down the long hallway, past the other ladies' rooms, some with their doors closed as they "entertained customers." He dashed down the steep stairway to the main parlor, filled with men eager to console the `ladies' for their loss. He darted quickly to the kitchen, knowing he was not allowed in the parlor when customers were there, and escaped out the back door. Reaching his favorite place, the base of an immense cottonwood, he curled between two massive roots exposed by wind and flash flood, that stretched toward a trickle of stream.

"I didn't mean to be bad," he moaned, capable of the motions of crying, but not the salve of tears. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Why am I always bad?! Mama told me to stay out of the street, and now I've gone and got killed, and she thinks it's her fault." Owen cried, berated himself, and felt generally miserable until, worn out, he lay quietly in his hollow, listening to the susurration of leaves above. In that quiet moment, he felt a tug. It had been there for some time, he realized, but his misery had kept its awareness from him. Something called him, pulled him, toward ... what? He didn't know.

Owen got up, floated up, really. He hadn't got the hang of ghostly movement yet. In search of the reason for the tug, he wandered into town again. Behind the big house where his mother lived with all the other women, his little cat, Grey Baby, scampered up to him, her body arched and turned sideways. Her fluffed tail straight up, she playfully batted him with her paw. It went right through.

Baby sat down immediately and washed her paw, then a spot on her left shoulder, before looking at Owen again. She took another swipe at him, less sure than before, with the same result. Owen crouched down to pet her. He felt sorry for her confusion. But his hand couldn't touch her soft, silvery fur. He tried to hug her, for whatever solace he could derive, but found he could not.

Peeking out from inside the foggy form of her favorite human confused Baby to the point of voicing her displeasure, a high-pitched cry, so human-sounding that it had earned her part of her name. Owen wanted to cry again, because he was hurting yet another loved one, but he had no energy left for it. Instead, he walked on, Baby at his heels, as she so often had been before.

A woman with a painted face stared from an open ground floor window as they passed the side of the sun-greyed clapboard building. "Mara, look! It's the cat! Be darned if that cat ain't trotting along, just as if she's following the boy like always!" Owen glanced up to his and Mama's window, in time to see his mother turn away from the window, crying.

He crossed the dusty street, still heedless of the cantering horses, hurrying stagecoach, and jockeying wagons. The strange tugging feeling led him to the open door of the Saloon, a door he had never passed through. He hesitated. But why not? Nobody could see him now. He went in, leaving the little cat to bask in the patch of dusty sunshine outside the swinging doors.

Wondering at the noise and the activity around the bar, and what sort of things might happen in here that he had been forbidden to see, Owen threaded between the chairs, around the cow-smelling ranch hands, toward the tinny old piano, played off-key. He stopped there, and stared at the woman playing it. Her gaudy, feathered, red dress looked to him more like a fancy lamp shade than a dress, and certainly its ability to preserve her modesty shared more with unmentionables than outer clothing. He stared at her bare arms moving up and down the length of the piano.

"You! Hey, you there!" Owen started at the first shout. Then he ignored it. They couldn't mean him. Nobody could see him. He was a ghost. His eyes never left the piano player.

"Hey, Boy! What're you doin in here!" The voice sounded from directly behind him, as his arm was roughly seized. "I'm talkin to you, Boy."

"What!" Owen screamed, more out of shock that he had been seen than fear of punishment. "Let me go!"

"You don't belong in here, kid." Owen whirled to look at the man, who was dragging him out of the Saloon, and saw the foggy outline of a gaunt, weather-aged cowboy, with a two-day growth of beard over a deeply creased face, topped by a grey Stetson hat.

"How ... How can you see me?" he finally got out. "How can you touch me?"

"Ain't it obvious, Boy? I'm a ghost, too." The man released his arm. They had passed out of the Saloon. "Now don't you be goin back in that Saloon no more, Boy. That's no place for a youngster." With those words and a stern look, he turned to go on his way.

Because Owen felt so bewildered by his encounter with another ghost, (on top of the shock of the strange world inside the Saloon), it took him a few minutes to rediscover the tugging feeling, and then to recognize that part of it was pulling him toward the other ghost.

"Wait," he cried out in his childish voice. "Don't leave me!" He ran after the ghost of the cowboy in the grey hat, his little, silvery cat loping along behind him, as always. But the horse and wagon traffic didn't stop for ghosts the riders couldn't see, nor for small, grey cats that trustingly followed their masters.

A squeal and a gut-churning crunch made Owen aware for the first time that the cat had been following him. He screamed and flew to the cat's side in the blowing dust of the road. The driver stopped his hay wagon and climbed down to see if he could help the poor creature. It was too late even to put her out of her misery. Grey Baby was dead, consigned to the same terrible fate as her young master.

"No! Oh, no, Grey Baby. Not you, too. Oh, Baby. I'm sorry." Owen cried and railed, trying to hug the crushed furry body. He couldn't. His touch went right through. The driver paid the dead cat the courtesy of dragging it to the side of the road before he remounted the wagon and drove on.

"Baby, I didn't know you were following me. I didn't think. I should have watched out for you, and now you're dead. I'm real sorry, Baby. And I just told Mama I'd be good from now on." Instinctively, he tried again to gather the cat into his arms. This time, he came away with an armful of purring grey ghost. Baby rubbed her chin on him and bumped him ecstatically with her head. With a single high-pitched, "Meaow!" the ghost-cat squirmed out of Owen's arms and rubbed herself back and forth across his shins, overjoyed to be back with her beloved master.

But Owen only gathered her up again and trudged miserably after the cowboy's ghost. The older spirit had more experience with the form, so the boy and cat didn't catch up to him until they reached the top of Boot Hill, where they found the cowboy's ghost stretched out on an old, grassy grave. Daunted by the sight of so many graves, Owen hesitated. But the tugging felt strong here. He needed to know what it was.

"Excuse me, Mister."

"What do you want now, Boy? Can't you see I've got things to do?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you, Mister."

"The name's Quincy. What is it you want, kid?"

"Quick-Finger Quincy? The famous gunfighter?" Quincy scowled, but the grey hat tilted slightly in reply. "I have this feeling that there's something I forgot to do, or someplace I'm supposed to go. It's like something's tugging at me, or calling me. Can you tell me what it means?"

"Sure can. You got to pass over."

This made no sense to Owen. "Over what?"

The ghostly cowboy thought a bit. "Not over nothing, really. Just the way we say it. You got to cross over to the other side. You're a spirit now. You don't belong on this side, with the living folks." Quincy could tell from the child's face that he didn't understand. "You got to go on up to Heaven, Boy."

"My name's Owen, Mister. How come you're here? Did you come to fetch me?"

"Nope. Been here for near twenty years now. You'd better run along. Git yourself to Heaven, where you belong. Myself, I didn't cross over, as I didn't figure I was likely to go to Heaven, and I didn't want to go to the other place."

Owen sat down, the little cat curled on his lap. "I guess I better stay here, too," he said quietly.

"Boy, if you know what's good for you, you'll take off now for the other side. Once they bury your body in the grave, it's too late. You're stuck here forever." Quincy looked around him at the gravestones, the dead, brown grass, and the slaty, peeling, buildings of the town below. "You don't want to stay here, kid."

"Well, I'd like to go. But I just can't. I don't want to burn. Preacher said bad people burn in Hell for Ternity," the boy answered solemnly. "I been real bad."

The old ghost threw his head back and guffawed with laughter until he would have choked with tears, had he been able to spill any. "BOY!" he roared, then more kindly, "Child. You ain't done nothin bad enough to get sent to Hell for. What're you worried about? Sassing the schoolmarm? Snitching cookies?"

"No, sir," he said. "I'm bad. I hurt my Mama."

"Oh, come now, young man. Can't be all that bad. What'd you do, tell her you didn't like her new dress?”

Owen's small freckled face looked sadly down. "I ruined her life. It's my fault she has to live in that house with all the other women and people call her bad names."

"How do you figure that, Boy?"

"Owen," he said firmly. Then, remembering, he went on softly. "I once heard Mama yelling at a man. He told her I was nothin but a sissy, that no self-respecting boy would be sitting in the parlor playing with paints and colors, drawing pretty pitchers. He said I should be out riding a horse and learning how to be a cowboy. Then Mama asked him, "Are you offering to marry me and help me raise this child, then?'

"And he said, `You must be kidding. Marry a whore? My mother would turn over in her grave!'

"Mama got really angry then. She talked in a voice that scared me. `You know full well your bastard child is the reason I have to live like a whore to survive.' That was me, Mister."

The long-dead spirit was silent for a moment, unsure what to say. "My name's Quincy, Boy."

"And my name's Owen."

"Stubborn."

"Yep."

"She say any more?"

"He did. He said, `I don't know no such thing. You could've been with a hundred men.' And she said, `Then you got no reason to be telling me how you think the boy should be raised. Get out.' After he left Mama cried and cried. That's how I know I'm bad. It's bad for a boy to draw pretty things, and I didn't stop. I like to draw. I didn't want to stop, even after I knew it was bad. Besides, I'm a bastard child."

"Do you know what that means, Owen?"

"No. But it's bad, ain't it?"

"Yeah, I guess. But not the way you think. It ain't none of it your fault."

They were both quiet for a long time, thinking over the good and bad deeds of their lives.

"Quincy, are you a good man or a bad man?"

"Why do you ask me that?"

"I can't tell by your hat. Good guys wear white hats, and bad guys wear black hats, right? But yours is grey. I can't tell!"

"Boy, ... Owen. White hats get dirty; black hats fade. Nobody's all good or all bad, no matter what color hat they got."

"What're all those people coming up here for, Quincy?"

"Looks like a burial, Owen, probably yours. You'd better cross over, while you still can. You can't get through after the body's buried. I know! I wish I had gone."

"But you said you'd have gone down to Hell!"

"Most likely. Still, it couldn't be any worse than sitting here, day after day for twenty years, watching the living go about their lives, and not being able to talk to anyone, touch anyone, even be seen by anyone. If that ain't a kind of Hell, I don't know what is."

"That's my Mama!" Owen said suddenly, as the parade of black and grey clad mourners climbed the hill. "She looks real sad. I'm sorry, Mama. I'm sorry I was bad." Owen looked down at the cat perched on his bony knees. "Quincy, I killed my cat, too."

"This cat here?" Quincy asked. The boy nodded. "Well, she don't seem too angry with you now." The little cat, noticing that she was under discussion, began to purr and nudge Owen's knee.

"I guess not." He looked over at the funeral procession, his Mama, the other ladies, the men carrying the pine box that seemed, even to him, very small and light. "Mama shouldn't wear black. It doesn't look right on her. She should wear grey for mourning." He took the cat into his arms again and stood up, walking over to peer into the narrow, but deep, hole.

"Owen, go now. Please. Cross over while you can." Quincy had been pacing back and forth, and now he threw his ghostly arms into the air. "They're lowering the coffin into the grave, Boy! You got to go!" He strode over to take the boy's shoulders and shake him. "Listen to me, Owen!" He turned the boy to face him, and saw that he was crying.

"I'm afraid, Quincy."

"Owen, I'm sure you'll go to Heaven. You're a good boy. You ain't even got a hat, and I can tell. You got your cat. She can go with you."

"She's scared, too. You come with me, Quincy. If you come and hold my hand, I won't be so afraid."

"I can't come, Owen. I told you. I waited too long. And besides, I'm a bad man. I wouldn't be able to go where you're going."

"You're wrong, Quincy. Maybe you were bad before, but you're good now. I can tell without the hat." He paused, then stuck out his chin in childish stubbornness. "And I won't go without you."

The prayers finished, women put their arms around Ettie and led her away, as the men picked up shovels. Quincy couldn't stand it. He just couldn't let this innocent child make the same tragic mistake he had.

"Owen, I'll never be able to get through, but I'll take you as far as I can. Take my hand, Boy! Come on, run!" He took the boy's small freckled, ghostly-grey hand in his big, calloused one, and turned away, toward the tugging feeling that had never ceased in him, despite twenty years of knowing the doorway was closed to him forever. He began to run.

For a brief moment, Owen continued to watch the departing mourners. "Goodbye, Mama. I love you, Mama!" he cried at last.

As he turned, pulled by Quincy toward the light, the pretty woman in the black dress turned back, almost as if she had heard. "Goodbye, Owen," she said through her tears. "You were always such a good boy. You were my treasure."

As the first scoops of dirt thudded onto pine, Owen, his little grey cat in his arms, disappeared into the light, pulled in by an old grey ghost in a white hat.

Bastet by Beaulah Pragg

2011-06-15T11:09:00.000-07:00

Bastet

by Beaulah Pragg

How many years have I walked this earth? How many things have I seen? Yet here, in the final days, I find it strange that it is she who dances in wild abandon. Humanity’s last star; she is born in darkness, rocked to sleep by the crash of bombs, while above they choke on red dust. Warm her with your fur, my children. Bring her scraps of food when you can find them. Give her comfort, teach her to dance. They have been waiting for her.

Grow tall, little girl. Escape the pitch black sewers to see the end of the world through your own two eyes; here are towering pillars of twisted steel and melted glass. Fill yourself up on the emptiness, the silence. The birds do not sing in this metal graveyard. Dance out your anguish in the Theater Royale. Sweep clean its cracked marble floors; cling to the dusty red velvet – what better home for the world’s last dancer?

See how they come. They love her, these ghosts of the past. They yearn to touch her, to remember what it was to live. She looks at them, eyes dulled, hating them for their betrayal. Her pink skirt is hitched up above her thighs, sleeves slip, revealing smooth young shoulders. See, how she taunts them with things they cannot have. They crowd around, lusting after life, but their fingers pass right through, raising only a shiver.

Taking a sip from her chipped teacup, she asks them how the world came to this? What justified such a slaughter? Dancers – they cry – blinded them with glitter and flashing lights. Evil slipped by unnoticed. Innocence, they plead, blaming her for their fall. Last child of the human race, the weight is heavy on her shoulders.

She stands, lifts her frail body onto the tips of her toes and spreads her arms wide. Twisting and leaping, she does not falter. If redemption could be danced, she would dance it for them. Salty tears pour down her cheeks as she gives herself over, accepts the responsibility. Her shadow grows longer, filling up with their pain.

Outside, the sun is setting. Yellows merge into orange becoming red, then later blue. In the theater, she dances still. Perfect pink ballet shoes, laced up just so, are darkening with blood. Possessed, she cannot stop. Dance through the night and maybe, when the sun rises, the world will be silent.

She collapses at last and my children cuddle around, purring, licking, nuzzling. They love her, silly fools. They want me to bring her back and perhaps I will…

I wander the streets of this once mighty city. My paws leave delicate prints in the ash and trees grow in my wake. Concrete dissolves, replaced by grass. Water springs up, clean and clear. I will make a garden for my own children; I will teach them to care for the earth and the air. They will purr and pounce and play for the earth belongs to us now. Osiris can keep the souls of his humans, all except for one.

Eve has earned her place in paradise.

Gombhi by Louis Bertrand Shalako

2011-06-13T09:36:00.000-07:00

Gombhi
by Louis Bertrand Shalako

Gombhi sat at his grandfather’s side. The two of them were on the edge of a great cliff, looking off across the valley. Down below could be seen the glistening sphere where the newcomers lived, as well as the cuts in the land they had made with their beasts-without-legs. The two had walked up here in friendly, contemplative silence; although Gombhi was troubled by the grey hairs on the older cat’s muzzle. He also noticed, not for the first time, that his grandfather’s tail dragged in the dust most of the time.

He could remember a time when that simply wouldn’t be.

“Never accept the judgment of the mob, Gombhi,” Laughing in the Wind told him,
his paw on the young cat’s shoulder. “Truth is often lost by the will of the many. Do what you know to be right, even if you find yourself alone.”

“I…I fear, grandfather,” confessed Gombhi, trembling at these words, which he had never spoken aloud to anyone.

His grandfather nodded sagely, turning to look upon the youth’s troubled face.

Gombhi had never heard these words, or this tone before.

“I have never met a brave cat,” he said gently. “And for that I am truly grateful. You will never lead the Ni-Annanni into a war of our own choosing. You will never risk all for a goal that is unworthy.”

How to put it in words? Perhaps if he went about it another way.

“I heard that you thanked your mother, and your grandmother, for your upbringing.”

That showed a maturity beyond his years.

“Have you given any thought as to who you are, and who you might become?” he

asked.

Gombhi just shook his head in the negative.

“Before you command, you must learn how to obey.”

His grandfather paused in silent thought.

Gombhi heard the words, the voice no longer the strong voice of a young cat, but the shaky and soft wise words of the very old. The two stood silently with just the wind for company, and the land for their friend.

“I want you to take the two newcomers to the place where stones stand upon one
another,” his grandfather instructed him. “Show them where words are scratched on the
stones, so that they might see how even the mighty may be laid low, by history, by time, by fate. Show them how their own greed and ignorance may be their undoing.”

“Who made that place?” Gombhi asked his grandfather. “Is that not an evil place?”

“No one living today knows, but it is to be hoped they never return,” stated Laughing in the Wind. “As for evil; your heart is pure and that will suffice to protect you.”

“See,” said Gombhi excitedly. “The world is a ball — you can see it from any big hill.”

“But not everyone can see it, Gombhi. You look at the world differently, and it is your greatest strength.”

He felt his grandfather’s big paw, still strong, squeeze his shoulder.

“I will tell you who you are, Gombhi.” the old one said. “You will make a good
father. You will be honored to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves, the
children, the elderly, the women, the sick, the weak, and the cripples; and those people as yet unborn. Did I ever tell you about your father? In thirty-five winters, I never saw your father raise his voice in anger, I never saw him strike another cat, I never saw him lose control over his temper.”

Gombhi contemplated this awful truth. How could anyone ever live up to such an
example? And yet his father had been killed in battle, defending a fording-place while his warrior-brethren retreated in the face of superior numbers.

“Do not hate the Ti-Arranna, Gombhi,” his grandfather advised, “Seek to understand your enemies, and to avoid conflict with them. That battle was about nothing; a misunderstanding.”

The pair of them thought about that for a while.

“The most important thing a cat can have is his name. A cat must have a good
name,” his grandfather told him seriously. “Think on how you wish to be known.”

Gombhi had no words to answer this truth.

“After you show the new people the words-on-stone, take them back to their home.”

“Yes, grandfather,” muttered Gombhi.

“I cannot tell you, for words do not exist, just how proud I am of you, my grandson,” said Laughing in the Wind.

His tired old eyes drank in the scene of the valley, the desert.

“Why do you tell me all this?” Gombhi asked, his fears rising to the forefront.

“Because I am old, Gombhi. Because I am old,” and the old cat would go no further.

After some silence, his grandfather made a request, startling in its stark simplicity.

“Sing me a song, please, Gombhi?” the old chief asked. “Any song. Sing the first one that comes into your mind.”

Gombhi cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. He had one already.

“What is it that we mean,”

“When we say we know?”

“What is it that we mean,”

“When we say we mean?”

“Who is we?”

“And what is what?”

“What’s done is done,”

“What is, is”

“What will be, will be.”

“What little we know,”

“When we say we know.”

“The time has come:”

“It’s time to go.”

Gombhi’s words spun around on the air, falling off the cliff into the valley below.

The old chief grinned, nodding in approval; watching clouds gather across the valley.

“And to think I was worried about you,” he laughed.

The youngster was right; another few days and it would be time to pick up the village and follow the suns as they fell ever-lower in the sky.

Louis Bertrand Shalako lives in Canada. He studied Radio, Television, and Journalism Arts at Lambton College of Applied Arts and Technology in Sarnia, Ontario. Louis enjoys cycling and swimming, and is a lover of good books. He lives with his elderly father, in a small war-time bungalow filled with books, cats, and model airplanes. Louis feels extremely fortunate to have retired early, and to have the opportunity to write full-time. He still has his self-respect, and that's the main thing.

Seeing in the Dark by Bruce Boston

2011-06-08T08:38:00.000-07:00

Seeing in the Dark
by Bruce Boston

The cats come out at night
to prowl the neighborhood.
On rooftops and in yards
some gather to fight.

Others join in exploits
of feline exploration
beneath the passing moon.

The cat lady from the dirty
white frame at the corner
stands alone in her robe
at the end of the block.

She summons her brood
of strays and discards,
long-haired and short.

She croons to them
in a language all her own,
She offers loud kisses
to the night.

She calls again and again,
yet her wayward charges
have other needs.

With a complement of senses
and a questing sentience,
a range of emotions
and eccentric variations,
each in its own way
consumes the curious night.

Cats Closed by Mary Lou Pearce

2011-06-06T12:25:00.000-07:00

Cats Closed
by Mary Lou Pearce

The sleek cat stepped daintily over the body lying in its path. Even more daintily, it sat down and began to lick the blood from its paws as it stared through slitted eyes into near space. Abruptly, the regal Siamese sat tall and began to yowl, heart-breakingly human in its anger and pain.

Repeated calls to the ASPCA and the increasingly strong smell coming from the condo eventually brought authority, of all shapes, sizes and kinds. The deceased proved to be deli heiress, Magda Steinberg, known for both her philanthropy and her champion Siamese, Ming China Doll. There was nothing obvious missing from the scene, in spite of the over-abundance of fence-able items scattered throughout the luxury apartment and the blatant signs of ransacking that were everywhere.

All efforts to capture the frightened Ming China Doll proved hopeless. She knew every nook and cranny and used them all like a seasoned escape artist. Lt. Erickson knew, from the time he was assigned to this case, that his only witness, a sensitive, excitable feline could only be soothed and eventually, questioned by one exceptional man.

He punched a certain unlisted number he knew by heart into his cell phone and waited impatiently. On the eighth ring, the distinctive voice he had been waiting to hear finally came on the line. Wasting no time, the policeman cut off the usual pleasantries before they started.

“Milo, it’s Lee. I just got a case that’s right up your alley,” he growled into the phone. The reply he got made him hold the phone several inches from his ear.

“No, that was not a sick joke on your middle name! Jeeze, I’m the last guy to make jokes about something like that! Look,” the red bearded policeman continued roughly, “this one’s really a stumper and there’s a cat right in the middle of it.”

The bulky cop leaned on the door molding and pushed back his visored cap as he continued. “Yes, I said…cat! Come down right now so I can fill you in, okay?”

The middle-aged lieutenant with the typically Irish face and the unlikely name of Lee F. Erickson barely finished giving the address before he heard the connection get cut off abruptly. He sighed gustily and pushed off wearily from the door frame. It was going to be a long day!

Thinking longingly of a tall cold one, the enjoyment of which he’d given up six months ago on doctor’s orders, Erickson jumped guiltily a few minutes later as the familiar basso profundo voice hailed him heartily.

“Lee F., you old Viking by-blow you! What’s all the caterwauling?” The tall, thin man dressed all in black who addressed him blinked owlishly through thick glasses and grinned broadly.

The big policeman groaned and wished he had that beer after all. This amazing man, who looked nothing like his voice, was prone to using many allusions to cats in his everyday conversation. As if his name, Milo Allee Katz wasn’t enough, this was a man with a most amazing, almost unbelievable talent.

Milo Katz understood cats. He bent all of his genius IQ and considerable common sense to doing just that, on a regular basis. He was known internationally as the ultimate expert on communications with and about cats, wild or domestic.

Many hailed him as the only truly qualified cat psychiatrist in the known world. Lee F. could and did believe anything he heard from and about this man. He’d seen him at work more than once.

It was as if Milo could read a cat’s mind or maybe the cat read his, the big policeman never knew exactly which. How he did what he did really didn’t matter much. What did was that Milo got excellent results and fast.

“Where’s the little beauty?” Milo asked Lee.

Seeing Lee’s hopeless shrug, Milo grinned anew. Reaching into the pocket of his height of fashion suit jacket, the thin man pulled out a handful of something. Placing his hand flat, he began making incredibly real-sounding vocalizations like a Siamese.

In less time than it took for Lee to wonder what he had in his hand, Milo was stroking a trembling Ming China Doll. When she was finished eating her snack, the man scooped her up and slipped an elastic collar with a leash attached over her head simultaneously. “But we tried every kind of food we could find in the house to get her to come out, what finally got her?” Lee couldn’t resist asking.

Milo shook his head as if he would never understand how someone couldn’t know such a simple thing. “The trick with these pampered cats is to offer them something they’ve never even smelled before. In this case, imitation bacon bits.” Lee started to roar with laughter.

“I’ll have you know it works every time,” Milo protested somewhat huffily. “If you don’t need me or Ming China Doll any longer, I think I’ll take the poor, traumatized thing home with me.” Lee nodded, still chuckling.

After both cat and man had left, the policeman took a last look around. After seeing the coroner off with the body and making sure all the experts from Forensics had gotten what they needed and left, he ordered his men to secure the crime scene with police seals and yellow crime scene tape across the windows and doors. Soon all was quiet.

Yawning nonstop, Lee slapped his pal Harvey Tynes on his blue clad shoulder.

“Do me a big favor, pal ‘o mine; take first watch, okay?”

Harvey nodded and said with a grin, “You owe me one, Lee-F, today’s my afternoon off!”

Before they sealed the main door, Lee ran back in and brought out a large, leather Windsor chair. Setting it down beside the door, he brushed off the leather and plumped up the pillow. “There you go, Harve; a throne fit for a prince among friends,” he said with a flourish.

With Harvey’s roar of laughter and comments about blarney ringing in his ears, Lee headed home. It seemed like his head had barely hit the pillow, when his bedside phone shrilled. He swore colourfully when he could finally understand what the voice on the other end was trying to tell him.

