Purrsonal Story "Casper and Harry" by Neal Holtschulte

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.

Name That Cat by Rick Hartwell

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!

Personal Story by Jennifer Wrobleski

"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.

Phoebe and Gabriel: A Modern Tragedy by RD Hartwell

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.

Purrsonal Story My Sister's Cat is My Role Model by D. Drover

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.

Purrsonal Story Brother It's Cold Out There by Madeleine McDonald

BROTHER IT'S COLD OUT THERE
Madeleine McDonald


The cold weather has brought the cats indoors and we witness Blackie and Brownie, our two neutered toms, take the first steps in their annual round of reconciliation.

Make no mistake: their negotiations are as protracted, tortuous and delicate as anything management and labour ever dreamt up. Like exhausted armies, each side knows that the outcome is inevitable; yet each side insists on observing established protocol.

Not that our cats could be called enemies, far from it. They are litter brothers who have never been separated. A regime of no favouritism has never stopped them keeping a jealous eye on each other when it comes to treats, but they eat ordinary fare from the same dish, darting their heads under each other like kittens. One will allow the other to sit on my lap for a stroke, knowing that his turn will come, but as soon as the brush and comb come out, up they both jump and jostle for position.

By now they are portly, middle-aged gentlemen. There are still mad moments in spring when they sense the sap rising outdoors and skitter all over the carpet. Only in spring do they issue the distinctive ululating challenge that leads to chases up and down the stairs.

Come the summer, they settle down and are content to ignore each other. In human terms they remind me of nothing so much as an old married couple who decided long ago that divorce was not the answer and who have resigned themselves to rubbing along together under the same roof. In the case of cats, of course, it’s the same roof plus the same yard, and ours is large enough to give them plenty of opportunity to live their lives in parallel. They spend sedate afternoons sitting several yards apart on the lawn, or up on the wall observing the doings of their humans.

Cold weather brings them indoors again. With the wisdom of beasts, they know that it will get even colder. So negotiations begin, one step at a time, leaving ample room for retreat without loss of face. For several days we find them sitting a foot or so apart on window ledges, accepting each other's presence. A further week goes by in which we find them in each other's favourite place: Brownie lolls in Blackie's time-honoured winter position, on the dresser by the stove, his spine pressed against its warm metal casing. Blackie in turn jumps from floor to worktop to cupboard top, surveying the comings and goings in the kitchen from Brownie's vantage point. We suspect that the purpose of this manoeuvre is to impregnate themselves with each other's scent.

The endgame is played out on the back of the couch where they lie facing each other, noses three inches apart. Imperceptible shifts in position narrow the gap until, if they turn their heads to look at us, their whiskers clash. Then Brownie, the boss, disposes himself on the cushions, and a few minutes later permits Blackie to join him. After that, it becomes difficult to tell them apart. They form a single furry cushion, curled around each other, noses buried deep under the other’s flank, black fur shading into black tinged with brown.

It's a cold world out there and a truce has been called until spring.

Purrsonal Story I Can Kilz Boyfriend by Tricia Sutton

I CAN KILZ BOYFRIEND: more mischief from legendary Smokey the Bionic Cat
by Tricia Sutton



For Beth's first car date, she wore a white gypsy shirt, love beads, flowery jeans, and platform shoes. While she was waiting for Steve to arrive, Daddy gave her some dating advice: "Honor your fine family upbringin' and talk proper. Don’t burp or slurp, and use a fork ‘cause it’s dang near impossible to shovel food in your mouth with them two skinny sticks."

"They're called chopsticks, Daddy," she said, peering through the curtains for Steve's arrival.

Steve pulled up in a brand new 1976 El Camino the color of an acorn. Beth ducked back and ran to her bedroom, not to appear eager. I watched from the front door peephole as Steve emerged wearing an outfit that overcompensated for the car's dull color. He wore a bright print polyester button-down shirt tucked neatly into white bellbottoms looking every bit like a multi-flavored sno-cone.

Ut-oh, I thought, Gerber likes bright colors; I wonder where he is. Immediately, our pigeon soared from his perch on the rooftop landing on Steve's stiff from hairspray, perfectly feathered Farrah Fawcett hair. Steve shrieked, looking unsure about what the hell was assaulting his head.