On his way back to the Steinberg condo, Lee tried to collect his thoughts. When the next guy on the watch rotation had come to relieve Harvey, he had found the police seals broken and Harvey dead in the big chair, seemingly killed by a single blow to the side of his head. Apparently, the condo had then been, methodically this time, ransacked a second time.

Grabbing his cell phone, Lee ordered a guard sent to Milo’s brownstone. The only reason anyone would return so soon to the scene of the crime was because they didn’t get what they had killed for in the first place. That could only mean they wanted Ming China Doll, maybe for cat-napping and ransom purposes and were surprised by Magda Steinberg, whom they were forced to kill before she could identify them.

The young rookie pulled up to the brownstone and parked her cruiser. She stepped out and stood looking at the old house. Two gateposts topped with black marble cats guarded the walk up to the door.

The walk itself was made up of stepping stones shaped like cat paw prints. As she walked quickly up to the massive door with its stained glass window in the shape of cats' eyes and a huge lion’s head knocker, she decided this was a person after her own heart. She smiled to herself.

When she reached the door and used the knocker, a loud purring sound came from it instead of a thump. Smiling wider, the policewoman couldn’t wait to meet the famous Milo Allee Katz.

When she opened the door and stepped in at the request of a deep bass voice, she wasn’t surprised to see a tall thin black-clad man entirely surrounded by cats sitting in a Lazy Boy recliner and sipping what smelled like catnip tea.

“Yes, officer…what can I do for you?” the man asked.

“If you’re Milo Allee Katz, then you can let me come in and guard you and Ming China Doll” the officer said, holding out her hand.

Clearing his lap, Milo stood up and stepped forward to take her hand and shake it.

“Now why, Officer Calico would any of us need guarding?” Milo asked, raising one dark eyebrow.

As she explained, Milo’s face grew more and more solemn, even as he handed her a cup and filled it with tea.

“So, you’re our guard? What makes you the best man…I mean person for the job?” Milo asked when she had finished and was sipping her tea.

She grinned. “I am an experienced witness protection officer, I’ve read all your books and I love cats,” she said, ticking each item off on her ringless left hand.

Milo beamed benevolently at her and said, “Well, a fan! I was just about to try finding out what happened from Ming China Doll, maybe you’d like to sit in on the session,” he queried jovially.

Officer Calico nodded eagerly, in spite of the fact that as her guard she would have to stay with Ming China Doll anyway.

“I’m afraid you might find my methods a little unorthodox,” Milo said over his shoulder as he carried Ming China Doll draped over the other shoulder into a small library and study off the living room.

“You see, I do most of my communicating with animals, cats in particular, by mental telepathy. This can take some time depending on the animal’s willingness to cooperate.”

“At other times, I use mind reading while the animal is under the influence of hypnosis. Many times, I just observe the cat and it begins revealing clues by its actions and attitude. But then,” he finished as he settled down in a chair that stood behind an ebony desk that was a carved marvel of hundreds of cats entwined to make its legs and sides, while the more solid top was Birdseye maple assembled cleverly to look like as many cats’ eyes. "You probably know all this, since you claim to have read all my books,” he said with a twinkle across at the officer.

Settling a tense and trembling Ming China Doll on the desk blotter in front of him, Milo began, while Officer Calico watched in rapt astonishment. Three hours later, the thin man in black was totally exhausted; Ming China Doll was hysterically bouncing off walls and Officer Calico was sympathetically making coffee for the fifth time. Nothing was getting the elegant Siamese to open up and “tell” what she knew, Milo explained with bewilderment.

As the harried man sipped the strong brew and stared morosely at the elegant lady cat, who by now had finally tucked under paws and perched on her brisket and was staring intently at him. He was looking very dispirited. Suddenly, all three jumped as Milo’s purring doorbell was heard loudly and insistently. Wearily, Milo waved distractedly at Officer Calico when she reminded him that she should really answer all door while she was present in the house.

When Milo saw whom she had with her when she came back, his face brightened immediately and relaxed in a smile when he saw what they were carrying. “Nona!” he cried, jumping up to take the huge covered platter and assorted plates out of his grandmother’s hands. As she supervised their trip to the kitchen and talked a mile a minute, Nona Katz kept patting Officer Calico’s hand and cheek affectionately.

After he had settled his tiny grandmother comfortably in her favorite armchair with a cup of tea at her elbow, Milo showed his curiosity at last.

“Nona, what are you doing here?” he demanded sternly.

Ming China Doll jumped up into the old lady’s lap, settled herself in the crook of one arm and began purring as she was being stroked gently.

“A better question, bubal, is where you got my friend Magda Steinberg’s precious angel, China Doll.” the old lady countered, looking at him over the top of her cat’s eye glasses.

Officer Calico turned to the old lady. “You knew Mrs. Steinberg, Mrs. Katz?”

“Of course,” the old lady said, still stroking the velvety cat. “We were girls together, even came to America on the same ship. Why, we even became citizens on the same day, too,” she finished proudly.

Milo and the officer looked at each other.

“Magda never put on airs, even if she was entitled, she would always play canasta with her old friends, even after she got her rich husband,” continued Milo’s Nona.

“You still haven’t answered my question, how come you got Ming China Doll?”

When Milo told her gently about the death of her old friend, his grandmother sighed deeply then said matter-of-factly, “I’ll sit Shiva with her family when the time comes. But what about my little sweetheart, what happens to her?” The frail senior hugged the sleepy cat and began murmuring to her in a strange tongue.

Officer Calico cocked an eyebrow askance at Milo; he smiled back and said, “Yiddish. She speaks it most of the time among her old friends, especially when she or they are upset.” The tall man slapped his forehead.

“Yiddish. That was the problem all along, the cat only understands Yiddish!” Over the next hour, with a lot of help from his grandmother, Milo astounded Officer Calico once more by coming out with a plausible story that he claimed came from the cat!

After she had taken down the story, Officer Calico asked to use the phone. When she got through to the precinct, she found out Lee F. was out breaking the sad news to Magda’s family. She left a message and began to have a cozy chat with Milo’s Nona, just to see what else she could find out about Magda Steinberg and her family.

What a family! Lee F. slapped his notebook shut and leaned back in his rickety office chair. That Aymes, the butler and only full time servant to Magda Steinberg, strictly speaking wasn’t family, certainly not officially.

But what he didn’t know about her personal business and private affairs wasn’t worth knowing, it seemed. He claimed he was out doing the marketing yesterday at the time of the murder and said any number of tradesmen could vouch for it, since they all knew him at the specialty stories where he shopped at Madam’s insistence. When Erickson prodded, he finally conceded he was named in Madam’s will for quite a considerable sum but only on the condition he kept Ming China Doll in the manner she had become accustomed to until her death.

Then, it seemed, a monthly allowance, which he admitted was more than generous, would be his for life. Lee F. had checked his story and found several witnesses that knew him in the stores he had mentioned stopping in. Still, shopping would not take that long and who knew what an old retainer like him would do to be rid of the impediment of a spoiled cat and an even more spoiled old lady, in order to get the bequest and allowance early.

Then, there was Ida Lassiter. According to her, she had been the victim’s right hand woman. Personal secretary and companion for ten years to the deceased, she had told him every detail of the will and any questions he asked about the old lady’s business affairs, she seemed to know all the answers and then some.

Erickson studied his notes from the interview with Ida again. It seemed that the only heirs were Mrs. Steinberg’s twin girls, May and June. According to Ida, as she insisted flirtatiously that she be called, those two were shopping addicts married to gamblers who couldn’t keep a job to save their bank accounts.

Recently, Ida claimed, Mrs. Steinberg had threatened them, both to their faces and behind their backs to her lawyer, to cut them off and divide the estate between Aymes and herself. So there seemed to be a solid motive for the daughters to get rid of the old lady before she could change her will and if Magda had succeeded in cutting the girls off, Ida now stood to get a hefty chunk of cash for herself.

The daughters, speaking irritatingly in chorus and between sobs, claimed they were shopping at the time of their mother’s death. They had credit cards receipts to prove it, unfortunately. As for Ida herself, it seemed she was busy with the hundred and one things she did every day for her employer and wasn’t home at the time of the murder.

When Lee talked to the old lady’s lawyer, he bore out Ida’s claim that one of the places she had stopped was his office with the newly signed and witnessed revised will. So, here he was with four suspects, all with compelling motives for murder, all with seeming airtight alibis and not a real clue in sight. All he could hop for now was that Milo was having some kind of luck with that cat!

“Yes, Lee,” Milo said serenely into the phone, “I have done ‘my thing,’ as you so quaintly put it, and I’m pretty sure she knows who the murderer is.” He listened intently, absently stroking Ming China Doll, who was dozing on his lap.

“No,” he continued reluctantly, “I can’t prove she really knows, that’s your job, isn’t it?”

Relenting, Milo finally worked out a plan with Lee that he was satisfied would work, in spite of the policeman’s very vocal skepticism and hung up the phone. He smiled down at the sleeping Siamese.

“Well,” he murmured to the cat, “I guess we’ll know tonight whether you know who done it, eh?” Ming’s ear twitched and one eye opened and closed as if in a wink.

At seven o’clock, Milo stood outside the ornate front door of Magda Steinberg’s condo once more. Beside him stood his grandmother holding the carrier where Ming China Doll was telling the whole world how insulted she felt by the treatment she was receiving. Through the door, they could hear the sounds of several voices all talking, arguing, pleading and generally causing a stir.

Milo smiled down at his frail grandmother. She was almost grinning and there was a light of avid curiosity in her eyes as she reached up to press the bell again, this time more firmly. He hadn’t really wanted to bring her, but she had helped him with Ming China Doll and she deserved to see that the killer of her old friend was brought to swift and proper justice.

A harassed looking Lee F. opened the door. “It’s about time” he roared, “I’ve almost got a mutiny on my hands here. What took you so long?”

Milo and his Nona moved into the elaborate living room to find every one of the suspects seated around the room, some holding drinks in their hands.

When the group saw the carrier and heard the cat, they all stopped talking at once. The air was so full of tension it could have been cut with a knife as they looked at each other and then at the new arrivals uneasily.

Milo’s grandmother quietly set the carrier down in the center of the room. Milo opened the door and Ming China Doll stepped out daintily. With high raised tail and whiskers twitching, she circled the room, sniffing each person in turn.

When she got to the twins, sitting side by side like bookends, she bristled. With a yowl fit to wake the dead, she leaped onto the head of one, digging all her claws into her scalp. When the other tried to remove the cat, it clawed her face viciously.

Milo leaped to remove the cat and expertly put her back into the carrier. Lee stepped up to the two women and began to read them their rights. He had barely started when Milo stopped him with a loud clearing of his throat.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” said Officer Calico, who had entered the condo behind Milo and his grandmother, then stood back in the shadows to see what happened, just as Milo had asked her to.

“I think you’ll find those two ladies are not the only two twins in the room.” She pointed the carrier toward the butler Aymes and the companion, Ida Lassiter.

When she opened it, Ming China Doll sprang out. She approached the pair cautiously. When she reached their feet, she deliberately peed on each of their shoes in turn.

“I’d say you have your proof, Lee,” Milo pointed out mildly as he reached out one long arm to stop Aymes from running from the room.

His grandmother tossed the empty cat carrier under Ida Lassiter’s feet as she tried to escape at the same time. Officer Calico and Lee Erickson had them both cuffed before the others in the room could do more than gasp.

“So,” said Lee F. over Chinese food at Ling Wong’s Oriental for Occidentals Palace. “Aymes and Lassiter were fraternal twins. But if they were named in the will, why kill Magda?”

Milo passed the Chicken Soo Guy to his Nona with a sigh. “Don’t forget Magda didn’t follow up on her threat to cut out her daughters and leave the whole fortune to her faithful retainers,” he reminded the other man patiently.

“So those two decided to fake the cat’s kidnapping to get some ready money so that they could arrange the death of the old lady so it would look like she died of a broken heart at the loss of her beloved Ming China Doll.” Officer Calico continued the story as she served herself some more chicken balls with sweet and sour sauce.

“But, as Ming China Doll ‘told’ us, poor Magda caught them at it, so they were forced to kill her before she could expose them,” finished Milo’s grandmother as she emptied the plate of fortune cookies into her voluminous handbag.

Lee F. sighed as he pushed himself back from the table and pulled out this wallet to pay the check. “Speaking of Her Highness,” said the big policeman, "What happens to her now?”

Milo’s grandmother lifted a cat carrier onto the empty chair beside her and poked some chicken through the mesh. ”Magda would have wanted her Ming to go to someone who loves her,” the old lady said as a throaty purr issued from the box.

“But Nona,” protested Milo, “What will you do with her when you go to Florida in the winter?”

His Nona winked and smiled across at Officer Calico, “I think I know the perfect cat sitter,” she said brashly.

As the young lady blushed, Milo said nonchalantly, “Well, I guess it’s the least I can do to visit while you’re gone and see how Ming China Doll is doing.” Nona and Lee smiled at each other.

It was definitely time to mark this one “Cats Closed” before things got any more out of hand.

The Lost Souls of Cats by Emily Veinglory

2011-06-03T11:19:00.000-07:00

The Lost Souls of Cats
by Emily Veinglory

The first soul asks, “You’re the cat angel?”

Sign on the door aside, the fur and whiskers usually give me away.

“I died yesterday,” she continues, “and I was gaga most of the last year. My son promised he would look after her, but....”

“But you think...?”

“He put her put to sleep, my Snowball.”

I open the book; it falls to the right page.

“We have thousands of ‘Snowballs’ here,” I say. “There’s only one way to proceed.”

I lead her to the purgatory of cats. It looks like an enormous hall, walls extending into depthless gloom. The cat souls aren’t cold, hungry, or even scared…but they still suffer. Spread to every horizon there is nothing but glowing, waiting eyes. A thousand golden eyes blink and waver, and one glad meow rings out. Snowball leaps from the masses and into her owner’s arms, and simultaneously one of many Snowballs vanishes from the book.

“That nasty boy,” she says. “I knew it.”

Not your fault, Snowball replies. I would rather be with you.

They leave together and thousands of cat souls look away, disappointed again.

God’s concession to the cats is that although they cannot go to heaven of wild cats, they can go to human heaven so long as their owner claims them — no place for strays in paradise.

The second in line insists, “Cinder must be here!”

But none come forth.

“I see the problem,” I say. “Cinders has already gone, with a Mrs. Smyth.”

“That old bat,” he explodes, “always feeding my cat, sucking up to her while I was at work. I paid the vet bills, worried when she stays out all night.”

“You could share her?”

“Are you serious?”

I gave him a look that reminds a soul they are addressing a genuine Angel.

“I didn’t even like Cinders much,” he grumbles. “She wouldn’t sit on my knee, never purred — but wouldn’t let me have another cat. I tried once with a kitten. Cinders beat the tar out of it, stitches and everything, so I gave it away. And here I am for eternity without a cat."

“Sorry, Mr. Pederson,” I reply. “Invite me by some time for a saucer of milk.”

He looks worried.

“Joke,” I say.

Not everyone feels comfortable around a cat angel, or maybe he’s just not a cat person really, but I could see how it was the blood pressure that got him.

The third guy causes lots of interest.

“Blacky?”

“Meow!”

“Spotty, Phantom, Tabby?”

“Meow.”

“Meow.”

“Meow.”

“I love cats,” he explains. “Any kind of cat, since I was a kid. Now let me see; other Blacky, other other Blacky, little Blacky, Fatso, Spike, Tabby, other Tabby, Whiskers…”

The cats mill gleefully.

“Whiskers, how long has it been, twenty years?”

Too long.

“Whiskers, meet Phantom.”

Charmed.

“There was another. I was about seven…small and black. The name escapes me; it was seventy year ago.”

“Another Blacky?”

“No…but something like…”

“Sooty, Shadow, Jet?”

“No, wait. That stuff, you know, they used it on stoves.”

“Zebo?”

“That’s it, Zebo!”

“MEOW!”

“That’s all,” he says, “until Blacky number four pops off, but he might decide to stay with Judy.”

Thirteen leave, but fifty more new cat souls arrive. Another lady edges in.

“I’m looking for Nibbles…Nibbles?”

No answer.

“Are you sure Nibbles has passed on?”

She bursts into tears. “I’m sure. I was only ten and didn’t know. Dad said we had to move for his job. I assumed Nibbles would be coming. On the day we got into the car I was saying ‘Where is Nibbles?’ and Dad said he’d run away.”

I had a bad feeling about where this story was going.

“It wasn’t until I was over forty Mum told me Dad had SHOT HIM. He had taken Nibbles out back and SHOT HIM BECAUSE HE COULDN’T BE BOTHERED BRINGING HIM ALONG. Mummy said she’d thought we could just get another cat, but I didn’t want another cat. I never did have another cat.”

I sense tremulous interest out in the dark.

“Try again,” I said.

“Nibbles!” she called. “I would have stopped him… I would have tried to stop him.”

Really?

“I swear. I’ll make it up to you!”

Slowly at first, but quicker and quicker and finally in great leaps and bounds, Nibbles went to her.

Daddy didn’t come, Mummy didn’t come, little Georgie didn’t come, he didn’t even remember me!

“I came. As soon as I could.”

You came.

They left together, not looking back. They never look back at those left behind.

Next came a man inquiring for: “Plucky?”

No answer.

“Always wanted a cat,” he said wistfully. “Mum couldn’t abide them. I got married and Mabel was allergic, so that was that. When she passed on there was this scraggly feral thing. I spent months feeding him and luring him in, almost had him too. Then I found him on the road, stone dead, buried him under the roses. Went into hospital myself not long after, and never came out. Then I heard about this place. I wouldn’t
like to think he was in here…Plucky?”

I took out the other book.

“Sorry, sir. It seems Plucky went straight through to wild cat heaven.”

“With the lions and all? Well it doesn’t surprise me, he was a wild’un. Still, I always did want a cat. Don’t suppose I could take one of these?”

We were fixed with the intense gaze of the almost uncountable eyes of the cat souls.

I have waited many thousand years. No one will come for me.

There was dignity in the request, but desperation also.

I am Bilqis. Take me?

They look to me.

“How could I refuse,” I say.

They leave together. The eyes of the remaining cats fix on me. New hope wells up in those abandoned beyond all hope of remembrance.

“Excuse me,” I say to those waiting. “I must have a quick word with God.”

Note to Contributors

2011-06-02T09:42:00.000-07:00

It looks like I'll be opening paying submissions again starting September 1st and ending September 30th. Get your good and bad cat stories, poetry and art ready for this fall.

Cold Comfort by Christina Crooks

2011-05-31T06:22:00.000-07:00

Cold Comfort

by Christina Crooks

Tattie knocked on the raised wood door panel around the decorative stained-glass window pane, then hastily tucked her citation book in a pocket of her blue uniform. She was there to investigate a complaint, not give a citation, though she could smell the odor the neighbors had complained about. Oddly musty, with an undercurrent of some organic reek. Tattie wrinkled her nose even as she tried to place it. Four years with the animal protection service and she’d never smelled anything quite like it. Maybe the reported “elderly lady with way too many cats” was simply a poor housekeeper.

The front door swung open a few inches, afternoon sunlight crawling over colored glass. Gimlet eyes peered at her. “Yes?”

“Ma’am, my name is Tattie. I’m with Ketterton Animal Control. We’ve had complaints--”

“Are you a police officer?” the woman demanded.

Tattie sighed inwardly about her uniform as she shook her head. She wore a badge, but carried only pepper spray at her waist. It was easy to mistake her for the police, and sometimes the mistake expedited investigations. The whole fear-of-authority thing. Other times, as now, evidently, it inhibited trust.

Not everyone liked authority.

“No ma’am. Animal Control is supervised by the city Health Department and commissioned by the Police Department, but we’re a separate organization focused on animal welfare. We…oh.” Tattie stepped back as a small calico squeezed through the crack in the doorway, bolted across the porch, then streaked across the shaggy front lawn. “Yours?”

“That one’s a visitor. Do you like cats?” The door opened a little more, and Tattie could see the woman’s lined face and bright eyes fixed on her with unusual intensity. The smell that wafted out was unpleasant, but not as bad as some.

But Tattie smiled. “I love them. Have three of my own.” She tried to look inside. “They’re a handful,” she lied. If the woman was a hoarder, she might be in over her head, overrun by cats gone feral. Tattie’s three were all rescues taken from elderly women who didn’t realize that unaltered felines required more than the occasional cuddle. All three possessed easygoing temperaments. Tattie’d had to euthanize hundreds of others.

“And you’re thinking I’m a crazy-lady cat collector. Thanks to my nosy neighbors.” The scowl she turned on the nearest house - the family that had called, incidentally - made Tattie’s heart give a little leap. The fearsome expression made the woman look like the scariest kind of Halloween witch. But as quickly as the scowl appeared, it faded, replaced by sadness and fear. “You won’t take them from me, will you? They’re my only family. My babies. My comfort.”

Tattie eyed the still mostly-closed door. “I just want to talk with you, at this point. I’m sure we can get this settled without my having to get a warrant. I believe in keeping pets with their owners if at all possible. If I could just come in for a few minutes…?”

The woman’s expression struck Tattie as doubtful, but also achingly lonely. Finally the heavy door opened all the way, the woman hobbling out of the way with a shuffle and a wheeze. Her blue cotton dress wasn’t quite shapeless, clinging to wide hips more tightly than was flattering before draping in limp folds to the floor. The area of her chest above her sagging breasts seemed almost concave in comparison, giving her body a lumpy pear shape.

Her hair, however, might have been professionally set. A striking salt and pepper, it gleamed with vitality in natural, shoulder-length waves that perfectly framed an aged face that Tattie realized had once been quite beautiful.

“Ma’am, may I just say, you do have the prettiest hair.”

With a ponderous half-turn, the woman smiled for the first time. “Call me Rose. Watch your step. I’m afraid that I haven’t cleaned house as thoroughly as I should.”

You could say that again. Tattie grimaced as she neatly avoided stepping in the piles of cat doo and puddles of urine dotting the tile hallway leading to the kitchen. Chewed cat toys littered the floor. Tattie stopped counting the brightly colored yarn toys and bell-stuffed batting-balls when she reached two dozen. The toys perched atop the cat trees, the dust-sheets covering the furniture, and strewn across the adjoining living room’s carpet. The carpet served as a litter box.

The odor filled her nostrils. No wonder the neighbors had complained.

“I’ll call a cleaner,” Rose said as if she’d heard her thoughts, her matter-of-fact voice echoing in the kitchen as she turned the corner. “I’ve been putting it off. My mother-in-law would’ve had a heart attack if she could’ve seen this mess. Come through here. Why don’t you have a seat, dear, and I’ll serve tea.”

Tattie turned into the kitchen and stifled a gasp. The dominant smell changed from one of feces and ammonia to one of spoiled food. The encrusted, fly-buzzed dishes in the sink doubtless accounted for some of it. The overflowing trash, more. Tattie brought her hand up to her mouth before forcing herself to lower it again.

Tattie demurred. “Please, don’t trouble yourself. It’s not necessar--”

“Bleach for now, cleaners for later,” Rose muttered, rolling up her sleeves. “I’ll have this mess out of the way in two shakes of a cat’s tail. Sit, sit!”

Tattie sat, wondering if the woman had always been so bossy. And if it had anything to do with why she lived alone with her cats.

“One gets used to the smell,” Rose said apologetically a few minutes later as the sharp scent of bleach filled the air. “I suppose it seems strange to a young lady like you, the things a body can get used to.” She ran a sponge over the breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the square eating area where Tattie sat at a round table. The smell did seem to be improving, though an odor stubbornly remained, mingling with disinfectant and the raspberry tea Rose served despite Tattie’s protestations.

Tattie surreptitiously examined the mug, then took a polite sip. “Where are the cats?”

“Don’t waste any time, do you?” Rose observed, turning a critical gaze on Tattie, spreading her dress to sit in the white-lacquered wooden chair. She sipped from her own mug before answering. “They’re around. They’re shy with strangers. Look, there’s Rascal inside the tall cat condo. Over there in the den, past the scratching post. See him watching us? My mother-in-law used to kick him, hard, when she thought I wasn’t looking.”

Tattie started, spilling her tea. It still amazed her, how cruel people could be. “That’s horrible.”

Rose giggled, an unpleasant sound emitted around the mug she lifted to thin lips. Rose swallowed, her eyes narrowed with a cat-like enjoyment. “I couldn’t agree more. That woman was insincere, petty, cruel, and vain. Through you know, she couldn’t run a comb through her dyed-blond hair without it looking like a disaster. Her son - my ex-husband - worshiped the ground under her feet. He’d have held the cats for her to kick for his mommy’s pleasure. But my babies outwitted that man. He never could catch them.” Rose looked fondly at Rascal.

Tattie realized Rose was right. She couldn’t smell the odor any longer, unless she concentrated on it. “So, I have to ask. How many cats do you have?”

“No you don’t. You don’t have to ask.” Rose set her mug down with a thump. Tattie felt herself tense.

“People think they have to say things, have to do things. In my day it was even worse. Going through the motions, doing what’s expected: ‘Be a nice girl. Respect your elders. Respect authority. Get married. Know your place.’” Rose snorted. “Kiss your mother-in-law’s patootie no matter how badly she treats you. And then you die and I’m the one who does your hair. Fourteen.”

“Excuse me?”

“Did I mumble? Fourteen, I said. I have fourteen cats.”

“’The one who does your hair.’” Tattie gazed at Rose’s beautifully styled tresses. “You’re a hairdresser. Of course you are.” Tattie suddenly felt foolish for thinking out loud, and reached for her citation book to try to feel more official. Fourteen cats living in unhygienic conditions were certainly an animal-cruelty violation. But maybe Rose would be open to giving most of them up.

Rose was responding, though, her eyes blazing with righteousness. “She said being a hairdresser for corpses was all I’d ever be good for, since I couldn’t have kids. As if there couldn’t possibly be anything wrong with her precious Bob’s plumbing. My clothes were wrong, my cooking was inadequate, my background was questionable, and if you listened to her catty comments, you’d believe I was the queen of all rottenness. And did Bob stand up for me? Of course not. She queened it over both of us. I had to just take it. I looked forward to getting those phone calls from the funeral home. I preferred the company of dead people to hers.”

“Corpses. You did their hair.” Tattie shook herself. “About the cats…”

“Look. Pippin and Rambo came out of hiding.” A fluffy Persian mix and a large steel-gray cat lolled in front of a thick leather-covered scratching post, playfully batting at each other. The steel-gray cat tired of the game first, crouching on the ground, tail lashing. Suddenly he attacked the post with claws out. The sound of ripping made the hairs on Tattie’s arm stand up.

Rose’s gaze went faraway. “The funeral director would clean and embalm the body, sealing its orifices with wax. He’d wash the hair for me before I arrived too. The body would lie waiting for me on a steel rod that holds the head higher than the feet. That’s necessary to drain a body of fluids when you embalm, you know. They were all cold and stiff and sometimes in real bad-looking shape. My job was to help make them look good, for the viewing. That last, peaceful image of them is what comforted the bereaved.”

Rose glanced at Tattie, and seemed satisfied with the expression on her face. Tattie made an effort to close her mouth. But before she could interject, Rose continued speaking.

“I did murder victims, disease victims, accident victims. I did little children that were taken out of this world by electricity, or a golf club. One young man had been stabbed to death at a parking lot in a bar - he wouldn’t buy beer for some younger guys so they killed him - and that same night I had a young redhead woman in a green bathing suit that had drowned. The funeral director was an artist at getting the person back to as near-normal looking as possible when no warm blood was pulsing through their veins. I learned so much by watching him work.

“When he was done, I’d do my part. Twenty-five dollars per body, makeup extra. Down in the cold, bright, formaldehyde-smelling bowels of the funeral home, not up in the showing room with the pretty pink lights reflected off the ceiling, giving a softer look to the dearly departed. First I’d view the photo of the deceased. Often the photo was more than twenty years old and the only one the bereaved family could find in a hurry, and I was expected to make the deceased look just like that photo.

“I worked from the top of the head, since, you know, I had a bit of a hard time looking at the face until I was done. Usually the person was someone I knew, you see. This is a small area and I’ve been here since 1953. Sometimes I cut the hair, and dye it too. I blow dried the hair and then used a curling iron, but some of the elderly required those tight roller curls, so I placed rollers in their hair and left them under a hair dryer for awhile. Doing their makeup was a little like painting the life back into them. I made them look alive, just asleep. It helped the bereaved families so much to see the deceased that way. I often got thank-you letters from family members, and people would come up to me in stores and in restaurants to tell me how grateful they were for making Mom look so beautiful, or Dad look so peaceful. I provided a valuable service that gave the living much-needed comfort. Did my mother-in-law ever once acknowledge that? Of course not. And if I dared respond to defend myself, Bob would just raise his eyebrows at me with that stupid, infuriating grin and say, ‘Cat fight! Meow!’”

Tattie pushed out her chair in preparation for standing. “Speaking of cats, maybe we could--”

Rose hissed, “Sh! The rest of them have come out of hiding. Look. They never came out when my mother-in-law was yammering at me.”

Sure enough, all fourteen cats and kittens were in the den, lounging on cat trees, slinking along the floor, batting toys about, and two more had joined the steel-gray cat in attacking the tall scratching post. The post looked the worse for their clawed onslaught. A dust-cover the size of a small tablecloth trembled at the very top, swaying with the tiny impacts of claws slicing furrows in the thick leathery material covering the post.

Tattie paused, then against her better judgment asked the question. “So, what happened with the corpse hairdresser job? Do you still do that?”

Rose cackled, wheezing for a moment before she could answer. “Oh, dear heavens no. As you’ve no doubt observed, I can’t even keep my own house properly. It’s painful, due to my arthritis and joint problems. How on earth would I be able to style hair and apply mascara?

“But I did it for thirty-five years. I tell you, I can no longer abide the smell of flowers. Reminds me of death. But I learned so much about the trappings of dying. And about the management of bodies. For example, did you know that when someone has died at home and found face down, the blood pools on the face and they’ll look as if someone has beaten them? And, when someone is injured in the head area the feet will sometimes club down, indicating trauma to the brain? My mother-in-law was found just that way a few years back. The funeral director thought maybe she tripped at the top of her stairs. Or perhaps that she was fighting with someone, though they never found a suspect. I’m thinking it was a fight. That woman loved a good cat fight.

“Through my art and the funeral director’s skill, we made her look alive. However, I told Bob she wouldn’t have wanted to be viewed that way. Remembering how vain she was, he had to agree. He ordered a cremation.”

Tattie looked at the small smile that curved Rose’s thin lips. “And did she get a cremation?”

Rose continued as if Tattie hadn’t spoken. “So many options exist these days for the deceased. Cremation. Burial. Cryogenics. There’s even a company willing to compress remains into a sparkling diamond. Wear them as jewelry, now that would be a kind of solace, don’t you agree? But my favorite, I think, is the company willing to freeze-dry a body. The deceased is placed in a stainless steel tube that looks like a cross between an aquarium and a glass-front fridge and then frozen solid. The ice is turned directly into a gas, bypassing the liquid stage, and whoosh! Freeze dried human. All the museums are using the method now for animal displays, instead of traditional taxidermy. A body retains lifelike appearance down to the last eyelash.”

Tattie tried not to envision it, but her skin crawled nonetheless. “I see. Very interesting. Thank you for sharing such… such vivid details of your work background. We really should discuss the disposition of your cats now.”

“All I want is for my darlings to be happy. Have you ever seen happier babies?” Rose asked. “Look at them!”

Tattie looked. Two more cats had joined the bunch at the scratching post. They all attacked it with a zeal Tattie associated with catnip. She almost smiled. “I want what’s in their best interest and the best interest of the neighbors. They’ve complained about the smell. Don’t you think your cats might be better off if some of them were placed in other loving homes?”

“I’ll call in a cleaner. Once a week. And get new carpets in the rooms. I’ve wanted to, it’s just…” Rose trailed off as she saw Tattie shaking her head. “How many do I have to give up?” she asked flatly.

“Half. And you call in a professional cleaner.”

“And in return?”

“In return I’ll personally supervise the cats and see they get the best chance at placement with loving families.”

Rose glared at her, then, surprisingly, smiled. “Well, I don’t have to like your having me over a barrel. But at least you don’t spit and scratch at me while I’m down, like some people used to do.” She stared meaningfully at the cats, as if they shared her sentiments.

“Okay then.” Tattie approached the bunch of cats at the scratching post. “Since you agree, I’ll bring these playful ones with me.” They seemed the most aggressive, the way they attacked the scratching post with their sharp claws. Maybe the most dangerous. Rose was getting up in years. Her safety had to be considered, whether she realized it or not. The covering was shredded. Tattie approached the dark, leathery post.

“No!” Rose’s shout set Tattie back on her heels. “Not them! Take some of the others.”

At her first shout, the cats bolted.

Tattie stared, concerned with their high energy – they might be difficult to catch – until something else drew her gaze.

Two cats collided, and one crashed against the post itself, knocking it sideways. The dust cloth at the top slipped.

Gleaming curls of elegantly styled, dyed-blond hair caught the light.

“Take some of the others,” Rose repeated. “Not them.”

Tattie watched with dawning horror as the more energetic cats reemerged from hiding.

She could hear the indulgent smile in Rose’s voice. “They’re my comfort.”

Personal Story by Jennifer Wrobleski

2011-05-25T12:10:00.001-07:00

"He’s clamping! He’s clamping!"

By the sounds of it, you would never have guessed you were in a veterinary clinic.

The look on his face could not possibly have done justice to what he must have thought of me. No, it was the sound he made – similar to a young boy – as he screamed his objections to the doctor’s feeble attempt to get an accurate temperature.

Of course, it would have been difficult for anyone (let alone a trained veterinarian) to keep a firm, yet gentle, grip on the thermometer, especially while wearing leather gloves up to her armpits. A moment of hesitation from the assistant gave way to a snarl and a flash of teeth, which was promptly followed by the securing of a muzzle.

Have you ever seen a muzzled cat? Up until that very second I had not. And what a scene it was! The bright red nylon cone was securely strapped around the back of his head. Just a nickel-sized hole at the end allowed for breathing. He swayed his head back and forth, trying to get his bearings. Not easy to do when all he could probably see was red.

You’d think they would use a more soothing color, perhaps pale blue or sun-shiny yellow – not red. Wasn’t red the color used by bull fighters? Still, despite my wrenched heartstrings, I could not contain myself and wished desperately for a video camera. No one was going to believe this fiasco.

Peaches (his unfortunate name being the result of gender confusion) did not see any humor in the situation. He was not having any of this and made no attempt at convincing me otherwise.

Aha! The writhing patient finally subdued, the vet raised her thermometer high in victory. A fever…the poor thing endured the torture with good reason. In hind sight (no pun intended), this minor procedure had been a necessary one. Finally, a light at the end of the tunnel - or at least an end to the countless preceding days of hacking and choking (not to mention a horrid ride in the car.)

It all started with what seemed to be a hairball. A hairball wouldn't have been unusual considering the amount of shedding in recent weeks; it had been early summer, after all, and Peaches shed his coat with an enthusiasm that bordered on ferocity. Summer usually meant more days outside…which meant more hunting. Now, I don’t know about anyone else, but I’ve never seen a cat eat around a bunny’s fur or peel the skin off a rodent. Nope. Not Peaches – he ate right through everything.

Or so I thought.

Hack! Cough! Huuuuhh! Peaches crouched in the middle of the living room carpet, his body was low and long with his neck stretched out as if his head were trying to separate itself from his body. His breathing was labored and I could hear a peculiar crackling in his chest. Gag! Hurl! With a final lunging heave, a slippery mass emerged and flopped onto the floor beneath his chin.

I was just about to sarcastically congratulate him when I realized it was no ordinary hair ball. I squatted and peered at it a moment before I realized this hairball had a face.

I ran to the kitchen for a pair of rubber gloves and scooped the gloppy mess into a plastic baggie. Not a hair ball indeed – but a whole mouse, four inch long, tail included. Unable to believe my eyes, I contemplated my findings. Did Peaches think he was a snake? I dropped the bag in the trash can and tightened the lid, making a mental note to henceforth ban Peaches from eating out my cereal bowl.

Relieved of his burden, Peaches made his way to his favorite cat bed. After circling a few times, he threw himself down with a dramatic thump and began a feverish licking of his paw and wiping of his face. He was clean, if nothing else.

I spared him a reproachful glance before grabbing a wet sponge and towel. As I stooped to clean up the rest of the mess, I wondered why, when cats vomited, they backed away from it as it came out. Were they also repulsed by it? Well, I was repulsed by this long mess of cat food, saliva and grass. Next time he got sick, it had better be on the linoleum.

A few hours later it was much of the same – the coughing, the hacking, the oh-my-God-is-there-another-mouse-in-there? However, after much dramatic build up, there was…nothing. No hairball, no cat puke, no swallowed-whole mouse. A few more wheezes, some more circling, a thump as he lay back in his bed and twenty-three more hours of sleep. This process was interrupted only by the occasional meow for food at the dinner table or the relentless rubbing up against the refrigerator. Silly cat, I guess he found out that a binge-and-purge only made one hungrier.

This began to happen with increasing frequency until one day the wheezing became so bad he could barely catch his breath. There was something different about him now and I knew it was something bad. He lay in a crooked line, sprawled on his side, chest barely moving. I grabbed a small compact mirror and held it in front on his nose. There was only the faintest of fog on the glass.

Next was a frantic phone call and a not-so-quick shove into the dreaded Pet Carrier. Then we sped off on the fifteen minute trek to the Vet’s office. All I could hear was wheezing and hacking, punctuated by a few pitiful meows. I expressed my panic by blowing the car horn at every car that got in my way. What I needed was a police escort.

When we finally made it to the veterinary clinic, we were both out of breath and were quickly ushered into an examination room. For as much as he wanted nothing to do with that Pet Carrier, Peaches certainly put up a fight to remain inside. In a matter of desperation, I removed the door from the carrier’s hinges, picked it up and shook him out.

My husband may be the first to say cats are not really all that smart; I’d have to disagree. The very instant the examination room door opened and the white coats walked in, Peaches knew what would come next. He crammed himself in a corner, daring someone to try to touch him.

Eventually, the torturous clamping was over, the examination complete and the fever confirmed. It was off to x-ray, muzzle and leather gloves intact. The assistant scooped him up from the exam table and rushed him out of the room. I was grateful to not be able to see his eyes. I knew they could have only been filled with contempt for me.

Alone for a few minutes, I had time to reflect on those past few days. Should I have brought him sooner? Was my baby boy going to be okay? Does anyone offer mouse-chewing lessons? We could not keep going through this. Yet, could not bear to think of losing him, my best cat buddy – my friend, follower, and master. He knew what time I came home from work each day and waited for me on the road. He ran behind my car all the way to the driveway, rubbing frantically against my leg the second I stepped out of the car. He knew when I was sick and would lay by my side until I was better. When I gardened, he would paw at the soil next to me. He loved chicken and cheese and catnip and never held a grudge or talked back and now, he was really sick and I might lose him.

I never felt so lost.

Some time had passed before the doctor returned. The scan revealed there was no other mouse - no hairball, either. Rather, Peaches had asthma. While the doctor caught me up, Peaches sat in an oxygen chamber after receiving a steroid injection. He was doing well, the doctor assured me. A half hour later, Peaches was returned to me in the exam room, feeling better, but certainly looking like he was so over this place. There was no coaxing necessary to get him back in that carrier. In fact, he could not get in there fast enough.

It was a quiet ride home. No radio, no wheezing, no honking horn - just a quiet contemplation of the day and a looking forward to a fresh meal and nap. This would not be the last time Peaches had an asthma attack, but knowing what signs to watch out for would have to be enough for now.

With a belly full of food and the pet carrier no where in sight, Peaches made his way to his favorite cat bed. Pawing at it for what seemed like forever, he made a few quick circles and settled down. Using his tail to cover his eyes, he quickly fell into a deep sleep, his whiskers twitching so slightly.

I was sure he dreamed of mice. Hopefully, they were sweet dreams.

Visit the HazardCats Channel on YouTube for Kitten Videos of Spooky's Babies

2011-05-24T13:08:00.000-07:00

Cat People by Theresa C. Newbill

2011-05-23T11:32:00.000-07:00

Cat People
by Theresa C. Newbill

Lucius licks the spatula that once made pancakes,
leftover grease from bacon frying in a pan,
dum-di-dum, his head tilts as music from the
morning songsters awaken with the November sun.

Last night the moon was thin, sharp crescent,
his green eyes hypnotically entranced by dark
clouds drifting across it, blotting his calico fur
with makeshift stars into prominence.

Rowan trees with gnarled bark, huge with spreading
roots and limbs, held knowledge of the dead.
Even the nonchalant nuance of Luicus’s facial
expression honored those who passed before,

knowing that one-day he too shall become dust,
only to be reborn once again. Spit and polish,
he kept everything crisp and neat, for Samhain
fell over his usual haunts registering

each rise and fall of his breath among invisible
vapors that stretched out to touch him; the nutty
stuff of dreams that leaves you frozen without
the mercy of explanation.

“How do you know when you’ve loved someone
enough, Lucius?”

He heard her voice before he saw her, the raven-haired
cloaked and hooded figure walking the old shale
road that wound into a labyrinth between the messes
of greens rising up high from the watchtowers of the
East.

A pinch of salt to guide her way, the violet scent of her cologne,
those soft hands that tickled his neck with the sleepy, whispery
feel of her skin before she shed physical form into the cat
person she really was, leaving a surplus

of bracelets, stockings, and hooded cloak in her wake,
burning her human form barefoot across damp earth.
Lucius saw the reflection of them both in the flames,
their watery images dancing, stirring the fire,

that cackled with red blue sparks into the air. Deliberately,
she cozied up to him as they lodged in the field of woods
where he shivered as she held him more tightly. He saw the
slackness of her jaw, the blackness around her yellow eyes,

greedy for his substance. She once condemned him to death,
this Succubus that turned him into her familiar after stealing
his soul, condemned to never see the sunlight across his
own face ever again.

“Betrayal has a price, Lucius.” They were young and just then
falling in love before he found out who she really was before
he found out who he really was. Witches have no choice about
being witches, they just are,

and breed within their clans. They looked at one another with
night-seeing eyes and inhuman powers before the dawn came
reverting them back to two-legged creatures that made
breakfast in the morning and worked for a living,

existing in secret among you and taking on many forms,
possessing supernatural powers and thousands of years
of traditions and shared history. In the meadow, by the
graveyard, a raised sarcophagus holds a cold,

lovely statue of centuries old Lucius, timeless, suspended.
He still grieves for his human wife, the one he betrayed with
her, damned if he did, damned if he didn’t, but his mistress,
with violet cologne that smelled like rain,

stained from years of weather, dirt, hissed at his remembrance.
And so two once warring clans become one between the fine
threads of time, accepting their destiny; and the scent of her
violet cologne, it had all been worth it, everyday he spent,

in her prison.

The Cat of Bel-Ak-Shey by Eric Dodd

2011-05-20T03:14:00.000-07:00

The Cat of Bel-Ak-Shey
by Eric Dodd

The cat yowled and hissed, back arched, eyes a poisonous green.

"Stay away from that cat, deek. They say cats be Firstlife." The stall vendor threw a sandal at the cat, which dodged easily and ran off with a hateful glance. "They say cats find source nodes. Bad luck." The stall vendor hawked and spat into the dust. "You buying or you looking?"

Gez had money, but wasn't interested in the cheap wares strewn across the ancient wooden stall table. He looked down the narrow alley, trying for a glimpse of the cat. Source nodes. Dangerous, but if he found an untapped one, he could become ... anything. Better than he was. He shook his head at the stall vendor, and walked into the alley.

The walls of the buildings stretched high above, leaning and twisting, some curved, if they were grown, and some straight, if they were built. The alley was choked with sloughed-off building scales, bricks, trash, and sand. The Island of Bel-Ak-Shey was hot and dry, with little vegetation, so there were only a few straggling cacti and succulents hidden amongst the refuse.

Gez followed the twists of wall closely, turning his bladelike body sideways at points, scrambling over rubbish piles, going deeper into the gloom as the sky-reaching buildings tilted overhead to meet at some point lost in the haze of pollution and filth and dust. A source node. Gez had been searching for one for most of his life, but so had everyone else he knew. Tapping nodes was the one sure way a person could elevate oneself beyond the grime and dirt of the regular life of the Island. If it didn't kill, or cause madness.

He crawled nimbly over a large building scale fallen slantwise against a wall, and spied the cat grooming itself atop a pile of plastic bags. It was said that cats were Firstlife, that they came from a different place, eons ago. Some people said that people came from somewhere else, too, but that was equally unlikely. Gez didn't care. The Island was one of millions on the World, and the World was infinite, so why care where people or cats came from?

Cats were supposedly fond of source nodes. He didn't need some ignorant stall vendor to tell him that. Gez was a rarity amongst his friends -- he could read, and he traded certain items and favors with an apprentice at the Librorium so that he could read the books there sometimes, late at night. The books were mostly lies, but they did agree upon one thing: if you wanted to find a source node, look for cats.

The cat, perhaps sensing Gez' attention, looked up from bathing its red and black fur, hissed, and darted away, down and through a very narrow gap between two buildings. Gez leapt down, hopped across the rubble and checked the gap. It was larger than his head, so he knew he could fit his body through. He shoved himself through, squeezing and turning, never worrying, and emerged into a small, squarish courtyard. The cat was nowhere to be found. Gez moved cautiously into the center of the courtyard, and looked around. Overhead was only a faint beige patch of sky, far away and framed by the mass of buildings. He walked to the opposite wall, looking at the crack-mazed surface of the building for potential hiding spots.

From behind him, he heard a scratching sound, and he turned, only to see the cat leap at him, claws extended, fangs already gnashing the air. Gez threw his arm up to protect his face, but the cat had leapt slightly to the left, and landed on Gez' exposed neck and shoulder, clawing and biting, and still screeching its horrible yowl. Gez grunted, twisted, and grabbed the cat. Blood ran into Gez' eyes from a scratch on his forehead. He squeezed, and flung the animal away from him. He shook his head to clear the blood from his eyes, and stumbled against a wall, only to hear a CRACK! as the thin scale gave way. Unbalanced, he tumbled into the open darkness at the base of the building.

Gez landed a few meters down, into a pile of dust and soft debris. He wiped the blood from his eyes, and willed them to adjust to the darkness. His hair stood on end, and his skin prickled. The node! He thought. He realized he could see his hands in the gloom, lit by a flickering blue light. He looked to his left, and saw it. The source node appeared as a faint blue crack in the air, or a spider web, or some fabulously complicated geometric figure. I've found it, he thought. It's mine now.

Gez crawled to the glowing node, outstretched his hand, and felt the first wisps of power touch his hand. It hurt more than anything he had ever experienced, yet felt oddly comforting. He felt the node ransack his mind, demanding an answer to a question. PURPOSE? Gez could not answer. PURPOSE? Gez felt his mind flattening, smearing out, becoming thin. He seized upon the last thought he was aware of thinking, a view of a building he thought beautiful, tall and twisted, scales glittering in sunlight. PURPOSE. Gez felt himself stretch and expand, and then felt no more.

In the once-barren courtyard, a new building stood, four hundred meters tall, beautiful, scales glittering in the sunlight. Its hallways were roamed by many cats, who found it to be a good home.

Lazy Cat by Daniel Roller

2011-05-16T07:31:00.000-07:00

Summer Break

2011-05-09T12:44:00.000-07:00

Hazard Cat editor is taking a break for a week. Things have been crazy here in Alabama. Especially with new kitties just opening their eyes!

We'll be back with a Bad Cat Week next week! Stay tuned.

Cat Nap by RD Hartwell

2011-05-06T08:33:00.000-07:00

Cat Nap
by RD Hartwell

At 8:37 a.m. the sun finally burns off a sufficient amount of the morning fog to plant thin, hazy squares of orange on the umber carpet. These are bisected at odd angles by the shadows cast from the thin strips of wood holding each pane of glass in the door leading to the back. The black and white cat, almost a feline pinto, disengages himself from the cushion on the rocker in front of the dead fireplace and, after circling twice counterclockwise to propitiate the gods, settles into an attitude of a miniature sphinx, exactly centered in one of the new, orange squares. The cat faces the door and the sun and the outside and, with great pleasure, slits his eyes against the glare and prepares to enjoy the expected warmth reflected through the glass. He is much smarter than the other occupants of the house still abed and, even if disappointed later, knows enough of life to enjoy the moment, this moment, right now. The two jays, squabbling in the bush just to the left outside the door, fighting over the favors of a third, larger jay perched on top of the fourth strand of the tautly stretched barbed wire strung between two posts next to the bush, hardly disturbed the napping cat at all.

Editor's Note on this Piece: If only people could enjoy a moment like a cat does.

Spooky and Osho Babies Born April 30th, 2011

2011-05-04T10:51:00.000-07:00

We're still getting back to normal in North Alabama. Luckily, we have these guys and gals to keep us from going crazy. Names, anyone?

Brand Spankin' New Hazard Cats Born out of a Storm

2011-05-02T09:37:00.000-07:00

My cat Spooky had her babies on my birthday, Saturday, April 30th. She had two orange and two tabbies. Boy and girl in each color. I will post pictures soon.

We got hit hard by the storms and our power was out until yesterday. Regular Hazard Cat posts will resume Wednesday.

Power Out

2011-04-27T20:35:00.001-07:00

This is Lisa's brother posting for the Hazards. The storms in Alabama have knocked out power in the Hazards' hometown, and they expect to be without power for 5-7 days. Unfortunately, they won't be able to contact anyone or do any work until their power is back.

Happy Easter from Cloud!

2011-04-24T10:00:00.000-07:00

The Killer by Nathan Tyree

2011-04-22T06:24:00.001-07:00

The Killer

by Nathan Tyree

The cat twisted itself around in a corkscrew configuration as
it closed the distance from the branch to the ground.
It seemed to have too much weight for its size;
yet it exhibited a level of grace that Robert found difficult to believe
or understand. He watched as it descended into a low crouch against the earth.
As soon as it landed, the cat looked ready to pounce, ready to strike against any adversary. This, Robert thought, is a real predator.
Not like those bogus tough guys always strutting around with too much muscle,
and too little brain. No, the cat was nothing like them.
The cat was a killer right down to the bone. Pity any poor rodent or reptile
that came into its view. The cat, Robert was certain, had no worries
and no fear. Only hunger.

2011-04-21T18:47:00.000-07:00

Read about this amazing calico cat.

Grimalkin by James Dye

2011-04-20T10:17:00.000-07:00

Grimalkin

by James Dye

Grimalkin, my unpretentious, self-centered cat,
floats with buoyant agility as if lithe and nimble
as a sylphlike effervescent Kleenex falling.

I found him in the corrupt back-alley of self-serving
where I acquired for a small amount of money
a hollow cat loitering in the emptiness of space
in the paltry shallows of a vain inconsiderable life
commonplace among worthless meaningless moments.

First day, Grimalkin stole my shoestrings, no biggie.
Second day, Grimalkin ate my shrimp, not important.
Third day, Grimalkin left me only potatoes, small potatoes.
Fourth day, Grimalkin reined me in and tethered my arms.
Fifth day, I stayed home repressed, controlled, and governed.
Sixth day, Grimalkin grew to the size of a horse and wings.
Seventh day, Grimalkin pulled God on the back of a Chariot.

Grimalkin grew old and began to shrink after a while.
He’s small enough to fit inside my pocket like a shadow.
He’s vanishing, atomically shrinking, every day
Until his whispers become a low distant muffle
undetectable and indistinguishable from other microscopic,
invisible shadows, indiscernible from other ephemeral cats,
and Grimalkin’s momentary rule is insignificant to historians.

Fernando II by Steve Toase

2011-04-18T11:40:00.000-07:00

Fernando II

Fernando, the cat with a paint brush for a tail, detested water, particularly the sea. Therefore he was not enamoured when he found himself in service on a mercantile Dutch East India ship. He passed the time, when not tormenting the bursar, by carrying out small acts of necromancy on rats he had recently killed.

It was while serving on the ship that he discovered somewhere in his ancestry a dalliance with the Cheshire Cat had occurred. The skills came into particular use during a short spell in the prison of Devil's Island, but that is a different story. On ship his forebears gifts enabled him to pass unnoticed through the stores of dried fish and salted beef, indulging some of his more everyday appetites.

Fernando had been pressed into service after a hedonistic night around the docks of Amsterdam. The ship's master, Van der Decken, was an arrogant and vain man, insisting Fernando produce portraits of him once a week, each one in the style of a different great master. This did not please Fernando.

While the ship doubled the Cape of Good Hope Fernando untied several storm knots in the fur of his belly, bringing a tempest unequaled on any of the known trade routes.

As Van Decken condemned himself to an eternity navigating the seas, Fernando stood by the rail, evaporating till all he left was a grin of razor sharp feline teeth.

Steve Toase
Freelance writer and archaeologist
Website

Roxy by Matthew Favreau

2011-04-13T09:24:00.000-07:00

She looks at me
Her mellow amber eyes tinged with luminescent green
She listens as I speak to her
Intent, focused, understanding every word, every fluctuation
As no human ever could

The glimmer of her silver fur
As she bathes luxuriously in the warmth of the sun
The delicate purple pads tucked beneath her chest
She stretches, rises, sits, each motion, each move perfect in its timing, its gait
Its beauty

She is the Queen of the house and no one dares dispute it
The Sheba of every armchair, every pillow, every rug worthy enough of her
She knows all this
That she is worth a thousand times the finest pearls
And yet she chooses to lie beside me

Black Cats by Patricia La Barbera

2011-04-11T09:16:00.000-07:00

Black Cats
by Patricia La Barbera

Don't ever think it's a mistake
that when we cross your path, you quake.

You see, we've quite a history
and cultivated mystery.

We think that it's quite suitable
for us to be inscrutable.

We also know that our eyes glow
much more than say, a calico.

But it would not be adventitious
if people thought that we were vicious,

so we have learned to hide our claws
successfully in velvet paws.

Tarsy and Pol and Kitties

2011-04-10T10:25:00.000-07:00

Mixed-Medium by Leila A. Fortier

2011-04-06T09:06:00.000-07:00

Click on the picture to enlarge.

Leila A. Fortier is a writer, artist, poet, and photographer currently residing on the remote island of Okinawa Japan. Her poetry is known to be a unique hybrid form in which her words are specially crafted into abstract visual designs, often accompanied by her own multi-medium forms of art, photography, and spoken performance. Much of her work has been translated into French, Italian, Spanish, Arabic, German, Hindi and Japanese in a rapidly growing project to raise global unity and understanding through the cultural diversity of poetry and literature.

Her work in all its mediums has been published in a vast array of literary magazines, journals, and reviews both in print and online. She has appeared in several books, anthologies, and freelance publications. In 2007, she initiated the anthology A World of Love: Voices for Carmen as a benefit against domestic violence and in 2010 composed a photo book entitled Pappankalan, India: Through the Eyes of Children to benefit the education of impoverished Indian children. She is also the author of Metanoia's Revelation through iUniverse. A complete listing of her published works can be found here.

A Bad Day For Mice by Samantha Memi

2011-04-04T06:49:00.000-07:00

A Bad Day For Mice
by Samantha Memi

The man was looking at the woman. The woman was looking at the dog. The dog was looking at the cat. The cat was looking at the mouse. The mouse was looking at the crumbs of bread on the floor. The dog growled. The cat turned, hissed at the dog. The mouse ran from behind the cooker, around the cupboard and across the floor to the crumbs under the table. The woman, catching the movement in the corner of her eye, turned, saw the mouse and screamed. The man, thinking she had screamed at the dog, called 'Prince!' Prince leapt at the cat, but the cat leapt back and the dog landed on a rug on the polished wooden floor, slid across the kitchen and crashed into a chair. The chair fell over. The mouse, nibbling a crumb, ran out from under the table, across the floor and into the living room. The cat, its tail fluffed and fur electric, chased the mouse under the sofa. The man, having seen the mouse, ordered, 'Prince, sit!' and followed the cat. The cat sniffed the edges of the sofa, then lay on its side and stretched its paw, claws opened, into the space between the sofa and the floor. The man moved the sofa. The cat looked at the man as if to say 'Stupid,' then sniffed round the edge of the sofa again. The woman came and stood in the doorway and watched the spectacle.

She said, 'Leave it, it doesn't matter, I thought you were going.'

'Its a mouse.'

'I know what it is. I thought you were going.'

'How will you sleep with a mouse running loose?'

'The cat will get it.'

'What if it doesn't?'

'It will.'

The man lifted the sofa. The mouse ran out. The cat pounced, caught the mouse. The dog bounded through, and jumped at the cat. The cat hissed. The mouse escaped. The dog barked. The woman winced at the sound. The mouse ran between her legs. She screamed. The mouse ran into the kitchen, and hid behind a cupboard. The dog barked at the cat. The cat hissed back. The woman spat at the man,

'Get that stupid dog out of here.'

The man shouted, 'Prince, sit!' grabbed the dog and pulled it into a corner. It sat, panting, thinking how clever it was.

'Janine, please ...' said the man.

She picked up the cat and tickled behind its ear. Its heart was beating fast. She carried it through and put it down near the cupboard.

She looked at the man.

'Kill that mouse and then go,' she said.

He found a broom, saw the cat, tail swishing, moved the cupboard, swung the broom at the running mouse and hit a plant instead. The plant broke.

'That's a Chinese Rose,' the woman screamed, and the cat chased the mouse behind the fridge.

'Please go,' said the woman, 'I don't want you here. Go and see Muriel. I'm sure she's not scared of mice. She probably feeds them. Please go.'

'But Janine ...' said the man, 'You're being silly. I don't want to see Muriel. I want to be with you, not her.'

'Bit late for that now,' she said, 'you should have thought of that before you went gallivanting off with her.'

'I only went with her once. We've been through all that. We were drunk,' said the man.

'Oh well, if you were drunk that's all right then,' said the woman, and the cat tried to squeeze behind the fridge. The mouse ran out, across the floor, and under the cooker. The cat wriggled backwards to extricate itself from the wire contraption behind the fridge, then ran over to the cooker.

'You can't say it's finished, just because of one stupid mistake,' said the man.

'I can say what I like,' said Janine, 'It's my flat, my life, and I want you out of both.'

The phone rang. Annoyed, she answered.

'Hello, yes, look Amy I'm really busy at the moment. – Have you? – Oh God, oh all right then. I'll be over as soon as I can. – Yes, I know where it is. – Yes. – Yes, I'm fine. Got a mouse in the kitchen. – Yes, I'm sure it will. – He's here now. – Yes, he's fine. Yes. – No, I haven't heard. I don't think I got it. I mean they would have written by now, wouldn't they. – I don't know, it's a bit of a worry but everyone's unemployed, aren't they? – Ok, I'll be there as soon as I can.' She put down the phone.

'That was Amy. She's run out of petrol, she's in Fulham. Will you please go?'

'I'll come with you.'

'You will not. I don't want you with me. I want you out of my life.'

'We need to talk.'

'I've got nothing to say to you.'

The man crouched down on his hands and knees.

'Look David, you must leave, Amy's stuck in a traffic jam, she's frightened, I've got to take her some petrol.'

'Some friendly motorist will help her.'

'Some unfriendly motorist may well rape her. Look, I've got to go.'

'I'll stay here and get the mouse.'

'I don't want you here when I get back.'

'I'll get the mouse, then I'll leave.'

'Leave the mouse, leave my flat, leave my life, just go.'

David poked the broom handle under the cooker, the mouse ran out, the cat pounced, caught the mouse, mauled it, let it go, pounced again.

The doorbell rang. Janine went through. It was Helen, an old friend she had met recently and invited round, not imagining she would take up the offer. With her was a dog. It barked at the cat. Helen saw the mouse, shrieked, 'My God, it's a mouse.' It ran round in circles with an injured leg and the cat pounced again.

Helen's dog, a Yorkshire terrier, strained at its leash, barking and showing its teeth. Helen refused to move. Prince bounded through to see what the fuss was. David caught its collar. Janine started pushing David,

'Get out of my flat.' She pushed him into the hall where Helen's Yorkshire grizzled at David's labrador-alsation cross. 'I'm sorry Helen, I'm in an awful muddle, my daughter's stuck in Fulham in a traffic jam, she's run out of petrol. So I have to go out. And this is my ex-boyfriend and I can't get rid of him. Come round again. Give me a ring. Have you got my number?'

'Yes, I think so.'

'David, you have to go.'

'Yes, I'll see you again.'

'No, don't bother.'

Helen with the grimacing dog squeezed out of the door and stood looking at Janine, perplexed. Janine pushed David out.

'Give me a ring Helen, I'm sorry about this.'

Janine slammed the door and thought What have I done to deserve this? The mouse was on its back, convulsing. The cat was flicking it across the floor, first one way with one paw, then back with the other; then it crouched, watched the mouse convulse, then wriggled and pounced again. Janine couldn't watch. She went into the living room. There on the sofa was David's jacket. He'd left it there on purpose to give himself an excuse for coming back. She wouldn't let him in. She'd get a chain for the door. She wouldn't let anyone in. She ran to the front door to check he wasn't still talking to Helen, but the hall was empty. She got her handbag, found her keys and jacket. The phone rang.

'Hello mum, it's all right, I saw a friend of mine, what a coincidence, eh, and he got me some petrol. It's really lucky 'cos I really fancy him and I wouldn't normally have dared speak to him, but I just saw him and waved and he came over and now we're going to Brighton. I might not be back tonight. I'll see you tomorrow. Is everything all right?'

'Yes, everything's fine.'

'You sound a bit down.'

'Just tired, that's all.'

'You don't mind, do you?'

'Mind what?'

'Me, going to Brighton?'

'No, of course not, you go and enjoy yourself.'

'See you tomorrow.'

'Yeah, take care.'

'I will. Bye.'

'Bye.'

Janine put the phone down. She was crying. Why had David done that? Why did he want another woman? Soon Amy would be leaving her. Soon she would have no one. She'd be a middle-aged single mum with a grown up daughter who came to visit and scrounge once a month with a succession of boyfriends.

'This is my mum. She lives alone.'

The mouse still clung on to life. Janine poured a glass of Rioja. She looked out at the grey London sky.

'Fuckin' world,' she thought as she swilled down the wine. She wanted to put the mouse out of its misery but didn't know how. The doorbell rang. She didn't move. It rang again. She sat down. The mouse suffered. She poured more wine, drank it like water, poured another, and from the corners of her mouth curled the purple wisps of a clown's smile, and she felt like a mouse escaping the trap, escaping the cat, caught by the poison.

Saving the Cat by Mikie Hazard

2011-03-31T15:28:00.000-07:00

2011-03-31T14:18:00.000-07:00

Nikki

By Michael Lee Johnson

Watching doves
peck away,
all day long at
a full bowl
of mixed seeds,
out on the balcony-
the cat curls
up on the sofa,
after a meager
meal of house flies-
and dreams of
sparrows with
wide soaring
wings.

-2007-

Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. He is heavy influenced by: Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Irving Layton, Leonard Cohen, and Allen Ginsberg. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, entitled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available here. The original version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom can be found here. He also has 2 previous chapbooks available here.

Michael has been published in over 22 countries. He is also editor/publisher of four poetry sites, all open for submission, which can be found at his Web site.

Hazard Cat Has Been Live For a Little Over a Year

2011-03-29T13:15:00.000-07:00

Our number one post hit is 5 Kitten Poems by David McLean.

Thank you to all my contributors and readers on this adventure of Hazard Cat. I plan to keep it going for a while, and believe it or not, I'm still going through May submissions!

Keep an eye out this summer when I hope to reopen paying submissions. I will have them open for two weeks to a month.

A Good Wife by Leslie Lee

2011-03-28T05:53:00.000-07:00

A Good Wife

By Leslie Lee

The instant I saw him I knew it. We were destined to be together. As I was walking into the grocery store, I passed by one of those Animal Rescue set-ups. They displayed about twenty dogs and cats in various cages, which were stacked, one on top of the other. The uppermost cages reached as high as my shoulders. And inside those tiny jail cells were eyes. All those eyes. Staring. At me. I couldn’t stand it. I looked away and strode towards the grocery door. A little paw patted my cheek as I walked by one of the cages. I turned around – and stopped. Emerald green eyes gazed at me, shining with a brilliance that simply could not be ignored. I caught my breath, then the paw. The paw was attached to a kitty, really a young Tom, about six months old. His velvet coat was so silver that it almost looked blue in the sunlight.

“Would you like to hold him?”

I forced myself to look at the young woman with yellow braids who had been talking to me. “Well, uh… sure. Sure, but only for a minute. I’ve got a lot of shopping to do.”

She opened the cage and set the cat in my arms. He lay against my chest, his two front paws embracing my neck. I fell into those green eyes. They seemed to be saying to me, “We belong, you and I”.

“Wow,” I breathed. “Hey, Mr. Fuzz Ball.”

Staring into my eyes, a low rumble started in his throat and spread throughout his body. And that was it. He was mine. End of story. Then I remembered my husband, Harland. I smiled, stroking my new kitty. Harland? No problem.

Armed with Harland’s favorite treats I crept into the house and hid Mr. Fuzz Ball in the basement. I knew he’d be quiet because he’d been playing with the catnip mouse I had picked up for him at the store on the drive home. Harland was in the bedroom, watching the Master Golf Tournaments. Tiger Woods was winning. Good, the timing couldn’t be better. Time to implement “The Plan”. I waited for the commercial. Stage One. Sticking my head in the doorway I called out, “Hey, Harlie. Just got back from the store. Hungry?”

Harland smiled. He was lying on top of the bed. After he pulled the TV tray closer, he sat up straighter, rubbed his hands together and asked, “Get any beer?”

“Yep, sure did. Got you some nuts too – cashews.”

“Great!”

I brought in the beer and nuts. “Heineken!” Harland looked like he wanted to hug me. “Thanks!” I smiled then sat next to him on the bed. So far, so good. Now for Stage Two. I picked up his hand and stroked it a little. Frowning, he pulled it away. “What are you doing, Gladys? I can’t eat with you holding my hand.”

“Oh, sorry.” After waiting for a while I tried again. “That Tiger Woods… he’s something else isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he’s great. You should have seen this last drive. It was incredible…” I let Harland go on for a bit, smiling sincerely and shaking my head up and down from time to time. Now, say it now before the commercials end.

“Harland” I began. “I’ve been finding mouse droppings in the pantry.”

Harland turned round and glared at me. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“Well, I just noticed it today when I was putting the groceries away.”

“Oh. Well, remind me to buy some traps tomorrow.” I smiled at him showing all my teeth and picked up the can of cashews. “Nut?” I offered. Staring at me as if he were trying to read my mind, Harland dug into the can. “The thing is, Harland.” I continued, talking quickly before he could cut me off, “We won’t need any traps. I’ve got something better.” Just then the game came on. Holding up his hand with his palm facing me, Harland said, “Shush. Tell me the rest after the game.” Stage Three. Wait and stay quiet.

A half hour later Tiger Woods made the final putt and won the Masters in a decisive victory. My moment had come. I walked into the bedroom with Fuzzy in my arms. “Harland, meet Mr. Fuzz Ball. Master Mouse Trapper.”

Harland’s eyes widened. Before he could speak I said, “I’m keeping him, okay?” I brought Fuzz up to my lips and kissed his little nose. “He’ll get rid of those mice in no time, won’t you Mr. Fuzzkins? Isn’t he the most adorable thing you ever saw? Look at him!”

Harlan grunted, “Just keep him away from me.”

Yes! Hole in One! “Want another beer?” I asked.

Carrying Mr. Fuzzy with me I laid down on the living room couch. I felt deliciously drowsy. With his little soft head tucked under my chin my silver motor heater lay on my chest purring away. Life was good - very good.

As I fell into sleep, my thoughts drifted towards Harland. There was another side to Harland, a side no one else saw but me. This side wanted to share beautiful things with me; the rain falling outside our window during stormy nights, the planets and stars, and the first blooms of spring. This side made sure the dryer door opened from the left side (making it easier for me to put the wet clothes in without hurting my back), brought home movies he’d think I’d be interested in, worked long hours and saved for our retirement. And now I get to keep Mr. Fuzzy. I slept, my thoughts floating through my dreams, and my dreams floating through my thoughts, and I did not really think that I was asleep until I awoke and discovered that two hours had past. I had slept the middle of the day away.

Harland called. Putting Mr. Fuzzy down, I went into the bedroom. Harland was upset that I slept. He said it was wasteful to sleep. “Look,” he said, jabbing at the TV Guide in his hand. “Look, look, look. You’ve missed the new Star Trek show. I tried calling you before but you didn’t hear me. You’re late with my lunch. I’ve been wasting away while you’ve napped. What’s wrong with you? Hurry up. I’m starving. I’ll take a roast beef sandwich, with chips and milk.”

I usually don’t mind serving Harland food the way he likes it. From what I’ve seen of marriage it’s how women show their love. My mother served my father, my grandmother served my grandfather, and I saw my mother-in-law serve Harland’s father. After all Harland did for me, he deserved to be pampered a bit. He didn’t object to keeping Mr. Fuzz Ball He was my man, and I was his woman. I’d show my appreciation and love for him by making him the best roast beef sandwich he’d ever had.

I walked into the kitchen, Harland and Fuzz Ball following behind. Looming over me as I reached for the bread and meat, Harland said, “Lightly toast the white bread, and be sure to put pepper, mayonnaise, and lettuce on it. He stopped for a minute when I took the roast out and stared. “Is that fat on that beef?” he asked. Placing his hands around his neck he made mock choking sounds.

I rolled my eyes. “You know Harland; you could always make it yourself.”

“Why should I when I have you? And ice my milk.” Harland shoved his watch under my nose and tapped it. “Be sure you time it for five minutes.” I didn’t answer, but instead stared at him until he finally left the kitchen and returned to the bedroom.

While I prepared “The Master” his lunch Fuzzy meowed softly. Stretching both his paws towards the breadboard, he stood almost upright on his hind legs. I glanced down and fell once more into those captivating green eyes. “Here you go, Fuzzy,” I said and fed him a little piece of meat. He meowed again and scrabbled up towards the board. “Oh, you like that, don’t you? Here’s a little more.” I gave him another scrap of meat. The little mews grew louder and louder until they echoed around the kitchen. I could feel the knife vibrating under my hand as I cut the toast. “Shush! Don’t want the ogre to hear you. Be quiet!”

“Gladys!” Harland called from the bedroom. “I’m waiting! Shut. That. Hair. Ball. Up!”

I slammed the sandwich on the plate and rushed into the bedroom. “Don’t call him Hair Ball. He’s Mr. Fuzz Ball”.

“Gladys,” Harland said, enunciating each word. “That cat doesn’t even have long hair. He’s a short hair. He’s not even fuzzy.”

“Look, I named him Mr. Fuzz Ball and that’s it. Fuzzy, Fuzzkins or Mr. Fuzzy to you. Not Hair Ball.”

“How about Mr. Ball?” Harland inquired, looking at me with wide eyes. I looked at his nose. His nostrils were flaring the way they always did when he was teasing me. I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t smile. Instead of answering I said, “Here’s your sandwich.”

“Milk?” Harland inquired with a grin.

“I’ll get it. It still has thirty more seconds to ice.”

I brought the milk in.

“Here you go!”

I hope your tongue freezes! “Enjoy!”

By the time Harland called me into the bedroom to watch Julie’s Travel and Cook Show I had crammed down five chocolate chip cookies. Nothing was going to stop me from keeping Fuzzy. Besides, I love chocolate chip cookies. They make me happy, at least for a little while. I settled on the edge of the bed, with Fuzz perched on my chest, his furry arms around my neck. His small body was a nice warm contrast to the cool evening breeze that slid in through the windows. Julie, a perky blond lady with a vacant look on her face took the viewing audience to the famous wine producing village of Sancerre , France. In between sips of wine, Julie informed television viewers that Sancerre first became famous for its wines under the guidance of its twelfth century Noblemen. Julie recommended Sancerre’s white wines. By the time the first commercial aired, Julie was drunk.

I watched the commercial intensely. A tall slit-eyed man boasting a chin-dimple and a willowy brunette lay upon a white bear skin rug, tangled together in a passionate embrace. They managed to smile and hold onto two glasses of burgundy. Firelight flickered in the in the wine glasses’ reflection, and then the camera panned to the bottle of wine on the polished wood table. “Sonoma Aria… for the world’s most discriminating palates” intoned the announcer’s deep English accented voice, as the man entwined his fingers through the woman’s hair, and, grasping the back of her head, swung her into a low dip, all the while holding his glass of wine. The woman, in turn, held her glass up high, as if in a toast, and sliding one leg up, wrapped it tightly around the man’s waist. The wine shimmered in the glasses, barely moving.

Does anyone really act like this? How do they manage to hold those glasses and do that without spilling wine all over that bear skin rug? Maybe they took gymnastics. Boy, those stains would be a bear to get out of that rug. I started giggling. Harland glanced over at me.

“What’s so funny?”

“That commercial. I was just thinking about what would happen if they spilled their wine on that white bear rug. Those stains would be a bear to get out! Get it? Get it, Harland? See, they’re on a bear rug and it’d be a bear to get out the stains!” Fuzzy and Harland looked at me in alarm. Fuzz sprang out of my arms, jumped onto Harland’s crotch, and dug in. Harland screamed. It sounded so high, almost like a young girl’s. Then he screamed louder, or rather, I should say, he yowled.

“Off! Off!” He gestured toward the cat, crouched down on his crotch. I stood, and, reaching over, lifted the cat into the air. The covers lifted like a tent over his privates. I lowered Fuzzy, who by now was glaring at me with those large eyes of his, and pulled out each individual claw from the blankets and Harland’s skin.

“Out!” He screeched. “You and that damn hair ball! Out!” I scooped Mr. Fuzz Ball up and left the room, closing the door behind us.

“We’re safe now,” I whispered. But Mr. Fuzzy wasn’t too happy. He wriggled out of my arms and fled to the basement. Feeling a little defeated, I took the TV remote and settled into the living room. Maybe I could do something to make up to both of them, I thought. They deserve something special. Mommy will make it better. I tuned into Julie’s Travel and Cook Show. Julie was leaning against a tall tan man who had on a white chef’s hat. Julie had on a white hat too – only hers was on sideways. They stood in a kitchen. A small sign on the counter said “100 Year Old French Chicken Pate”, surrounded by small glass bowls, each with a different ingredient. The tall man was tossing tiny pieces of meat into a glass container. They looked like something I might find in Fuzzy’s litter box.

”Oh.” Julie breathed. “The way you throw those chicken livers into that food processor. It’s amazing.” The tall man flashed his white teeth at her. He looked like he wanted to bite her neck. Julie giggled in response, covering her mouth delicately. “We’ll be back in a few after some words from our sponsors,” she said.

“Choose Picky Palate for Your Picky Eater.” Gosh! It’s that wine commercial voice! I stared at the television, transfixed. A brown mushy pile set in a silver tray occupied the whole television screen. The camera angle shifted, revealing a white fluffy cat padding up to a small red cushion and the tray. The camera zoomed in. I could see the small pink tongue licking away at the slushy pile. “Treat your picky eater to Picky Palate cat food and he’ll never be picky again. Picky Palate--for the cat with discriminating taste.” I’m getting that for Fuzz, I decided.

Julie’s Travel and Cook Show returned. Now Julie and her chef were feeding each other small crackers piled with brown mush. “Mmmmmm! This is so yummy! The best ever!” Julie cried. She leaned toward her chef, white napkin in hand, and wiped a bit of brown sludge off his lips. Then she kissed him, just as her eye caught the camera. “Oh. Oh, we’re back.” Turning suddenly to face the viewing audience, she adjusted her blouse, and brushed her hair off her face. “Yes, we’re back.” She grimaced in what I thought was a smile, but I couldn’t be sure. “You out there! Make this chicken pate! Remember, it’s a 100-year-old recipe, but don’t wait a hundred years to make it! And it’s French! From Sancerre! Here’s the recipe.” The screen blanked out for a moment then the recipe was displayed in large clear letters. I copied it down. Tomorrow. Chicken pate and that Sonoma Aria for Harland, Picky Palate for Fuzz. They’ll both be happy.

At the store I stood in line for five minutes at the butcher counter, waiting to buy the chicken livers. It seemed as if the butchers were more interested in catching up on the latest gossip rather than waiting on their customers. I decided to skip the butcher line until last, zoomed around the store with my list, and bought all the necessary items for the chicken pate. I made a special trip to the pet food aisle, and found—of all things—Picky Palate Chicken Liver Pate! The label said “Made with Genuine Chicken Livers” on it, so I knew it was the real thing! Mr. Fuzz Ball will be so happy! This will make up for his scare last night. I found the same water crackers that Julie and her chef used on the show, and the Sonoma Aria wine. I got a bottle of each – red and white. I figured Harland could decide which one he liked best with his pate. I was so happy I hummed the Picky Palate jingle from the commercial all the way to the car.

When I got home I could hear the football game coming from the bedroom. I walked to the doorway and froze. Unbelievable. I gawked. There was Harland on the bed. And perched on his chest, staring at the television was Fuzzy!

Harland turned his head toward me and smiled. “Look at us!”

“I-I thought you hated ‘that damn cat’.”

“That was before. Didn’t realize he was a ‘niner’s fan.”

“Oh.”

“I’m ready for my deli plate.”

“What?”

“My deli plate. I’m ready for it.” Harland flashed me a cheerful grin.

“Oh, all right. What is it again?”

Harland’s smile faded. “Can’t you remember anything? Okay this is it. I want three slices of sourdough bread, cut one-fourth inch thick. Don’t slab the butter onto it, just put enough on to cover. I’ll take five slices of salami and be sure not to cut them too thin – and not too thick either. Hey! What are you writing down?”

I had gone into the kitchen when he first started talking and came back into the bedroom with a pen and paper.

“I want to make sure I get it right. Go on.”

“Why can’t you remember? I’ve told you before!”

“No! I really want to get it right. Go on.”

I wrote the rest of the deli plate down. When I finished my list looked like this:

3 slices French bread, lightly buttered, ¼ inch thick

5 slices Salami (not too thin/thick)

2 1-inch wedges cheddar cheese

1 dill pickle (drain juice off first)

I dashed into the kitchen, poured a glass of milk, put it in the freezer and set the timer for five minutes. Then I opened the utility drawer and pulled out a ruler. I carefully measured the bread and cheese before slicing. I scraped off the extra butter from the bread. The cheese looked a little thick. But Harland did say one inch. I eyeballed the salami, threw away a slice that was too thin, took a pickle from the jar and tapped off the excess juice. By the time I had everything prepared the timer went off.

I carried the deli plate and milk into the bedroom and placed them on the television tray.

“My napkin?” Harland inquired.

I got the napkin.

“Thank you. This looks great. But Gladys, I told you!” Harland held out two fingers, about a half inch apart. “I said one inch.”

“That is one inch. I measured it.”

“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Oh. Well. Next time make it a half inch.”

“I’ll take Fuzz out so you can eat in peace.”

“No, that’s okay. Leave him here.” As I turned back toward the kitchen I saw Harland feeding Mr. Fuzzy small bits of cheese. Traitor!

I dug into the grocery bags, dumping cans, boxes, and spices over the table. I threw the empty bags on the floor. Kicking through them as I made a path to the pantry, I watched them sail into the air, and imagined that each bag was Harland’s head. Then I flung open the pantry door so hard that it banged against the wall and bounced back, hitting my face. Rubbing my cheek, I kicked my way back through the bags to the table and began putting the groceries away. I felt a little better, but not much.

“Come look at us now!” Harland’s voice sounded like a kid learning to play the violin and missing all the notes.

“I’m busy!” I shouted, and turned to look for the Sonoma Aria bottles. Thankfully, he remained silent; because there was no way I was going in there. I grabbed the burgundy, poured some into a wine glass, and sat down to compose my thoughts. The Chicken Pate recipe was sitting on the kitchen table. I read it. Damn! I never went back for the livers. How the hell am I going to make this without the livers?

Pouring, chopping, mixing, stirring, and sipping wine throughout the next hour, I created my masterpiece. This was the Pate of all Pates - made for those with discriminating palates.

I stuck my head just inside the bedroom door.

“Red or white?” I asked.

Harland turned round. “Red or white what?”

“Wine. To go with the special treat I have for you. Chicken Pate.”

Harland’s eyes widened. “From the show last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s your favorite right?”

“Did you get those crackers they had?” Harland pushed Fuzzy off his chest, sitting up.

“The very same. So which do you want? Red or white?”

“I’ll have the red.” Harland grinned at me. “Gladys, you’re something else. Thank you.”

“You deserve it, sweetie.”

I poured Harland the red, and returned with the pate, arranged on a white plate. I had adorned each appetizer with a sprinkle of chives and capers, topped off by a bright red pimento.

Harland took a bite. “Gladys. Gladys.” I looked at him.

Finally, he found his voice. “Gladys,” he said. “I can’t believe it. Cannot believe. I know I always complain about your cooking. But this time… this time…” He put a little on his finger and held it out to Mr. Fuzz Ball. “Gladys, this is the best thing I’ve tasted in years. Have you had any?”

“No, baby. All for you. You enjoy.”

“Thank you again, Gladys.”

I smiled. “Oh, honey, you earned it.”

I left Harland and Fuzzy eating their pate.

I sung quietly to myself, “Treat your picky eater to Picky Palate, and he’ll never be picky again.” Then I rinsed the cat food cans out in the sink.

Poems by RD Hartwell

2011-03-25T10:03:00.000-07:00

Cat Pelts

Cat pelts are draped across the furniture.
Do not become entangled in their lives,
For their claws will ensnare your soul,
Placing you under their dominion.

Dominated by cats, I shift yet again,
Contouring myself to their lives.
They give back more than they take,
Not something easily said of kin.

Something shifts, animating their fur.
Sleek bodies stretch in seesaw rhythm.
Silently, I watch their undulating lumber,
Stalking, readying to attack the sunbeam.

Company Cat

He is the company cat.
No, not the mouser in the warehouse.
No, not the doorstop in the front hallway.
No, not the backyard birder protecting fruit trees.

He keeps me company on the table as I write,
Loose hairs blowing across the papered plateau;
One paw lain protectively across my open page,
Poised to help my pen if I slow down or pause.

He is my abbreviated editor, the company cat.

Gray Cat

I lose my cat in the morning,
Gray cat melting in a gray dawn,
Freedom slinking over the lawn,
Lurking in the foreign shadows;
Padded paws tingling with dew,
Ears pricked to nuanced sounds,
Unnaturally alive, outside at dawn.

Postal Cat

I saw the postal cat today, across the sill, lounging in a chair.
He didn’t really greet me,
Or even deign to meet me,
Nor did I feel acknowledgment that I was even there.

I had to step around him, while his predatory glare
Kept me in his orange-eyed focus, as if to say ‘I dare
You to disturb me, and if you think to do so, I’ll share
My bureaucratic fangs with you in a most defiant stare.’

When I finally bought my stamps, and turned, I spied my foe.
That postal cat was stalking me,
It suddenly occurred to me,
For interrupting his naptime, he was intimidating me to go.

Reshelved

The stately Cheshire cat parades and weaves herself
Upon the ledge, in and out, among the many books,
Her gaze intent, alert for any movement on the shelf.
She soon tires and searches for a bed within the nooks.

Much like my cat, I’m searching through the books
Looking to parade my knowledge before the young,
But as the lunch bell sounds, they enter with those looks.
I know they’ll soon tire, curl up, and then be done.

Avery and Steph

2011-03-24T10:53:00.000-07:00

Bus Journey through a Dream by Lynda Nash

2011-03-23T08:00:00.000-07:00

Bus Journey through a Dream
by Lynda Nash

An old Victorian lady, dressed in black and white, sat comfortably upstairs at the back. On her and around her, mewled and purred and pawed a variety of black and white cats. ‘These are for sale,’ she said, though I had not asked.

Choosing was tricky (I‘d wanted an all black one). As I dithered the old woman sang, ‘Two a penny, two a penny. If you do not buy one then you won’t have any! Nothing is ever black or white it’s a mixture of the two. If you can’t accept the grey these aren’t the cats for you.’

The bus stopped. And I realised the stairs were the wrong side. I alighted into the centre of the road, cat-less but wiser.

Royal Cats by Suzan L. Wiener

2011-03-21T07:04:00.000-07:00

Royal Cats
by Suzan L. Wiener

Cats are like snowflakes
Coming in different sizes.
Each one unique
With many surprises.

Cats are finicky;
Cats are supreme.
If they were royalty,
They'd be kings and queens.

Cats are our friends,
And oh, so dear.
Taking away strife -
Drying our tears.

Cats are the hope
Of a bright tomorrow.
Bringing giggles
Without the sorrow.

Meow by Terry Garrison, Age 11

2011-03-19T18:35:00.000-07:00

More From Spencer Hazard, Age 7

2011-03-18T17:57:00.000-07:00

He was so excited about seeing his work on the Internet, that he drew some more. This is Cartoon Cat.

This is Spencer's vision of Spooky and Osho's kittens with them. Spooky and Osho are our kitties who are pregnant.

Cat by Spencer Hazard, Age 7

2011-03-18T07:39:00.000-07:00

The Missing Cat Returns

2011-03-17T08:56:00.000-07:00

My cat Cloud was missing for two weeks and returned this morning. Thin, howling, rubbing his face against everything, he is quite disoriented from his adventures. I am very happy to have my baby home.

Consolations of Bast by Mary A. Turzillo

2011-03-16T07:53:00.000-07:00

Consolations of Bast
by
Mary A. Turzillo

She shivers:
alone in her huge crib,
longing for sleep if she knew what it was.
They
have left her forever.
She wails and the night grinds on,
until the cat comes,
purrs her to sleep.

Heavy
in her arms is
the cat,
perhaps a different cat.
Tears
fall on its indifferent head.
She sobs:
stone-hearted boy!
It purrs.
The hum makes her lose
the thread of her grief

Her baby screams
with fever;
and so many bills due.
She lies waiting for
dawn and catastrophe.
Please, please,
just let me sleep. So
the cat kneads her chest
and she sinks
into revery.

The dying
feel warmth,
heavy as a baby, on their chests.
Someone
has left open
the door to the
Home
and the cat,
a different cat surely,
holds down
the old woman's sorrow
its rasp
licking away
only bad memories.

And in the open coffin,
the mortician's cat
keeps the dead company,
half asleep,
purring:
she does not
go alone.

Cat-O-Matic by Joel Clark

2011-03-14T06:18:00.000-07:00

Cat-O-Matic
by Joel Clark

My Cat-O-Matic electronic cat language translator arrived in the mail! I plugged it in and said, “Testing! Testing!” into the microphone and the little speaker made a “Meoooawwoo, meoawooo” catlike sound.

Fluffy jumped up from her nap and scanned the room. She leaped on the couch back and looked behind it.

“Hello, Fluffy, it’s me talking!” I said.

“Hey, Dingbat, are you talking to me??” she answered.

“Yes, Fluffy! Isn’t it great, now we can have a little cat chat!” I said.

“Please, Dilbert, my name isn’t Fluffy. To you, it’s ‘Your Royal Highness Queen Cleopatra II’,” she corrected me.

“I’m excited, Fluffy, I mean Cleo, now you’ll understand me and you can come when I call you.”

“Dream on, Buster Brown,” said Cleo. She got comfortable to continue her nap.

“Wait, don’t you want to talk any more? This is a communication breakthrough for man and the animal kingdom; you can be one of the first cats to be understood! You can tell me what it’s like to be a cat.”

“It’s very boring,” said Cleo in a bored voice.

“Do you want to know about me, your owner, where I grew up and where I went to school, and my career…?”

“No.” Cleo napped on.

“Cleo, now you’ll be able to make special cat food requests.”

Cleo napped on.

“Cleo, I can read interesting things to you. See this magazine ‘Cat Fancier’? See…pictures of cats…ads for cat toys!”

Cleo opened one eye. “What’s a cat toy?” she asked.

I held the magazine close to Cleo. I pointed to numerous catnip mice and little jiggly fluffy mice on strings, jingle balls, and wind-up chipmunks.

“I’d like one of those and one of those and that cat scratching post with all the cubbyholes,” she allowed. “What are those?” she asked as she pointed with her paw at some cat books.

“Books, see, I have some around the house here, let me show you.”

I read her The Cat in the Hat. She laughed some little cat laughs and said, “Pretty funny, Dingleberry. Read me another one.”

I read some more. “Well, I’ve read five books, aren’t you tired?”

“I want those cat toys!” said Queen Cleopatra II.

We went to the store to buy cat toys.

After that, we went to the library to get more cat books to read. I read 20 cat books.

“Cleo, I’m tired now, don’t you want to take a nap now?”

“Let’s go, Kokomo, keep reading!”

I read 20 more cat books. Cleo decided she wanted to write a cat story, just like the book stories.

I got pencil and paper and wrote what she dictated.

“This is good, McGee, but can’t you draw the pictures, too, like in The Cat in the Hat?”

I illustrated her cat story. (Interesting plot…a cat chased a mouse. And then chased another mouse.)

“I feel I could be a successful author. I want to write a whole series, starring my principal character, the mysterious and beautiful ‘Queenie The Magnificent’,” Cleo said enthusiastically.

For some reason the Cat-O-Matic suddenly stopped working (because I pulled the plug). I said words but no cat sounds came out.

I looked at Cleo. She looked at me and said “Meeughe meeeeoooww muge meeeeoooww? Muee meeeeoooww muee meeeeoooww?”

I shrugged with upturned hands. I carefully filled out the return merchandise form, including under Remarks: “Please refund my money as per your ‘Money back guarantee if not satisfied.’” I boxed up the machine. Then I settled down for a nap.

Blood Brothers by Lynda Nash

2011-03-11T09:28:00.000-08:00

Blood Brothers
by Lynda Nash

The cats are in the garden.
Playing,
They jump at flowers,
Roll in dirt.

One kills a bird.
In turns they bite,
The taste of blood makes them frenzied.
Faces ecstatic
They gambol in the grass like spring lambs.

The road claimed Elwood.
(Grass in the garden was not enough.)
Creeping illness took Jake; his kidneys failed.

Among the flowers,
Trapped by the dirt.
As free as birds.
Jake and Elwood, the cats,
Are in the garden.

Ode to a Nameless Cat by Celestine Trinidad

2011-03-09T05:31:00.000-08:00

Ode to a Nameless Cat
by Celestine Trinidad

We thought it best not to give him a name,
So little,
So vulnerable.
Death could easily take him away,
Invisible to a distracted driver,
Victim to a fatal disease.
We thought it best not to love him,
not yet.
Not when we lost so many little ones before.

But it was inevitable.
He was never afraid,
not of us.
He would lick our calloused hands,
Snuggle against our bone-weary feet,
Rest his little head on our laps,
a silent solace.

We loved him,
Yet still we did not name him.

But it was inevitable.
One day, death, with its icy hands,
Wrenched him away from our warmth
into its frozen embrace.
And we have no name to remember him by.

Yet we mourn for the little orange kitten
we never thought to name,
Yet still
loved.

Celestine Trinidad is an intern of Medicine from the Philippines, but she still tries to read and write as much as she can in her (now unfortunately very little) free time. Much to her surprise, she won the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Award for Literature for her short story for children “The Storyteller and the Giant”. Her blog can be found here.

Fernando by Steve Toase

2011-03-07T07:14:00.000-08:00

Fernando
by Steve Toase

Fernando the cat had a paintbrush for a tail. While he slept by the fire of an evening his tail would produce maps of great beauty. Upon waking Fernando would regard them with a disdain usually only reserved for rodents and minor members of the royal family. A cat has no need for maps, even ones as elegant as these, that could lead the unwary traveler to lands that exist only in mists and stories.

Cats already know the routes to these places, through alleys and over bramble-covered bricks.

It is possible to acquire one of these documents. Purchase is not quite correct. No currency will be exchanged, but a price will be extracted, and there are conditions. You must find the shop where a man with a grey mustache and a red beard waits behind a solid oaken desk. While there you can only communicate in gestures, and only one map may be purchased in any one lifetime. How do you find the shop? Well, its location is only known through a map Fernando painted while billeted with the International Brigades during the siege of Madrid. Or you could try following a cat, through the alleys, and over the bramble covered bricks.

Visit Steve's Web site!

First-Feline Point of View by RD Hartwell

2011-03-04T09:39:00.000-08:00

First-Feline Point of View
by RD Hartwell

I overheard someone say,
first-person is the true
method made to order,
putting one’s persona forward,
transmitting all related life
from one’s own point-of-view.

Well, I am not a person!
Don’t really want to be one,
I’m a cat, that’s felis catus,
and a good one for all that.

Kitten-written stories, myths,
memoirs, and self-biography,
should all have cat-perspective,
First-Feline POV!

I like the singsong sound,
such euphonic melody,
neo-literary label,
kitten-written totality.

Lest you think it’s easy
writing as a cat,
Let me disabuse you,
challenge you to those
obstacles to my fiction
purrr-fection with which
I daily have to deal.

There is the oft-presumed
handicap of not being
able to push pen or pencil;
but, new computer
methodology,
as one can plainly see,
creates a neat solution;
not a bone to pick
but a boon for me.

I used to meow-morize
creative contributions,
relating them aloud,
fables and folklore,
essays, lies, and more,
anecdotal aphorisms or
extended metaphor.

Now I am no longer limited,
to catalogues by word-of-mouth,
and by a memory taxed to break,
now given way to memory sticks.

All I ask from others now
is to be left alone to type.

fat cat by Jonathan Pinnock

2011-03-02T09:40:00.000-08:00

fat cat
by Jonathan Pinnock

fat cat came up from the city

fat cat such a charming kitty

fat cat sits at our back door

fat cat always hungry for more

fat cat manky fat cat smelly

fat cat has a bloated belly

fat cat never says “enough”

fat cat feeling rather rough

fat cat starts to whine and wince

fat cat throws up over our chintz

fat cat does what he does best

fat cat repays us – with interest

When Glorious Eyes Close by Suzanne Conboy-Hill

2011-02-28T09:21:00.000-08:00

When Glorious Eyes Close

by Suzanne Conboy-Hill

They had been together forever, sharing their space unconditionally, and delivering affectionate cuffs around the ear at mutually agreed intervals. Now she is gone, the victim of disease that manifested suddenly, mercilessly and without remission. He is lost. He hadn’t known what to do when she began to fail, and couldn’t be with her at the end, although everything possible had been done to allow him that. Suddenly she was not her, she was something else that responded differently and needed less, but also more, from him. He couldn’t manage those changes. He moved away from her.

Now he is alone. There is other company, but he has no relationship with most of them, other than one of dominance and superiority. He can’t show submission to any of these, or succumb to the playfulness she had been able to deliver without threat to his status.

He howls his uncomprehending loneliness, and seeks solace from the one source he believes to be acceptable. It will do. He can still curl up in her arms and she will hold him with affection. But it is not the same as lying together nose to nose, catching each other’s glorious eyes and stretching languorously around each other’s bodies.

Seeking comfort for something he cannot identify, he insinuates himself into her space. She holds him and he purrs, but there is no answering buzz. That feels wrong but he doesn’t know why. Maybe this was how it had always been.

The hollowness inside says no and holds in its vacuum the last remnants of his loss.

Phoebe and Gabriel: A Modern Tragedy by RD Hartwell

2011-02-25T09:49:00.000-08:00

Phoebe and Gabriel: A Modern Tragedy
by R.D. Hartwell

Every morning he waits at the door for her. She's not returning, but he hasn't caught on yet. He's young, or perhaps still a bit naive. It's part of his ritual each morning to look for her at the back door before he sits down to eat or goes off to play.

I can't see his tears as well as I can see my own. Perhaps he doesn't cry; either no reason to do so, at least in his mind, or no understanding as to why he should. I wonder how long it will take him to realize she will not greet him at the rear door ever again; or how long it will take for the everyday memory to become only an every-other-day or weekly one, and eventually fade to that nagging, periodic remembrance of only a half-captured image, a fleeting recognition? He's turned now to go into the kitchen for breakfast, having given up on her again, for this day at least.

I've been forced to give up on her too, but for different reasons. And yet, I too still stare out the door periodically, as if looking for her while knowing that we will never see her again. I wonder from which of us her image will slip most quickly? I suppose it's relative, no pun intended, as we are both waiting for a different her. I wonder which of us is the weaker: him, who is young and can more easily replace her loss with others; or me, older, no wiser really, and who knows her loss for what it is and doesn't want to replace her with another?

Gabriel flicks his tail as he turns for the door, his purr lost around the corner of the counter. He doesn't know that Phoebe had to be destroyed and won't be coming to the door anymore. But I do. And if he knew why, he would hate me forever, never letting that memory fade.

The Confession of a Cat

2011-02-23T09:02:00.000-08:00

The Confession of a Cat
by Changming Yuan

like a pile of compressed fog
caught on a twig at the mountainwaist
the cat hunches on the sofa's shoulder
where i see the whole house of life
genetically domesticated behind the doors
that most hateful human invention

yes, i am a bimental being
as my feline friend has revealed
i can readily detect the moods
of my human family members
often switching my personality
with my drifting kittenhood
as i tease or avoid them behind doors
who know i enjoy solitary stalking
and respect my rented privacy
but none of them was born in the year of my day
since my ancestor was cheated shamefully
out of a ridiculous race in chinese zodiac

the inside doors are ajar or unlocked
but the one facing the free spirits of nature
is always tightly closed, separating me
from my other self born to prefer
to stroll in the wild than sit in the house
once i sneak out of the threshold
i will never give a backward glance
yet I will keep my grooming habit
by using my long tongue to clean the dirtiest
and most private parts of my authentic being
somewhere in the wildness

Changming Yuan, twice Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a Chinaman(2009), grew up in a remote Chinese village and has published poems in Barrow Street, Best Canadian Poetry, London Magazine and more than 250 other literary publications worldwide.

Outside Cat by Aralis Bloise

2011-02-21T09:39:00.000-08:00

Outside Cat
by Aralis Bloise

As a single woman living by yourself, one of the best things you can have is an outside cat. I know you might be tempted to keep your cat inside the house, and you can still get one for that. But trust me; you still need one patrolling the perimeter of your home.

I know there is a stigma attached to a single woman relying on feline help. We all know the stereotype; Sad, lonely spinster dressing up her cats and having tea parties with them. I’m not talking about that. I have friends; I have dates, thank you very much. But no matter how popular you are, sometimes you end up alone at night…and that’s when the strange noises come out.

For some reason, the noises never happen when you have witnesses. Or during the day. It’s always when you are alone and prone to exaggeration. Try this experiment: invite at least 7-8 people to your place one night. Around midnight, turn off any music, TV, etc and tell everyone to be quiet.

Wait.
Wait some more.

You can wait till morning, you won’t hear a thing. Now tell everybody to go home, watch The Omen and then try to go to sleep. It’s an orchestra of inexplicable noises. Inexplicable that is, if you don’t have an outside cat to blame them on.

Some people might argue that cats make some scary noises themselves. After all, a cat in heat sounds like someone is murdering a baby, but I think that just adds to your sense of security. Once you have been able to explain away that unearthly screeching, everything else is simple.

Serial killer in the bushes outside my window?
No, it’s just the cat.

Peeping Tom in the bathroom window?
No, it’s just the cat.

Monster on the roof?
No it’s just the cat.

Let me tell you, my cat Ling outside makes me feel a lot safer than all the locks on my door. And she likes being outside. She gets to run around and explore. She gets to climb trees and chase birds. She actually likes it better than being indoors. She really hated those tea parties.

Rick Hartwell's Kitty Cuteness Overload for a Sunday Afternoon

2011-02-20T14:07:00.000-08:00

Rick Hartwell has donated five pieces to Hazard Cat and I think if you look at these pictures, you can see why.

Young Maggie

Matilda

Maggie and Jacob

Jacob

Gabriel

Emma and Chewy

Emma

Bruno and Lily

My Cat Phillippe by Lisa B.

2011-02-18T07:45:00.000-08:00

My Cat Phillippe
by Lisa B.

Phillippe, Phillippe, you most sable of cats,
Bringer of all things happy, murderer of rats,
What are you thinking, oh noble lord of ghetto fief?
A castrato at 5 months, it must not be of obtaining a wife.

Phillippe, Phillippe, your eyes do glow,
God’s palate of orange, green, and yellow.
Do those orbs vaguely conceal a soul?
Of conscious thought beyond the scope of human control?
Do you give me comfort when I weep?
Or has your mistress torn the fetters of sanity away
in a single cat-like leap?

Phillippe, Phillippe, a Christmas gift for me,
Better than electronics and in the end much more costly.
You were sick and dying, we did not know,
Thank God for modern medicine, my beloved friend,
and 800 dollars or so.

Phillippe, Phillippe, named after a professor,
you must be more than a little bit clever,
With a cat’s heart from a broken mold
and a personality too precious to be sold,
Phillippe the great and the bold.

But tell me, Phillippe, tell me please,
where were you those two months you took leave ?
When we moved to the new neighborhood,
and I feared you were lost for good?
Until one evening, there you stood.
Did you love me so much that you made sure you to find me again?
Now never roaming far from home,
Phillippe, Phillippe, my most constant friend,
I love you forever, understand?

Storm Cat by Matthew Sawyer

2011-02-16T06:01:00.000-08:00

My Friend with the Big Green Eyes by Debbie Bongiovanni-Sharp

2011-02-14T05:45:00.000-08:00

MY FRIEND WITH THE BIG GREEN EYES
Debbie Bongiovanni-Sharp

I have a friend with big green eyes,
Who knows when I'm happy or sad,
She's always there by my side,
And for that I'm so very glad.

When I'm upset she seems to know,
Just how to make me smile,
She is the smartest cat that I've ever seen,
And she does it with so much style.

I'm so very grateful for my cat,
And that is sure no lie,
She is the best friend anyone can have,
The one with the big green eyes.

Josie and Samuel by Jennifer McConnel

2011-02-11T10:35:00.000-08:00

Josie and Samuel
by Jennifer McConnel

Josie and Samuel had been the strangest pair to ever grace the old farmhouse. Not only was theirs a friendship of June and November, their relationship transcended even the boundary of species. When Josie was a kitten, the old farmer had found Samuel in the cornfield, torn apart by a coyote. The old dog miraculously healed behind the wood stove in the farm kitchen, due in part to the attention showered on him by Farmer and Missus, but more importantly because Josie decided that he should live.

The farmer and his missus had long suspected cats of possessing occult powers, and Josie was no different in their experience: even as an infant she looked around her with wise, worldly eyes and it wasn’t long before she was involved in all kinds of unprovable mischief. The missus was certain Josie was the culprit who snuck into the dairy and ate the cream before it could set, but there was not one telltale fleck of white on the little beast who sat on the kitchen counter, daintily licking her feet, so the missus couldn’t punish her. She was a tough old soul, like her husband, but she still believed that all Americans were innocent until proven guilty: she applied this belief to man and beast alike.

Because of the skill with which she broke the rules, Josie was already quite the queen of the farmhouse when Samuel arrived. Deciding the old coon dog to be worth her time, Josie spent the months of his convalescence curled up on his shoulder, licking his ear and purring from time to time. The farmer and the missus had never seen anything quite like it, but at the dog was healing and the cream had stopped disappearing, they left the strange pair to their own devices.

Before long, Samuel was healed. Having a happy dog on the farm lightened the hearts of the humans, but Samuel insisted that Josie accompany him on all of his adventures. Quizzically, the farmer watched as Samuel led Josie across the log that sat on the creek and out of their territory to explore the unknown woods. Every night as dusk, the couple would return: Samuel blissfully covered in mud and brambles, Josie somehow immaculate even after a day spent exploring the forest.

Years passed in this manner, and the self assured kitten grew into a sleek, beautiful cat. Samuel had passed his growing age, and the changes in him were reminiscent of moving backwards: his step began to slow and his bark quieted to a whispered squeak. And still Josie and Samuel would not be separated. The night that Josie didn’t come back from the forest, Samuel sat vigil. He whined anxiously all night, looking out in the direction he and the cat had wandered that morning. And when dawn came and there was still no sign of his beloved companion, Samuel laid his head on his paws in defeat.

When Missus came out to milk the cows, she saw Samuel, frozen in place, and her heart almost broke audibly when she realized he hadn’t even flicked his tail in moments. Dropping the milk pail and stool, she crossed the yard to cradle his head and ease his passing, but her actions came too late. Samuel was gone, and Josie never came back. Farmer and Missus mourned, but the farmer secretly though that it was a lucky thing: if either of those animals had to live very long without each other, he thought, gripping his wife close to him, they would have been lost.

Our Mother Tongue by Delbert R. Gardner

2011-02-09T10:31:00.000-08:00

Our Mother Tongue
By Delbert R. Gardner

Dear wife and I were talking of the need
For language, when our two cats had a spat--
The Tiger ambled near the Persian's feed,
The Persian growled, and Tiger went and sat
Some paces off in quiet dignity.
"Cats understand each other in any tongue,"
My pretty green-eyed wife explained to me.
To which I answered, "Yes, the idiom
Is all of language with animals, but still
They have so little to communicate."
"Correct--it's mostly fear and how to fill
Their bellies," she agreed, "--and love and hate."
"Come to think of it," I said in play,
"About the same things humans have to say!

"My father, Delbert R. Gardner, made his best cat friend later in life. Andy, a gray and white tabby, got off to a rocky start by repeatedly bouncing off my father's new hernia incision. But he soon redeemed himself with his devotion to Dad, approaching him each evening with the request that Dad put him to bed in his basket, sometimes with a song. A constant companion, "Andy boy" soon won the accolade "old buddy, old pal" and slept with my parents at night. Other poems of Dad's featuring cats of one stripe or another have appeared in Fine Arts Discovery and Spirit; Dad has also written about bulls, dogs, fish, mermaids, and other creatures. Over forty of Dad's poems and stories have appeared in publications such as The Literary Review, Poetry Digest, American Poetry Magazine, Provincetown Review, and Christian Science Monitor, among others." - Lyn Gardner

The Beast on the Beach by Jean Airey

2011-02-07T08:00:00.000-08:00

THE BEAST ON THE BEACH
by Jean Airey

Eddie Barker ran down the beach, his feet making soft plopping noises in the smooth hard area between the waves and the shell-littered sand. It was a middle area, like him, he thought and ran faster. There was a full moon and it cast a light that showed him the empty stretch of Manasota Key ahead of him. Nobody was there, nobody fishing, nobody swimming. Just the quiet night, the waves and him on a hot summer night in 1963.

Being alone made him happy. He was away from his older brother, the jock who won all the sports awards. Away from his younger brother, the geek who won all the academic. Him in the middle, good for nothing, good at nothing. He was better alone. He ran faster, closer to the waves, his feet kicking salt water up on his legs.

He ran up the beach until he drifted into that wonderful world that running hard brought him to. Where he didn’t feel any pain, where he didn’t have to think, where the whole outside world faded. He was content now, in a world of muted peace.

Until he heard the breathing. It was deep and rasping and came from something running alongside him. Lower than his head, at his chest. There was a strange rhythm of other feet hitting the wet sand. Reluctantly, he turned his head to look.

The animal almost blended with the sand, except for the dark ruff of mane around its neck. It was a lion, running with him, its body as tall as his waist, its head reaching his shoulder. It ran looking straight ahead, not looking at him.

He was hallucinating, he thought. Maybe his dumb jock brother had slipped some of that new LSD stuff into his food. He stopped, standing in the small waves, and watched to see what his hallucination would do.

It ran a little ahead of him, then turned and sat down. Golden eyes surveyed him calmly. The dark brown tip of its tail switched back and forth making scuff marks on the sand. He wondered if that meant it was angry. He wondered if it was a bad thing to have a hallucination be mad at you.

He cleared his throat. “Hello,” he said.

The lion didn’t say anything, and the tail continued its metronomic swish, swish, swish. Emboldened, he put his hands on his hips and said, “Look, I’d like to finish my run, if you don’t mind.”

The lion yawned, exposing giant yellow teeth and blasting Eddie with a powerfully bad breath. He staggered back. “Hey, you oughta brush your teeth.” The lion started toward him and he moved back further, putting his hands out in front of him, “I didn’t mean it, really.” But the lion only walked over, stood alongside him and looked at him.

OK, Eddie thought, he could see and hear and smell the hallucination; could he touch it? Not waiting to lose his nerve, he reached out with one hand and put it firmly on the lion’s head.

There was a head there, there was a hairy head there. He could feel the coarse hair bristling under his fingers. The wide skull was firm under his palm, He could feel the warmth of a living animal. Holding his breath, he patted the beast. The lion purred.

With a yelp, he started running again. It wasn’t a hallucination, it was a real lion. He ran as fast and as far as he could, but the lion kept pace with him, running alongside, making no move to jump on him, its easy stride finally driving him to exhaustion. Unable to take one step further, he collapsed on the sand, buried his head in his arms and waited for the jaws to close on him. He felt the hot breath on his neck and then the rasp of a tongue that felt like it was pulling half his skin off.

The lion lay down next to him. He raised his head and looked at it. Its tongue was partway out and he thought it was laughing at him.

“You’re not going to eat me, are you?” he asked. When the lion didn’t respond, he rolled over and sat up. “Where did you come from?” He put his hand on the lion’s side and the lion rolled over. Just like Gramma’s cat, he thought, and rubbed its belly. Where could such a beast have come from? He’d heard that years ago there had been circus people living on the Key, but could one of them have brought a lion along? And how could a lion have managed on its own for – what – ten, twenty years? The lion was really purring now, and Eddie had to smile.

“Look,” he told it, “I have to go back, now. I’ve run a lot further than I usually do. You coming along?”

The lion did, until they got within a few hundred yards of Eddie’s house and then it stopped. Eddie stopped too, and patted it again. “I’ll be back out tomorrow night, we can run again.”

He wouldn’t tell anyone about this, he thought as he went into his house. This was his lion, and nobody else’s.

As the years went on, Eddie continued to run, and the lion joined him. He talked to the lion as he wouldn’t have talked to any human. The lion never talked back, never told him he was stupid, or clumsy, or foolish, it only looked at him with its golden eyes and purred when he stroked it.

His grades improved, and he even made the track team. His brothers still outshone him – sports for the one and grades for the other, but he knew they didn’t have a lion to run with, and his parents started to brag that he was the one who could handle anything.

And he could, he knew it. He graduated as valedictorian of his class and headed off to college with a scholarship.

But he had to leave the lion.

“It’s only for a while,” he said the night before he left. He held the large head in his hands and looked into the burnished eyes. “I’ll be back at Christmas and I’ll run with you then. It’s only a few months away.”

But when he came home at Christmas, there were parties to go to and friends to catch up with. He thought that Susan Anders even liked him better than just a friend. It was four days before he was even out on the beach again and then it was a beach bonfire with his buddies.

He left the bonfire and ran away from its light and down the beach to where the only light was that from the full moon. The lion did not appear. He called softly for it, but it did not come. He started to run further, but a voice yelled from the bonfire. “Hey, Eddie, come on back here, we’re going to go swimming!” It was Susan Anders.

He waited a minute, maybe two, then turned and ran back.

He did not see the great beast lying in the seagrass, watching him leave. He did not see the pain fill the golden eyes, or the tear that fell on the sand and disappeared.

Marmalade Cats by R.D. Hartwell

2011-02-04T09:41:00.000-08:00

Marmalade Cats
by R.D. Hartwell

Marmalade cats and plump muffin mice,
Toasted in dreams all through my head.

Invited to dance in a marshmallow sky,
They pirouette, curtsy; cavorting so high.

Parading across a sleepyhead's bed,
Such visions of mirth and antics are nice.

While memories of childhood cascade all around,
Only death and destruction around me abound.

The Cat, The Chicken, The Mouse, and the Fox - A barbeque horror story by F.A. Hyatt

2011-02-02T10:06:00.000-08:00

The Cat, The Chicken, The Mouse, and The Fox - A barbecue horror story.
By F.A. Hyatt

There are benefits to Exo-urban living. For one, you get a little more latitude in what you can do with your property. In my case, a fenced free-range-chicken pen. With freedom comes responsibility though, in this case the responsibility was to find out what was going on with my chickens. A raucous squawking sent me barreling into the back yard. Had the cat climbed into the pen? Shin-zu was well fed, and too old to be over impressed with the birds, so that wasn't likely.

The start of summer is my favorite time of year. It heralded the first barbecue of the season, which vies with Christmas as far as I am concerned. Fate, however, had other plans for this day of days.

I made the gauntlet of my yard just in time to see a thin brown form whisk away into the scrub, towing a mass of feathers. A quick count of the captive poultry left me disheartened and angry. The fox had made off with my Alpha Cock, a Rhode Island wonder, ruler of its small domain. The bird was also my only good breeder.

This activity had also mildly attracted the interest of my wife, who entered the yard at a more sedate pace.

“We still planning on having a barbecue this weekend?”

It took a few seconds for me to switch gears. I pointed inarticulately toward the chicken pen and gargled, “my rooster!”

Clara gazed uncenteredly in the direction of the pen. “Your rooster what?”

“Gone!”

“It escaped? That's what the noise was about?”

Defeat settled in. Clara was not going to get excited over my loss. We share many things, but concern over livestock was not one of them. A stray cat, (how we acquired Shin-Zu) or an abandoned Starling, that was different. My chickens, or pet spider, were somehow not part of the clique.

“A fox grabbed it. I'll have to check the fence, and get another cock.”

“Oh, that's too bad. Do you think the cat will be safe in the yard?”

I let out a breath, and composed myself. “Yeah, she should be okay. Foxes aren't given to eating cats.”

“Alex, the barbecue?”

“Why not? I'll clean the grill after I check the fencing.”

A hole had been scratched under the fence at the back, big enough for the fox to get in and out of. The dirt pack there was pretty hard. I hadn't thought it necessary before, but evidently some kind of masonry barrier would have to be set down around the cage perimeter. Pulling some rock together, and a little wire repair occupied me for some considerable time, but eventually I retreated to the house, and called the poultry farm I deal with, to arrange for a replacement cock. That done, I made it back into the yard intent on setting up the grill. Clara followed me, toting a bundle of cleaning supplies, and a bag for the ashes. It was clear I wasn't going to get off with a quick scrape-down this time.

Opening the grill top revealed another surprise.

“Oh, isn't that cute! Look Alex, a baby mouse!”

It lay there, half curled up like a tawny fuzzed toe. Some field mouse had nested here and abandoned this present, for some reason. I braced for the inevitable.

“Don't touch anything!”, Clara breathed. “I'll go get a shoebox!”

It didn't look to be in very good shape. Certainly it wasn't, unfortunately, trying to escape my wife's attentions. Clara returned with her new mouse house, and carefully transferred the rodent out of the grill.

“I wonder if we shouldn't leave the grill alone. The mother might return.”

Thinking fast, a flame grill-free summer looming before me, I replied, “Not likely. Mice litter. There's only one here, so it was probably abandoned, when it couldn't scramble out with is mates. It's probably sick, Clara, I don't think you should bother with it.”

This was the way wrong approach.

“I'll have to take it to the Vet and see. Be a dear, and finish the grill while I take it to the clinic.”

This would absent my wife for a couple hours, likely. Alone, I decided the quiet might re-attract my chicken predator back, or some of his friends, so I retrieved my shotgun and a couple salt loads and began cleaning out the grill where I could keep one eye on the pen. I let old Shin-Zu out and went at the grill with a vigor born of irritation.

The 13 year old cat had been off her feed for weeks now, and just sort of propped herself down near me, mildly interested in the jerky movements of the scraper and ash shovel as I removed the last seasons dross.

Squawking rose up from the pen, so I squinted along the rear fence line. Looked like movement in the shrubbery. I grabbed the shotgun, reared up and fired off a shot of salt. I figured the noise would scare off my problem for a while, until I could fix the fence up.

The old double barrel went off with a satisfying wham. Suddenly remembering Shin-Zu, I looked down expecting to see the cat bolting half-way across the yard for the nearest tree. Instead, it lay stiffly to my left, all four feet straight in the air. Then it fell sideways and didn't move at all. Cripes, I thought, not now. I knelt down, and inspected her. The cat was dead as a door nail.

When Clara returned, there was a major pandemonium ending in another useless trip to the vet confirming that the cat was beyond all but divine resurrection, due to a heart attack. Altogether, about thirty-eight dollars in vet bills, about my average summer charcoal budget. The new cock would cost another twenty-five, and of course, we would immediately start window shopping pet stores for a new cat...Call it my steak budget for summer grilling. I had just enough time left to finish cleaning the grill, which it turned out, had a large hole burnt through the bottom, once the fire-pan had been taken out. No grill.

We dug a shallow grave for the cat, and everything considered, it was now too late to cook any kind of decent dinner, let alone barbecue anything, even if I still had a grill. The mouse had stopped moving, despite the eyedropper loads of antibiotics and vitamins the Vet had proscribed. I took charge of it, and with solemn ceremony, fed it to my pet spider, the only living thing in the household to have come out ahead today.

Cable Knit Cat by Ree Young

2011-01-31T08:09:00.000-08:00

The Two Cats and a River by Troy Morash

2011-01-28T08:32:00.000-08:00

The Two Cats and a River
By Troy Morash

At around the time Man was being invented, there was the theory that a cat could lose one of its nine lives just by being under water for one second. For a cat this was understandably undesirable as not all a cat’s lives were necessarily spent as a cat, at least at that time. Therefore cats, being superstitious and cautious creatures, avoided water like the plague.

During this illustrious time there were two rather adventurous cats. One was black and the other was caramel. And they had set out many years ago to find a teacher who could teach them to think like gods.

One day they came to a raging river. Upon closer inspection the question naturally arose: how to cross the ten-meter span without getting wet?

The caramel cat was lazy and imagined that living a happier and more intelligent life meant nothing more than finding ways to make less and less effort. So without wasting another thought he jumped onto a stepping-stone near the bank.

‘Maybe we should think this through. The stepping-stones look slippery and are far and few between,’ said the black cat hesitatingly.

‘What’s there to think about, come on,’ his friend called after him. But when the lazy cat turned around he slipped into the water. And to his friend’s horror, the caramel cat slipped under the water and stayed there for more than a second thereby losing a life.

‘The only thing to do is to build a bridge,’ decided the black cat. Luckily he had read many books on engineering. He began straight away. He felled trees, collected stones, cleared brush, built a bridge pier and weaved rope from his own fur. The lazy cat just stared and laughed in amazement, ‘that seems like an awful lot of work. One just needs to be more careful, that’s all!’

But the black cat made no reply. He finalized his calculations as the lazy cat basked in the sun.

Once the lazy cat was dry and had had a nap he was ready to try to cross the river once more. This time he had some experience and took a moment to study the rocks that lay in the river and so managed to go much further than he had on the first attempt. He had gone two meters when suddenly a rock rolled over. The lazy cat naturally lost his balance and fell into the water losing yet another life.

Seeing this the black cat became all the more determined to finish his bridge. After building a model, he tied posts, built a kiln, made cement and mined for iron, coal and gold.

‘That was strange,’ the lazy cat said as he came back up onto the bank of the river dripping with water, ‘I must learn to be more careful next time and look out for those loose rocks.’ And he laid himself out in the sun.

On the third attempt the lazy cat managed to get half way across and rested on a small sandy island. He shouted back to his friend, ‘Hey, look at me. I’m half way!’ Then suddenly a large wave threw the lazy cat into the water taking away yet other life for it had been under the water for more than a second.

The fourth and fifth attempts brought the cat even closer to the other side. There was no turning back now. He only had four lives left. Then he noticed how the sepping-stones grew scarcer. The next stone was a good two meters away and it would take all the luck in the world to make the leap accurately. He decided to wait on a boulder and take a nap before making the big leap. Everything had to be planned
perfectly.

Meanwhile the black cat had finished setting the foundations of the bridge. He too was very tired but did not stop for a break. There was too much work to be done.

When the time came to make the leap the lazy cat was understandably nervous. The black cat warned him that the distance was too great but this only angered the lazy cat. There was nothing he could do about that now. He was trapped in the river and he didn’t think he had enough lives to return. He took a step back in order to get some space to build up speed. But as he stepped back he slipped off the boulder and into the water and promptly lost another live.

‘That’s six,’ his friend yelled.

‘No it isn’t! Anyway who’s counting?’

Once the lazy cat was dry, he wasted no time in taking the big leap, without any more thinking. ‘It’s doing all that thinking that has gotten me into trouble in the first place,’ he fumed. He leaped and as expected missed the far rock and slipped into the water, losing another life. He grappled with the slippery rock but couldn’t get a grip and slipped underneath the water again. Now he only had one life
left. His little heart was beating frantically. He felt different now that he only had one life left. He felt frightened, as does anyone with only one life.

After he was dry he made the final journey and was relieved to have reached the other side. The black cat had by this time managed to finish his bridge and after a little catnip cake and milky tea to celebrate, he walked across.

‘Big deal,’ his friend said. You did all that work for nothing. I told you it was possible to cross the river without all that work.’

‘Yes but you lost eight lives in the process.’

‘Says who? That is only silly superstition. You can’t prove anything.’

‘Nor do I have to,’ the black cat argued.

They continued on for many miles before coming to a sea. But that is another story. And according to the rumors, the lazy cat performed many noble deeds to the end of his life, which was not as long as he would have liked.

On Explorers by Heather Elliott

2011-01-26T07:53:00.000-08:00

On Explorers
by Heather Elliott

When I come home in the evenings
my grey cat waits by the door.
She steps up to the opening and looks out
at the unremarkable hallway, the blank doors
of facing apartments. Sometimes
her front paws pass the doorframe onto dull
blue carpet; but no farther. She sticks out her head
and tilts it, quizzical.
I hold
the door open with one foot
so she can look her fill, as I take off my coat
and hang it on its hook, deposit my bag and keys
and mail on the counter. I hold the door open
because this is a moment and thought I recognize;
the known universe has suddenly, inexplicably expanded.
What a moment! The chair she sits on
is not everything, the refrigerator
her canned food emerges from is not everything;
the litter box in the corner and place on my bed
where light slants an hour or so in the afternoons
are not everything.
Surely
this is what it’s like to consider
crossing an ocean, even though you’re told
the world is flat. Surely this is what it’s like
to spin the globe and imagine
moving jobless to the pink country
where your finger lands. I hold the door open
because I know after a second or two
she will back into the safety of my kitchen, stretch,
her tail a feathery question mark, open
her mouth and demand food.
Later
when she has draped herself across my lap
or is rolled tight beside my pillow
in humming warmth, I will think
this is surely what it’s like watching
the ladder drop down the first time;
the moment you decide you will set foot on the moon.

Essay Memory Cats by R.D. Hartwell

2011-01-24T08:05:00.000-08:00

Memory Cats
by R.D. Hartwell

I do not like dogs. I realize that this pronouncement may scar me in the eyes of my daughter, my grandson, and perhaps many another. However, I do not like dogs. This actually is not based on the fact that they are dogs, canines -- I like wolves and coyotes -- but is, rather, based on the fact that dogs are domesticated. They are, in theory at least, house-tamed. This does not always equate of course to being house broken. Hey, I have a broken house and a ruptured family and my daughter’s puppy still pees on the carpet!

Now cats! I like cats. I love cats. Cats are not domesticated. To them a house is merely a large cavern in which to go spelunking until comfortable with the knowledge of its extent (vast), its dangers (few), and its pleasures (many). I do not own cats, never have, but I’ve been tolerated within the cave by many cats. Presently, ten felines allow me concurrent residence within their cave. (Please, before you contact the local city authorities, these all have been rescued litters.) I consider this cordial of them, and crafty, particularly since I continue to feed them and clean the sandbox in the back.

While typing this I look down and notice one cat, Gabriel, continuing to sleep atop my computer. Gratefully, he is not on the keyboard this time, but on the CPU; he is curled on the tower, the memory, soaking up the thermal energy within the cave. It’s strange how so many cats weigh heavy on my memory. I think of Ignatz and Pericles, Pumpkin to his friends, of Daddy Kitty, and most recently of Bug. There have been so many others throughout six decades, inside the cave and outside, that it is impossible to keep all their names straight. But my memory holds bits and pieces of images -- bytes if you will -- flashes of action, lengthy scenes of lethargy, and occasional slashes of terror and tears. Through all these years I have been pleased to have been the companion of cats.

Indy by Lorelei Bachuss, Age 7

2011-01-21T07:50:00.000-08:00

Note to Contributors

2011-01-20T13:07:00.001-08:00

Coraline as a Kitten

Hello there, my wonderful, talented writers, poets and artists! Time for another update. I'm still working my way through May submissions. That was the busiest month for submissions, and I hope to have May finished by the end of February. I will send you an email when payment is sent and your post is up.

At this time, I hope to reopen paying submissions in May or June, depending on when I finish posting my backlog. I will have paying submissions open for one month. At a later date, I will post the submission period dates.

I have been very fortunate with donations to Hazard Cat, and the quality of these donations astounds me. There is so much talent out there. And so many cat lovers. I thank all of you who have donated pieces. It has helped the weeks when money is tight.

I'll have another Bad Cat Week soon, probably in February, so there's something for you to look forward to if you are a reader. Bad Cat Week is always fun.

Give your kitties treats often, and don't forget leftovers.

Edited to add: If you have any questions or concerns, don't hesitate to write.

Shadow Cat by C.L. Rossman

2011-01-19T09:49:00.000-08:00

"There are many kinds of cats. And somewhere out there in our Galaxy, there are upright, intelligent cats, evolved from the great felines of their home world. They still have some of their feline features, like fangs and claws and manes. They come in the many patterns and colors of their forbearers---spots, strips, rosettes, and different skin colors. And they have the instinct to hunt and kill prey. It is this instinct which keeps their worlds pristine and beautiful, even as the Hunters use technology to enjoy their comforts and to explore from world to world, in search of the new and curious. Here, in Shadow Cat, many years away from the tautschen's home planet, one descendent comes face to face with the great cats which he believes are his ancestors.....and his life and theirs hangs in the balance." - C.L. Rossman

Shadow Cat
by C.L. Rossman

“One more crate!” the animal seller called, “And Spirit’s own luck to you!”

“What’s in it, honored hunter?” Starseeker asked, wondering at the last words.

“You’ll see soon enough, tyr-rakash,” the other said with a snaggle-toothed grimace. “No offense intended…”

“Chak,” agreed his cohort, the second ship’s hunter, who was standing atop the ramp at the starship’s bay door. “Come up here, Surash, and help me get this on a sled.”

“Coming.” He mounted the ramp and Starseeker’s gaze followed him.

A heavy crate, then, if it took two tautschen to lift it, the Shadow warrior thought, though not as large as those which held cattle-like krolf and the bigger ground animals. And when the two hunters set it on their platform sled, it rocked and snarled.

Starseeker craned to see, but the crate was completely unmarked except for some small air holes. “What do you have there?” he asked again.

“A trap-full of trouble!” one of the hunters called down, and “Something expensive and rare,” the second one said. “Here, watch your footing, Tarulen, and back up slowly.”

After they had levered the sled down the ramp, Surash decided to answer the warrior.

“A pair of Shadow Clan’s big cats, that’s what,” he said proudly.

Starseeker snapped alert. “How? Those cats are held sacred by the clan.”

“Hrrnnt—don’t I know it! We couldn’t have been able to get any if they hadn’t expanded their range into Burning Forest’s territory, and it wasn’t easy even there.”

While Starseeker stared at the box in fascination, his friend and leader Renegade came up beside him. “Shadow’s royal cats, and a pair, you say, honored hunters?”

“Oh yes, sir.” They became instantly more respectful. “Male and female. And worth a stretch more hideshare, vr’Champion.”

A smile shaded Renegade’s face. “We can’t even see them to know what condition they’re in.”

That set off the haggling. Starseeker heard little of it. He was leaning over the crate, trying to see inside. All of the tautschen, or Hunting People, as they call themselves, are descended from the great cats of their Homeworld. They have a humanoid shape, but feline features, and here Starseeker had a chance to see some of his almost-mythical ‘ancestors.’ He could make out only two heavy, shifting shapes, which blocked and unblocked the light. He needed to get closer…

A hard slam jarred the crate and a large hooked claw jabbed out of the nearest hole and tried to scrape down whatever it could catch as it pulled back in.

Everyone jumped, including the animal-sellers.

Starseeker recovered, then laughed. “That is as much as I’ve ever seen of one. Even though I come from Shadow Clan myself.”

Renegade chuckled and turned away to pay the sellers. That done, he walked over to his rakash-wahr, the warrior-poet of his clan, and remarked, “You may soon get to see more of them, Starseeker. The rest of these animals will go on to restock other worlds—but we have a good boreal forest on this one. We could release them here.”

Leader and warrior looked at each other, and Renegade asked, “Would you like to take them to the release site yourself, brother?”

*

Of course he would. But even as he backed up his personal flying vehicle, his rakka and its sled to take on the crate, he felt relieved that his mate High Mountain Song, wasn’t here at the landing to worry over him and remind him to be “very careful.” Just because he’d been a little depressed the other day and asked her (rhetorically, of course), “What does is the longest life mean if it is continually slipping away from under. You wake and you are newborn—then next -throw you’re 300 and on your death hunt?” (Starseeker was only 50, but poets and warriors thought of these things a lot, apparently.)

And at first she’d been shocked and speechless, then, after clasping his hand had looked him seriously in the face and said, “I know you believe in the Spirit-of-all, my heart, but sometimes even that does not soften our worries. “ Then she’d smiled and leaned over to whisper something in his ear…

Well, he said, he’d think about it. And he lashed the crate down on its sled, ready to rise and fly.

*

Because they couldn’t feed or water the new animals easily, Renegade Clan members took them away for placement as soon as they could. Some would go to another waiting Life-ship, as they called it, for distribution among Ten Systems’ worlds. A few would go here to the Twin Worlds of Kr’ra’klv’tt and Rakul. Local hunters and warriors hitched small sleds to their rakken, their personal flying vehicles, and flew them away quickly.

Worlds in Ten Systems had some life-gaps among their habitats, thanks to a voracious Enemy which had passed through eons before. The Hunters were trying to rebuild them.

Starseeker took on his two mythological beasts alone. His heart beat higher and his breath came faster with excitement. He knew that Renegade had been itching to send him off with some warning or a partner, but he felt pleased that his leader had awarded him this honor alone. Starseeker was an excellent hunter; he vowed he would not make a mistake. –But to see the fabled night-cat for himself, after decades of listening to its legends and lore! It had been thirty years since Starseeker had left Homeworld, but he still remembered those legends.

The airborne ride seemed to soothe the great cats again. Or at least, settle them down. The warrior flew low but swiftly, taking them to the smaller northern continent “across the pole” from Renegade’s territory.

“There’s prime boreal forest there," he said, talking to the living cargo behind him, “plenty of herd animals and plenty of water, too.”

“Did they give you food or water, lately?” he wondered. ‘They’ were supposed to care for their charges, these animal-catchers. Often they tranquilized the animals when first caught, but unless the beasts were too ferocious to approach, the traders were supposed to feed and water them regularly during their trip to the Twin Worlds.

But that crate didn’t look as if it had any amenities, made of plain hardwood with a few air holes in it, no sign of an attached water line or a shelf for food. He couldn’t see inside it at all.

That’s why Starseeker was anxious to free them as soon as possible; and he forced his personal flier to as much speed as he could stand, straddling it unprotected in the wind.

The open flight across the pole chilled him, even though it was summer. His passengers had become very quiet, and he spoke to them to calm his own anxiety:

“Good hunting on this side of the world, and no competition. The snow cats and sabertooths haven’t reached this continent yet, but the shoveljaw come through in great herds, and there are kai and smaller game in the woods, all of them good meat,” he said, then shut his jaw, feeling foolish.

Our ancestors may have talked to other beings, but we have lost that ability, he thought, and all we know are their cries and calls. His own ancestors had supposedly sprung from the great cats themselves. Anatomically, they were close. Shadow Clan shamans had reverenced them and held them in awe. Some said a shaman could even become the cat. Today, the clan on Homeworld forbade all but the top ranked hunters and huntresses to take one of their pelts.

We are already less than our forbearers were, he thought, if we can hunt them.

He finally crossed the northern pole and most of the pale tundra, and rolled on until the deep blue-green of the needleleaf forest broke the horizon. Thousands upon thousands of kri-veh it stretched away, making up half the northern continent.

His “passengers’” continued silence worried Starseeker, so he flew in only about 20 kri-veh and chose a good spot for the release: a small clearing surrounded by tall conifers and a few broken boulders, with a clear river edging it nearby—“one that never goes dry,” he promised, and brought both rakka and sled to a gentle halt, then began lowering them slowly.

Still no sign from the enclosed beasts. Had their latest outburst been their last? Their last desperate defense against their captors before they collapsed and died? Starseeker agonized through the descent, yet still managed to keep his hunting senses honed. This world was still wild, and he must be prepared for anything…

There. Down. He disengaged the flier from the burdened sled so that he could get away if for some reason the cats decided to take possession of the crate and attack him. He coasted the rakka into the trees, left it to hover and returned to the crate unlock it.

Still nothing. Very worried now, Starseeker thought he should stay, perch on top the crate, and be ready to look in.

He almost did. But an old teacher’s voice came back to him and said, “Do not yield the watch; do all that you know every time.”

And in the end he chose the cautious way, setting the container for remote release, and backing off to shelter among the trees. Not cowardice, just caution. Feckless bravado had killed more hunters than he could count—some of them had been friends.

So Starseeker crouched behind cover, the release-button in his hand. Still no movement from the crate. Would he see the fabled cats only as corpses? Restraining a sigh, he pressed the button.

Something erupted from the crate with a roar like thunder. It became a blur, a dark wind charging out to do battle, a primordial force.

“Shain rt-tai!!” Starseeker jerked upright, cried out. “Night-panther,” he breathed.

The great cat stilled head up, back arched. It turned from tornado to statue before the hunter could even blink. It was alive—alive!—and it had lunged for freedom at once, ready to deal death to its captors….what magnificence! For the first time, the Hunter looked upon the cat his clan called “ancestor.”

It was incredible. The wonderful sinewy muscles in legs and shoulders, the long tail raised in a proud curve, and held there, a pose no other feline could strike. The great tigerish head uplifted, the scant ruff of ebony fur surrounding the onyx face—the fangs like white sabers, the head completed by shimmering golden eyes.

It seemed to be looking directly at him. Does it know I’m here? Would its next move be to attack? And where was the other--?

A shadow eeled round from the other side of the crate and paused, also looking at him. The other cat! Starseeker—or anyone else—would have focused so intently upon the first one, he would have been easy prey for the second.

Well done, he thought.

The first rt’ter-shain, the male, glanced back at his mate just long enough to communicate something, then returned his stare to the Hunter. When the cats’ muscles rippled, their sleek coats flashed, and they showed two different patterns: the male lightly striped in silver-white, while on the female, ghostly shadow-spots rippled and gleamed. The same two patterns shone on the People of Shadow Clan., directly on their skin.

Both cats glared in his direction, as if he were open to their eyes. Were they going to attack? Slowly the warrior rose. He didn’t want to fight them. He would probably have to kill them—their ferocity was legendary, but…better to meet death standing than on your knees.

What he or they might have done next remained a mystery, for at that moment, everything changed.

A rustling and clacking came from the woods next to the river—sharp, loud noises, as if many branches were breaking all at once. Something coming—perhaps even a herd of somethings…

The cats’ heads whipped round in that direction. Abruptly the pair faded back behind the crate, using it for cover.

But they have no cover; and whatever is coming will keep them from the trees.

A joyous bounce of flashing eyes and spiral horns and gleaming coats galloped through the trees, and Starseeker recognized the K’sariens or Windrunners, romping here on the far side of the world, where they had no right to be.

A bachelor herd, he thought, as four, five, six, of them loped into sight, young stallions not yet old enough to win mares of their own. But what were they doing here, on the far side of the world? Could they have wandered this far? He had no way to know…

The sight of the strange object—the crate—stopped them in their tracks. Every curved neck stretched out, went rigid, every nostril flared, every leg stood still.

They were tall four-leggers and Starseeker realized they must be able to see over the crate to what crouched behind. But how would they react?

One of them tossed its head and screamed—not a whinny at all but a shriek of defiance and challenge. The others echoed it. They stamped their feet and reared, then came down and lowered their horns…

…directly at the two great cats.

“No, oh no.” Starseeker’s thoughts raced. The fight would be six against two. The shadow cats were unfamiliar with Windrunners and they had no place to hide. And he knew what would happened, he knew that the great cats would stand and fight; they had too…but the Windrunners would lower those deadly horns, bare their strong teeth and storm down to surround and kill them both.

Suddenly the big male shadow cat appeared on top of the crate, his ruff bristling and his fangs bared. He answered the Windrunners’ challenge with a roar of his own.

Chai’k-hai—by honor you are called.

Rarik-hai---I come! The ancient tautschen Challenge rang through Starseeker’s head as if it had been spoken.

The Windrunners thundered forward; the male cat leaped to meet them; and the female snaked from cover, going for their legs.

Too many against too few.

Starseeker charged, running, swinging a spear and roaring out the old battle-cry.

The sight distracted the combatants: the shadow cat missed his leap, bounced off a strong arched neck, and the K’sariens looked around, surprised.

But the she-cat bit the first ‘runner’s foreleg and her weight pulled him over.

The others screamed and galloped up to stab at both cats. Starseeker wouldn’t reach them, couldn’t run fast enough.

So he sent the spear on ahead of him.

It smoked over the nearest K’sarien’s crest and sank into the shoulder of the next one over, deflecting him from the male cat. The steed stumbled and shrilled.

Then Starseeker himself landed in their midst, nothing left to throw, but a laser set to shoot, and he tried to fend off one stabbing horn while another beast raked him with its teeth.

The Hunter was strong, but they were stronger. They could kill with their hooves or a single thrust of their horns.

Starseeker shot into a chestnut flank; a hard body slammed into him from the other side and he went down, rolled under the stamping hooves, shooting upward, trying to stay alive. He heard roars, saw flying feet and dust, and a strange thought came to him, almost in tranquility:

He remembered his remarks to his wife. How life drained out from under your feet like water pressed from a puddle, and suddenly you were old, and had no more time. Would his life leak out from under him now, today? In this strangely silent space carved from chaos, in this one moment when everything slowed down, at last, at last he could see—

Laser-fire spat into the chest of a big Windrunner coming down on him, and Starseeker waited, at first unsure he had fired.

Then a huge black shape flew over him and crashed into the Windrunner, and time sped up, Starseeker sprang to his feet, saw his spear sticking out of a fallen foe, snatched it free and danced death with a brace of flashing horns and stomping feet, and another black shape rose beside him and lashed out with its knived paws.

Death blew by in a slice of spiral horn, death missed him by a fraction, and a mass of muscle and power slammed onto his spear and drove him backward. Something roared; something squealed.

And suddenly it was over.

Dust fell through filtered light; the warrior stood between heaps of dead flesh; and the only sound he could hear was the rhythmic hoofbeats of the last Windrunners, running away. Three of them, heads down, galloping away, taking caution from their companions’ lives.

Starseeker blinked and looked around. At the same time, the female shadow cat lifted her head from the throat of a downed Windrunner, gave it a shake, and sighed. A very tautschen-like sigh. She stood up and put a paw on the fallen animal as if claiming it as her own.

The male cat. Where was the male? If they’d killed him…

Then Starseeker felt something move behind him, felt its presence grow. Very slowly, he turned around. There stood the male, looking at him.

Would he now have to fight the great cat too, Starseeker wondered in dismay. They might see him as an enemy as well. And they had him perfectly bracketed between them, primed for the kill.

Words came to the warrior’s lips which he had never uttered before, from the deep wellspring of his heritage:

“O great ones, blood of my blood, will you slay the hunter who fights for you?” And he let his posture ease and his gaze withdraw from his eye-lock with the male, and slant aside. If they attacked now, he had just made himself more vulnerable. When even a long life may be cut short by misadventure, he found himself yearning for the full.

The huge male shadow cat made a whuff or chuff sound in his throat and lowered his head.

Behind him, Starseeker heard the female give a soft call so like a tautschen mother calling for her child that it stunned him. A moment later she appeared, almost brushing his left side in passing as she went to her mate.

The male took a step towards her; they met and sniffed; then he licked her brow and she began to strum the deep throaty rumble of her purr.

Starseeker turned quietly and left them. He walked all the way across the clearing and over to the trees when his rakka waited.

After he mounted it and prepared to rise out of the trees, he looked back to see both cats nuzzling each other, apparently hearty and hale. As he let the airbike ascend, he saw the cats finish their greeting and get back to the sterner basics of survival. They picked out one of the slain Windrunners, and the male lugging it by its neck, the female guarding his flank, they took it into the tree-cover for a safe banquet.

Oh. He’d forgotten to take the crate. Well, it was wood; it could stay where it was for now. Starseeker found himself trembling and something deep in his center felt swept clean, as if some great answer had been given and he was at rest. He could leave now.

*

He remained in this strange exalted state, flying back toward the pole, when his comset crackled and a familiar voice called down to him:

“Starseeker! Brother, we’re in s scout ship barely a kri-veh out, and we’re heading your way. Might we give you a faster ride home?”

Renegade, his leader and friend. Following his outward track because he was concerned about Starseeker as he would be about any of his friends….but pretending to just be jaunting along in the same direction, so as to save a warrior’s pride. Renegade took on the care of each and every huntmate as a personal duty, as for a family member he would not want to lose.

Starseeker smiled. “A faster ride home would fit me like a second skin, brother. I’m honored.”

“Oh, t’chak; the honor is mine,” Renegade chuckled, and brought the scout down to Starseeker’s altitude, where the warrior could just glide the rakka inside the belly-bay. “And how do the shadow cats like their new home? We’re eager to hear the story.”

That was the other thing about Renegade: the leader loved to talk philosophy, to puzzle over meaning beyond the mundane—the only other hunter who did so that Starseeker that ever known.

“I’ll be pleased to tell you,” he replied. “It’s a story to ponder;” then switched off and got ready to board.

He’d just remembered what his wife answered on that day gone by, when he’d questioned the value of a life forever fleeting away:

“Oh my heart,” she’d told him, “why question and doubt, when the meaning lies all around you? Did not the Spirit of All give us this day and every day to savor, to live at the fullest as we come to them?”

Quite the philosopher herself, she was.

Renegade: The Hunter by Constance Rossman

Tips for Quieting the Cat by Susan Rooke

2011-01-17T09:53:00.001-08:00

TIPS FOR QUIETING THE CAT
by Susan Rooke

When your cat prowls the bedroom
in the small hours of the night, regretting
a decline in philosophical discourse,
complaining of an excess of ennui,
don't be drawn into that conversation.
Complaints have no answer, requiring
only sympathy and your tireless ear,
which, offered once, will be exacted
every night to come for the rest
of your natural days, a span that soon
will feel longer than it is. Never again
will you know the peace of deep sleep
at 3 a.m., and your cat will be no happier.

Instead, begin by complimenting
the vertical pupils, a striking statement
unusual in mammals, then continue
by reminding it of the supremacy
of nine lives over one. Point out that
it may look boldly upon kings, that
its forebears were revered as gods.
That there once existed solely for its use
a choice of small canopic jars, should,
perhaps, remain unsaid. For who
among us wants to contemplate his insides
sealed tight within a jar so that his mummy
may sail uncorrupted through the ages?

Oh. Of course.
Hint: It's not the dog.

Susan Rooke lives in Austin, Texas. Her poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in The Aurorean, Main Street Rag, Time of Singing and U.S. 1 Worksheets, among other publications. She is the editor of the Austin Poetry Society’s monthly MuseLetter, and “Tips for Quieting the Cat” took 2nd Place in one of the Society’s 2010 Annual Awards Contests.

Cats and Dogs Don't Fight by Rick Hartwell

2011-01-14T08:28:00.000-08:00

Cats and Dogs Don't Fight
by Rick Hartwell

I'm sitting here absentmindedly feeding Cheeze-Its to Christopher, the grey-and-white patriarch of the cats who own the house. He is of disputed lineage. He is so very large. His stomach sags with age and inactivity. His sister, Nicole, never eats the Cheeze-Its. She's very skittish and one of the family myths has it that she was brain-damaged by a severe fever when she was just a kitten. Her head is too small for her body and she appears to be a cross between a matron and a midget.

Christopher has taught Gabriel, the kitten, to also eat the crackers, but unlike Chris, Gabriel has no manners and leaves the marmalade crumbs strewn across the dun carpet. They look like orange ants on parade. My daughter's dog begs for some with his demeanor; his brown eyes seem to plead for his fair share. Harold, the dog, has no manners and his appetite insures that the crumbs are sucked off the desert floor and the carpet is left pristine. He's not one to leave kitten scraps as evidence of my bad habits.

The kitten attacks him again, bellying up across the veldt of the kitchen's green linoleum. He makes a final lunge for the dog, eager to pick a fight to insure the domination of six cats over one pug dog. Harold endures this obscene display of milk teeth and kitten-hood yet again. He's well aware at which end of the hierarchy he lives.

The shrill scream of brakes outside, unheard by the dog's ancient ears, provides relief as the kitten shies away from Harold, distracted by the piercing cry.

Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school teacher who lives in Moreno Valley, California, with his wife of almost thirty-five years (poor soul, her, not him), their disabled daughter, one of their sons and his ex-wife (?) and two children, Rick and Sally’s grandchildren, and ten cats! Yes, ten. Don’t ask.

Ode to Blackie by Lisa Gurney

2011-01-12T08:50:00.000-08:00

Ode to Blackie
by Lisa Gurney

I couldn't let my Blackie go without a word or two.
A tribute of some verbal kind is the least that I could do.

I met her 20 years ago as I walked through a shelter's door.
A tiny black cat in a giant cage, I would feel love forever more.

Her beauty was often remarked upon, but once you got past that,
you'd know her gentle, contented spirit - more angel divine than cat.

Together we shared in joyful moments and weathered some stormy days.
She gave me comfort, she made me smile, and helped in many ways.

"How can a cat affect one so?" you may ask as you read through.
If you met my Black you would surely know and I'd guess she affected you too.

So now I leave her in God's hands to delight all those above.
To run through heaven's lovely fields. Oh my little, tiny love!

You will be remembered each and every day, of that you need not fear.
You remain eternally in my heart. I will hold you forever dear.

Cat With Roses by Marge Simon

2011-01-10T12:35:00.000-08:00

Want Some Food! by Susie Swanton

2011-01-07T07:57:00.000-08:00

"Want some food!"
by Susie Swanton

The kitties cry when they want food
They say meow meow meow give us some food

Connor wants some food
Maeve wants some food
Seamus wants some food
Siobhan wants some food
When Aoife comes home from walkies she will want some food

Fiona doesn’t want any food because she’s dead.

Purrsonal Story My Sister's Cat is My Role Model by D. Drover

2011-01-05T08:15:00.000-08:00

My Sister's Cat is My Role Model
by D. Drover

When I was younger, my sister had a cat that always used to meow and throw herself at the vacuum cleaner anytime it would come on and emit the loud noises that vacuum cleaners have a tendency to do. The growl never silenced the kitty, and when I had a laugh about it at that time, I grew older to realize how respectable this cat was, how ahead of this time the cat was.

The cat, in essence, was a political activist, a punk rocker, an artist, an individual with her own values and ideals who would not be silenced, and no matter how loud the opposing growl was, how frightening it appeared, she would always speak up.

I suppose we all grow up and learn to be silent. Some of us learn not to explain our opinions, do not care enough to describe what we are feeling, do not want to say what is right or what is wrong. Or worst of all, some of us don't bother to ask why, to want an explanation, some of us don't want to care.

And if I said I cared about half the evils of this world, I would be a hypocrite. But I at least know what's right and what is wrong, despite sometimes participating in the latter. But that's okay, I have good will, and with my sister's cat as my role model, I'll get by with little doubt.

------

D. Drover is a writer and poet from Newfoundland, Canada. He writes different little things every now and then that he enjoys enough, at that time, to show other people.

Starting the New Year with Two Cat Poems by Joe DiMino

2011-01-03T09:04:00.000-08:00

Meow, Meow
by Joe DiMino

Meow, Meow
You talk to me—
But I answer
With foreign words;
Meow, Meow
Concise your vocabulary
Yet senselessly I reply…
Meow, Meow
Unlike you
I have made a dictionary
Of love
And you say as much
With soft little purr—
Meow, meow
I try your way
But sound absurd…

Five Cats
by Joe DiMino

One cat two cat
Three cats four,
If you don’t like them
Don’t open up the door
(And one more makes five)
I opened the door
And five cats ran in;
I managed to get two out
Then there were only three;
Got another one out
But two ran back in;
Got four out
But couldn’t find the fifth;
Found the fifth
Shooed him out
Only to have four race back in;
Finally I opened a can of tuna—
Got all five out
But the weather had severely changed
And it was getting quite cold
So I let five cats in….

China the Church Cat's Christmas by Bill Imbornoni

2010-12-25T10:50:00.000-08:00

China the Church Cat’s Christmas
by Bill Imbornoni

China is a church cat, which is only to say she belongs to Father Francis and has the run of the rectory, the hall from the rectory to the little church, and the little church itself.

Why the name “China”? A friendly parishioner had given China to Father Frank for company. Father hadn’t felt it right to ask a saint to share her name with a little beasty, so couldn’t find a name to call the cat. While waiting for divine inspiration on this subject, Father Frank would often be heard to say “You’re a fine cat” and “What a fine feline you are.” Fine this and fine that. Hearing Father’s list of fines, a precocious altar boy suggested the cat be called “China,” as in “fine China.” The name stuck.

China was a good cat. She loved her church cat life with Father Frank. She loved Sundays the most. She sensed the way that mass with Father Frank made Sundays seem sunnier for all the people. Father would give a simple sermon full of love and wit. He would loudly lead the congregation in song—his heart hitting those notes his voice could not reach. (In the shower, Father Francis was among the greatest of Irish tenors. Dry he was never quite as good.)

Mrs. Clark played the organ high in the back of the church. China liked to be there when Mrs. C. was piping that organ. When the organist’s feet were not busy working the pedals, China would rub against her legs. China could tell that Sunday was Mrs. Clark’s favorite day, too. The music was Mrs. Clark’s special thing that she could give to God. China saw a feeling in the kind lady’s face, a warm feeling from the inside breaking out, a Sunday glow.

China wished that she could make Sunday special the way Father Frank and Mrs. Clark did. She did what she could. She stayed outside the little church after mass, letting the children stroke her smooth fur, forgiving the naughty ones who would sometimes pull her tail. Still, she wished for more—especially given the time of year. Christmas was coming, and even a cat could tell that Christmas was something very extra special.

It had been a mild December, which was good news for Little Bird. Little Bird was a little bird who had made a big decision: she would skip the flight south this winter. This little bold bird wanted to see what living in a snowy season was like. Little did Little Bird know what was in store for her.

It was two Sundays before Christmas when the weather decided to turn icy cold. Sitting in a crook of a barren tree and beginning to regret her brash decision, Little Bird watched people going through the large doors of what she didn’t know to be the little church. The people looked happy. They must be happy, she thought, because they are going into someplace warm. Chilled past her feathers to the bone, Little Bird decided to fly a loop then do a swoop, then go in for a look.

Little Bird swung in low through the doors, then flew up, up, and up. What a place! There was warmth—and color and sound and something else that Little Bird couldn’t describe (it was the feeling of love all around). She flew ‘round and ‘round the high ceiling, taking it all in, giving the children (and the adults, who were children at heart) such a show. It was as if the circus had come to church.

China was among the first to see the flying bird. The sight momentarily made her stomach rumble, but she decided to put away un-Christian thoughts. When Father Frank marched out to the altar, he, too, took notice of the bird. He welcomed the little bird to his mass and even worked a mention of her into his sermon, saying that he was grateful for the added attraction and wondering what other creature the Lord might provide next week for comment.

Not noticing how noticed she was, Little Bird just flew ‘round and ‘round and ‘round and ‘round, her wings seemingly held up by the prayers that from below were rising toward heaven.

When the people had all left for the day, Father Frank and China walked through the little church together. With the little bird in mind, Father reminded China that she always was given plenty to eat—so no flying snacks, please. China was a little hurt by this almost accusation for a crime not committed, but understood that Father was only trying to protect that little bird. Father asked China to let the bird be; the winged wonder would find a way out of the church and back to the sky.

Little Bird decided to alight in the loft, to watch Mrs. Clark put her sheet music away. Despite her to this point brief stay, Little Bird had made the connection between Mrs. Clark and the music. Little Bird thought of Mrs. Clark as another bird, one apparently unable to fly but able to make music as sweet as any birdsong she had ever heard.

As Mrs. Clark left, Little Bird took notice of the small openings of the organ pipes. She flew up into one and decided immediately that this would be a perfect place for a nest.

Little Bird spent the rest of that day gathering the kinds of bits and pieces a bird uses to build a nest, among them a scrap of paper from the weekly bulletin, the unused tissue of a sniffly parishioner, a few fallen leaves from the altar poinsettias, the lost hanky of a little girl’s doll.

Little Bird packed the pipe until her new nest was in there good and tight.

Her task complete, Little Bird was famished for some food. She flew ‘round the church, not finding much but assorted crumbs left by children who during church had been made to chomp instead of chirp. Looking still the more, she flew up a winding staircase that led to the mostly unchimed church bell. The small bell’s tower was open to the chilly outside air. Here was a way for Little Bird to fly out to forage, then return to her cozy new nest. Upon her return, in celebration, a happy Little Bird flew ‘round and ‘round her newfound home.

China carefully noted each of the Little Bird developments. Though China had successfully fought her instinct to try to make a meal of the little bird, she still indulged her hunter’s eye for detail. She knew just where the nest was. During that week, she occasionally purred a friendly “meow” up toward it. Not knowing a friendly meow from a threatening one, Little Bird decided to keep to herself.

A crisp beautiful Sunday came. As they entered the church, the boys and girls with long memories looked to the ceiling to see if Little Bird was still about. They were disappointed to not see her—though the disappointment would be short-lived. When Mrs. Clark struck some premonitory notes before the opening hymn, Little Bird was startled out of her nest and into flight.

As she played, Mrs. Clark said to herself a silent “oh dear.” It was clear to her as she noodled the keys that she was not hitting one note as she should. She couldn’t know that this was the nest note, that Little Bird’s newly nestled nest was plugging the pipe enough to mildly muffle the sound. No one noticed that note that was not quite, no one but Mrs. Clark. China, who was in the loft with Mrs. C., could see the look of pain and panic on the old woman’s face as she played. China, knowing of the nest and being a more acoustically attuned cat than most, somehow knew that that nest was the source of the problem.

When mass had ended, Mrs. Clark sought out Father Frank and apologized for her poor performance. The Father said it was “not to worry”; he’d not noticed a note out of place and he was sure that no one else had. He would have someone in after the holidays to have a look. Seeing still the upsetment on her face, Father offered Mrs. Clark a spot of tea. China, who had come down from the loft with Mrs. C., was concerned as well, rubbing her softest, most sympathetic rub against Mrs. Clark’s leg. Mrs. Clark was too frazzled to take any tea, too upset thinking of sour notes on Christmas. On Christmas! This most special day was the day she wanted best to play.

Mrs. Clark left church that day with a heavy heart. China knew in her cat heart that something had to be done about that little bird.

But what to do? Christmas was one week away, falling on Sunday that year. China had one week to come up with a plan.

As the week went by, China watched Little Bird, watched everything she did. China didn’t know more about birds than any other cat, but as she watched Little Bird she got the feeling that this was a happy little bird, as happy in this new church life as China was in hers. Little Bird would have told China that herself, if only a bird could talk cat. Yes, that bird sure looked happy in her new home.

New home—that was it! China would build Little Bird a new new home, a new nest somewhere else in the church. She could build a nest, of course she could. If a bird could build a nest, a cat certainly could. (Despite her good intentions, China was after all a cat and couldn’t help but have a bit of an attitude, call it a “cattitude,” where birds were concerned.)

Where to build this nest? The little belltower would be a good place. China had seen the little bird come and go from there. The warmth of the church rose up through that tower and it was close to the outside. A perfect location. On top of that, China could do her nest-building work out of sight of Father Frank and the other weekday worshippers.

Much as Little Bird had done, China gathered materials from the church—more fallen leaves from the altar poinsettias, more paper from discarded bulletins, any this-and-that that the cat could find. The centerpiece of this cat bird nest was a lonely lost mitten that China had found in one of the pews. She knew this would make for a warm cozy nest. (When Little Bird finally would settle into this nest, even she would have had to agree that China had done a pretty good job—for a cat, that is.)

The nest building was hard work. With her cat claws, China was able to climb up the chimneylike tower to the crevice like a ledge where she was working. Once China had even lost her grip and fallen. She saved herself by grabbing onto the bell rope that hung down the tower. No one noticed the small cling-clang of the bell that resulted when China caught onto that rope. China decided that the rope would come in handy—or should I say paw-y—when she put her plan into action.

By Thursday the nest was complete. Little Bird had not noticed China’s efforts at all. She had made it her habit to be wherever China was not, fearful in the way that birds fear ordinary cats. By the next day, China would show herself to be no ordinary cat. For on Friday evening, Christmas-Eve eve, China’s plan would play out.

Friday night’s food was always fish for Father Francis. He’d cook up some fish fillets in a skillet while some favorite music played. The music was important to China’s plan. It would be loud enough, especially if Father Frank was singing along as he often did, that Father would not hear the noise that was going to come.

China always shared Friday dinner with Father Frank ‘cause Father Frank always shared his fish. Father knew there was never a need to call for China on Fridays, on Friday evenings she was a kitchen cat, rubbing against Father’s legs as he cooked, lingering around her bowl waiting for the tasty treat.

As China had hoped that particular Friday, Father did have music playing, a crooner’s holiday tunes to which Father Francis could not help but croon along. China needed Father’s music as cover because she would be making some music of her own in a very short while.

Father scraped first the feline share of the fish into China’s bowl, then onto his plate what remained in the skillet. When Father turned around from placing the skillet into the sink, he was surprised to see that China was gone from the kitchen, and the fish from her bowl as well. Father thought to himself that that was one hungry cat, but besides that thought nothing much of it. He sat to his grace and his meal and his music, pausing for a moment to savor the goodness of it all.

China hurried toward the church with her bait clutched in her mouth, resisting the temptation to bite. She clawed her way up the churchtower, placing the fried fish that she’d taken from her dish into her nest, soon to be Little Bird’s nest.

China now jumped to the rope that hung down the tower, digging in with her paws before beginning to bounce in the air, dangling on the biggest piece of string with which ever a cat had had to play, ringing the biggest dinner bell that ever had been rung for a little bird.

“Ding-dong,” heard the bird. “Ding-dong,” heard the bird. That ringing bell made Little Bird curious, not as curious as a cat, but mighty curious. She decided she would take a short flight up the tower to see what all the racket was about.

China lowered herself down the rope, continuing her bell-ringing bouncing as she did so. She needed to be out of that tower before the little bird arrived. When she was low enough as not to be so high, China jumped off the rope to the floor below, landing on her paws as a cat always will.

Just in the instant China jumped down the tower, Little Bird flew up. Little Bird thought for a second that she’d seen a flying cat, but a flying cat is too frightening a thing for a bird to think about, so she instantly put it out of her mind. Flying up the tower, Little Bird spied the piece of fish in the unknown-to-her nest. What a feast! She flapped above the nest for a moment, wondering how she had never noticed it before. Oh well. Dinner was in the nest, and the nest, with that wooly mitten at its center, looked rather cozy. So Little Bird landed and settled down to eat.

China took a peak up the tower and saw Little Bird pecking away. Her plan was working.

Next came the musical part of China’s plan. As I have said, China was a cat more musical than most: she somehow knew that wind blew out the organ pipes when one pressed the keys of the keyboard. So, China went to the organ, jumped from its bench to the keys, then began to do as she pleased.

It was a dance, it was a prance, it made a wild song. China cha-cha’d back and forth across the keys, making her music in the hope that her paw playing would blow Little Bird’s nest out of the organ pipe. Father Francis, eating the dinner he did not know he was sharing with a bird and singing songs of Christmas as he chewed, never heard China’s song. Little Bird as well did not let herself be distracted from her feast. She was one hungry bird.

China played on, not knowing, though she was hoping, that Little Bird’s little nest was being pushed up the pipe, inching and scrinching its way toward the outside. Like a monkey typing Shakespeare, China did manage to hit some sweet sounding chords in her walk on the musical side. She had to admit to herself that, though she was doing this for a good cause, this musical run was just plain fun.

China continued pussyfooting around on that keyboard until fatefully, finally the nest was blown clear of the pipe and that pipe’s full note came home. It sounded. It sounded like . . like Christmas, clear and pure.

Several blocks away, Mrs. Clark looked up from her hot cup of tea, thinking she heard something, something a little bit in her ears and a little bit in her heart, something that made her feel a little bit less down about going up to church on Sunday to play that organ.

China continued to dance across that keyboard for a bit, dancing a dance of joy. Then with a four-paw flourish she ended her musical career, knowing that her cat caper was a success.

Little Bird was surprised later to see that her home in the pipe had been blown, but so smitten with her new mitten nest was she that she did not nearly mind.

China returned to the kitchen to find Father Francis just as she had left him, eating and singing. China was empty in her belly, but for the good deed that she had done felt filled-up everywhere else. Even Father could see this in China, this twinkle in her eyes, a good sort of cat-that-swallowed-the-canary look about her. Seeing this made Father Frank do something that he had never done before. He got up from the table and cooked another piece of fish for China. He scraped it down into the bowl, then stroked China’s head.

“You’re a fine cat, you are,” he said. “A Merry Christmas to ya.”

Christmas morning came soon enough. Mrs. Clark came to the church, wearing her red holiday dress and not knowing what to expect when she played her first song of the feast.

Father Francis entered the church, walking up the aisle and seeing the joy of young and old, the joy of Christmas—the joy of children who now knew what had been in Santa’s bag and the joy of all who knew that on this day a Savior had been born.

Feeling, too, that joy, Mrs. Clark began to play and—miracle of small miracles—all notes rang true. She beamed as she shared her music with the people and with her God.

Little Bird soared throughout that Christmas service, happy with her new nest, wanting never to leave this place that she had found.

Father Frank’s sermon that day tried to explain the feeling they were all feeling, that feeling that made the heart fly like that little bird above them. Father concluded that the feeling could not be explained, that that did not matter, that it was enough just to feel it.

China, up in the choir loft, shared, too, the feeling of the day, rubbing up against the more-than-happy Mrs. Clark, as soulful a cat as ever there could be.

Father’s final blessing sent the people back to their homes knowing that they had another home, and in it lived a little bird and a fine cat.

END

Copyright Bill Imbornoni, 2009

Happy Holidays From Hazard Cat!

2010-12-19T14:06:00.000-08:00

Hazard Cat will be back to posting in January. Enjoy your holidays with your favorite cats!

Cat Language by Joy Harold Helsing

2010-12-15T09:15:00.000-08:00

Cat Language
by Joy Harold Helsing

Sometimes when I try
to speak their feline tongue
they echo me
correcting
my pronunciation

If I hiss a warning
as one starts to sharpen claws
on the new chair
they pretend
they don't get my meaning

They have ways
to communicate
I cannot share
twitches of ears
tail whiskers
fluffed fur arched back
scent
coded cries

Though I think
they understand
my murmurings
in their world
I'll always be
that clumsy
inarticulate
oaf

Joy Harold Helsing is an ex-salesclerk, ex-secretary, ex-textbook editor, ex-psychologist, ex-college instructor, ex-New Englander and ex-San Franciscan who now lives in the Sierra Nevada foothills of Northern California. Her work has appeared in many journals and she has published three chapbooks and one book, Confessions of the Hare.

Pi

2010-12-14T08:45:00.000-08:00

The Last Tiger by Lyn McConchie

2010-12-13T07:36:00.000-08:00

THE LAST TIGER
By Lyn McConchie

Yashi stared up at the billboard. It told all who could read that 'The Last Tiger is now able to be observed by courtesy of the Emperor.' She studied the picture. She knew what the words said only because a passerby had read them to his friend in awe. Not so much over the tiger as that the Emperor himself would open the pleasure gardens to the rabble. Yashi was seized by the majesty of the picture, the orange and black stripes seemed to glow but the eyes were sad. How did it feel to be the last of your kind, she wondered.

Another who could read shouldered her casually aside. He glanced at her as he did so. Just another worthless girl. He ignored the warm, peach glow of her skin, the hair, black as soot that fell thickly past her perfectly shaped ears. Her almond eyes were gentle and her small figure - ah, but that was why she was ignored, clad in the blue rags of the lowest of the low, they told all Yashi was just another beggar.

In her case this wasn't quite true. She was orphaned, dweller in a great city where for her there was no real home, but she was no beggar. She worked for Li, the old fruit seller, her sleeping place beneath the fruit stands once the small shop was closed. Still if she wore rags they were clean as she was herself. The old man was not cruel, he allowed her a half day each week and she might eat any of the fruit past its best and no longer suitable for the customers. Once a day she was given a heaped bowl of rice, once a day a bowl of good hot soup. She did not starve and in his own crotchety way her employer was kind.

Yet Yashi was lonely. Once there had been a family, so many years ago that her memory dimmed. Once she had been the third child of loving parents, but she was not the only one bereft. Death had come silently to the city ten years ago, taking almost a quarter of the population.

It had struck hardest amongst those of the lower classes. They could not flee to summer homes high in the mountains as could those who were wealthy.

Yashi had lived on alone, her parents, her brothers and sisters, all lay within the common grave where they had burned the bodies to ashes to kill the silent death. It had been the order of the Lord High Priest himself and obeyed by all as the word of the Gods. It was the death which had allowed the child to survive. With far fewer beggars and orphans about, Li had taken her to work for him where once he would have looked elsewhere.

Still, there was no future there for her. She would grow old and bent and when she could no longer work she would starve. Li's son did not like her, even now he occasionally urged the old man to be rid of her. It was his claim that a young orphaned boy would work harder for less. Yashi thought this untrue, a boy would eat more even if he were stronger, but there was no arguing with the master's son.

All that Summer the pleasure gardens remained open for the city. Yashi heard comment this was because of recent unrest. The Emperor wished to appear benevolent towards even the lowest of his people. She did not care. Each half day of freedom she could walk within green trees, lean over the stone wall and watch, as far below, the tiger summed himself upon his rocks. More and more her heart sorrowed for him. He too was orphaned and alone. He was the last of his kind - and he was beauty, majesty which should not die. When he was gone something would be gone from them all. She listened as wise men talked. Hearing for the first time of other beasts and birds which were also gone forever. But while she was sorry for them all, it was the tiger which truly grieved her. He was so proud, so beautiful, and so alone.

If only she could have found a mate for him. She imagined it. To appear at the gates of the gardens at sunrise leading a sleek tigress. How all would marvel. They would stand in awe of the girl who could do such a thing. Yashi laughed silently at herself. He was called 'The Last Tiger' because he was, and where would a lowly girl such as she find a tiger? She returned to her work hiding a small sad smile at her folly. Dreams were well enough but the Last Tiger could not mate with a dream.

That week was worse than usual. The days were hot. Customers made querulous by the daytime heat snapped often at her. It was not her fault, but Li's son used it as an excuse to complain loudly to his father.

"See, even the customers speak angrily to her. She is worthless and lazy. We should be rid of her, find a young, strong boy."

His voice sank to a mutter as Yashi strained to hear. She caught a word here and there, enough to guess what he suggested. Master Li was old, soon her would wish to give over the fruit stall to his son, but there was no grandson, only a grand-daughter. A child sallow of skin with one shoulder a little higher than the other. Nor would there be more children. The wife could not be cast off either, her father was an official for the Emperor, it would be impolitic to anger him.

Yashi sighed quietly. She knew the way the son's mind worked. If they took in an orphan boy of respectability they could mould him to their liking. In time they could wed him to the grand-daughter but demand as a bride-price that he take the name of Li. It would be his wife who would be the woman of property. This would ensure she could never be ill-treated despite her looks.

On her next half-day Yashi slipped away to watch the Last Tiger again. As always he paced up and down beneath the stone wall. In some ways, she thought as she watched, he was fortunate. It was true he was alone, but he did not have to fear being cast out of his home. He slept, not under ancient wood redolent of slightly too-ripe fruit, but in a warm den, cunningly crafted from stone by the Emperor's orders. He ate meat, more of it in one meal then many in the city saw in a whole year.

He did not have to fear the malice of small-minded men. He belonged to the Emperor alone. A terrible price would be paid by any who harmed him. His bed was warm straw, trees and bushes sheltered him, and green grass was his to walk upon as he wished. None woke him early to work through the heat of the day. Yashi looked down at where black and orange majesty prowled. For a moment his gaze turned up to meet hers. She shivered, there was such a depth of sorrow and loneliness there. How could she have felt him more fortunate that herself? She might walk alone to the end of her days but at least she would do so amongst her own kind. Her was forever and always The Last Tiger.

She returned home to curl beneath the fruit stand. There she was found by her master. She had no need to ask, from the shamed look on his face it was clear to her. The son had at last prevailed. Li pressed silver into her hand. Yashi had no false pride, the few coins might be all which stood between her and the only other work she was likely to obtain.

"There is the outer shed," Li whispered. "I will leave the door unlocked. Come there at nights so long as you have need of shelter."

Yashi nodded silent thanks. It would save the price of another place - for a little while. But it would not be long before the son found it out. Then that refuge too would be denied her. She tucked the coins into her ragged blouse, creeping away as dawn broke. She would bid The Last Tiger a final farewell, then she would chose.

Her feet carried her to the wall. She was the first to walk the gardens so early and she found a sad delight in it. She looked down as the tiger emerged from his den. He was bright as the sun, proud as the Emperor, strong as the Great River. But he was also the last, alone and lonely. She was one of a multitude but she too was alone and lonely.

She had planned to seek work, but she knew for her there would be none. Her silver would last for a small while, then she would have no other choice. The brothels of Han Shu were always open to a young pretty girl. Better death though than the life they would give her. Within her mind the choices revolved. A Priest passed her then, his robe brushing her ragged trousers as she decided.

There was nothing for her, no place to go, no honourable work. Yet all her life she had heard that within the Temple even the most humble might ask aid of the Gods. For the first time in her life she had silver to lay upon the altar. If there was no reply she could only die a little sooner. Better a swift clean death than the slow dying of honour and life. With a final look at the pacing tiger, Yashi turned to leave the gardens.

The Temple was far, two hours' walk, but she walked strongly, pausing only to buy food from a stall she passed. Once at the shrine she paid a copper coin for entrance to the baths. One should come before the Gods as clean as possible, it did them honour. Fed, cleansed, her rags brushed, she drank of the clear water offered her. Then she walked slowly towards the inner rooms. Through one door, then another before she reached the huge inner room where sat the statues of the Gods.

Humbly she laid her tiny offering upon the altar before the one she had always reverenced. In the candlelight the black eyes seemed to study her. She bowed low, as to an Emperor, then Yashi began to speak. As was custom she made no sound, forming the words slowly and clearly in her mind while keeping her eyes fixed upon the face of the One she petitioned. When she was finished her tale she waited.

Suddenly within her hands clasped before her she felt weight. Yashi gaped down. Clutched in her fingers rested a wooden box, the corners of silver. The single sign inlaid within the lid was that of the God, and in precious jade. Then within her mind an order formed slowly.

"Paint The Last Tiger!"

She bowed low again, her mind whirling. She had never tried to paint. How should a girl and so poor as she was, have ever been able to purchase the means? But she had come here, asking for aid and aid had been given her. She would obey. She bowed to the ground a third time and her mind formed answer.

"As you command, Great One. I thank you for your kindness." A smile seemed to curve the painted lips as Yashi departed.

She walked back through the busy chattering streets, the box cradled in the breast of her threadbare blouse. She paused to eat again, there were a few coppers remaining to her yet. Those last should be used to buy her food in the dawn before she went to do the bidding of a God. She slept well in the outer shed and rose before any came. At the entrance to the gardens she purchased rice wafers stuffed with goat cheese. She drank from a cup as the water seller passed, then she entered the gardens.

Before the wall she opened the wooden box, gazing upon the contents. The brushes were of finest hair, the paints the purest colours. There was a small horn cup where she could place water to mix the paints. She lifted it then stood frozen in horror. She had spent her last copper. No water seller would give her water without payment. But the God had ordered her to paint and paint she must. She had said she would obey.

She stood and as her dilemma sank in she felt hot tears spring to her eyes. Her fingers clung to the rough stone before her, pain flowering as they were scraped by the stone edges. A tear splashed onto her hand. Yashi suddenly smiled. Within the human body was liquid of several kinds. She would use that. The God would understand and would it not be in this way more of an offering?

She scraped the tears from her face, the blood from her grazed fingers. Then she began to paint. When that wetness was used she spat into the tiny cup and again the paint flowed smoothly from her brushes. She had few standards to judge by. She had never seen the great paintings of her people. But under the movement of her fingers the Last Tiger emerged in all his splendour.

She finished and still her hands yearned to continue. She began to paint again, a mate to walk with him, to bear his cubs and keep him from loneliness. The colours glowed from the rice paper she had found folded within the box. She had only the tail to complete so she scraped more blood from her hands, spat again into the cup. Then she was done and Yashi smiled at her work. But what was she to do with it?

The God had said nothing of that. She had been told to paint the Last Tiger, this she had done. Perhaps a wealthy man in the city was to see her work - purchase it from her so she might paint others? She had no idea but as she folded the box closed the Last Tiger ceased to pace. His gaze met hers but this time he roared. The sound rolling across the gardens until Yashi's ears rang and she felt weak. The city, what had she do to with a city which had cast her out?

The painting clung strangely to her fingers. She put the box down carefully so she might fold the painting without damage now the colours had dried. Again the roar came from below. The sound was pleading, hopeful, yet still underlying it was a desolation of loneliness. In her hands the painting was changing. Yashi stared. That - that was her! But she had not painted a portrait. She had painted a tigress, a mate for the Last Tiger who walked forever alone.

It had been a wish, a dream, yet as she watched, the tigress slowly altered until it was the girl herself who stared out from the paper. It fell from her hands as she began to shudder. She looked down over the wall. The gaze staring up at her was filled with love, filled with warmth, it called her. Here she would be safe, cared for, protected and loved always. She would have no need to sell herself to survive, no need to be pitifully grateful for a shed door left open.

Yet it was not for these things that Yashi relaxed into the changes which were taking place within her. It was for the love and hope which gazed longingly upwards. Sorrow called to sorrow, loneliness to loneliness - and a young tigress leaped lightly down from the in-curving top of the stones to join her mate. The Last Tiger was alone and lonely no more.

Tracks by Ash Krafton

2010-12-10T08:36:00.000-08:00

Enigmatic Cats by Suan Wiener

2010-12-08T08:04:00.000-08:00

Enigmatic Cats
by Suzan Wiener

Cats, the enigmas
Of this earthly world.
Watch as their
Mischievousness unfurls.

They'll stalk a mouse
Or trail a bug,
And with our hearts
They give a tug.

Cats are genuine;
Cats are revealing.
Somehow you know
Just what they're feeling.

They breath new life
As only they can.
Cats, the enigmas,
But somehow understand.

Art by T.L. Davison

2010-12-06T07:27:00.001-08:00

After the Lovin'

Securicat

The Kindness of Cats by Carol Ayer

2010-12-03T12:48:00.000-08:00

THE KINDNESS OF CATS
by Carol Ayer

Penny was in bed, trying hard for a nap,
Her energy a migraine had sadly zapped.
Rebecca the cat hopped up on the bed,
“Won't you come out to play?” she said.

“Dear Rebecca, I do not feel well,
My head is aching, can't you tell?”

“I only ache when you forget my treat,
Have you tried having something to eat?”

“Please leave me alone is all that I ask,
Won't you go out to the sunshine to bask?”

Rebecca obliged, but she left a bit sad.
She always felt helpless when Penny felt bad.

Later Penny awoke beside a bundle of fur.
“I brought you some food,” Rebecca did purr.

Penny looked around and saw with dismay,
lying on her pillow a half-eaten blue jay.

Ulysses the Cat by Jessica Otto

2010-11-30T11:13:00.000-08:00

Ulysses the Cat
by Jessica Otto

Stretched in the sunlight
crowning Calypso’s shore,
the black cat dozed,
small blue crabs drown
in a capsized silver urn; cream filled
and slopping beside him.

Why long for plump
tuna steak and cheesecake
crumbs when Apollo
scratches behind my ears
and no storm cloud
threatens olive saplings
with shaking? That
rural stone hearth
plucked from the heart
of the hill my paws pounded
daily is miles away.

Waves lick gingerly
against the pebbly shore
the lambent royal blue of
Penelope’s summer dress.
He is still listless as
he is lifted up by
roughened driftwood hands
and tossed back into the sea.

Cat by Teresa Tunaley

2010-11-29T11:52:00.000-08:00