Oh, dear, Smokey is attracted to sudden moves and loud noises, I thought of our mentally unbalanced cat. Steve batted spastically at the winged creature, paying no attention to the fanged one that lurked below. Creeping up, crouched almost to the ground, Smokey roared like a cougar. Steve shrieked again and, with the bird still atop his head, darted to his car. Smokey leaped, latching onto his leg and trying to chew it off as we rushed to Steve's rescue—except for my oldest brother Russ, who'd been leaning against a tree the whole time. He lit a cigarette and blew a plume of smoke in the air.

My other brother Eddie captured Smokey and then Gerber, hauling them into the house. Steve, with his stiff hair pointing in every-which-direction, stood trembling, mumbling, and looking to be in a state of shock. Beth tried to raise his spirits, saying that the bird was overly friendly, and the cat’s roar was louder than his bite. Steve still didn’t want to enter the house, but Beth coaxed him anyway to allow proper introductions, and to prove Smokey was a normal, ordinary cat. Harmless.

Inside, Smokey was on his best behavior, curled up asleep. Gerber occupied himself in my hair. And I noticed Beth’s face relax a little, but not much—more insecure about the uncertainty of our household than of the pets.

Daddy entered the room and introduced himself by extending his hand to Steve's, giving it a vigorous squeeze, which prompted Daddy to fart. What must have sounded like a starting chain saw to Smokey—ready to fell the tree he dreamed he was sleeping in—caused him to startle awake. He hissed and arched his back and looked to Steve as the source of his sleep interruption. Steve scrambled for the door, but not quickly enough to avoid fangs clamping down hard on his rear-end. Russ, no help at all, sat inches away, feet propped up, laughing. Steve escaped with Daddy in tow, chased out of the house by Mama with a broom screeching, "I want a divorce."

Beth plopped down on the dining-room chair. "Shit, piss, damn." Then she unstrapped her platforms and banged her head on the table three times.

***

I heard a scream so loud I worried it might set off the Emergency Broadcast System. I dashed into the house to find Mama at odds with Smokey again. He learned to open the linen closet, hop onto the shelf her eye-level, and wait. When she opened the door, he popped out like a snake-in-a-can—Mama screamed at those, too (and at the cardboard tube of biscuits that she banged on the counter until the pressure popped the can, sending her into a tizzy each time).

Smokey tore out of the house bushy-tailed, ears back, with Mama trailing close behind, shooting him with his monogrammed squirt gun. Nothing unusual, except Beth finally brought home the new boyfriend she'd been talking about—and dieting for. When she embarked on a specialized diet, she was "in" a relationship; the day she was "off" the relationship, she ate more than my competitive eating brother Eddie did. For three days, Beth had eaten only watermelon and tuna. Giving Smokey the tuna juice, she became his new love interest, expecting her to remain loyal only to him.

Beth dated three Toms—meaning, lots of dieting—which was confusing to say the least, not to mention cheating on Smokey. When a certain Tom called for her on the phone, I'd ask the caller, "Which Tom?"

Unhappy with my screening methods, Beth forbade the question. She herself avoided answering the phone so not to appear too eager, which was beneath her. Yet when the phone rang, she'd be right there panting, waiting. When I'd give her the affirmative nod, she'd whisper, "Boy or girl?"

"Boy."

"Who?"

"Tom."

"Which one?"

"I'll ask."

One of the Toms, I'll call him Bald Tom for obvious reasons, sat with Beth on our brown and rust colored plaid sofa. Intent on keeping up with her fast-paced, rapid-fire lecture, he leaned in, wide-eyed, spellbound, as she explained our brain-damaged bobcat, intrusive pigeon, and any other issue that might need explaining. She gave him the list of perils. "I apologize in advance for: dad farting, brother belching, mother-will-hate-you-but-don't-take-it-personally, feral sister, bird landings, cat…"

Quite lengthy, the speech. I'd heard it a thousand times before. Wiser would've been to hand out a written apology—or a medical release—to all her guests before they entered the carnival funhouse.

Bald Tom, fresh out of the military, met Beth at the Rec Center where she worked after school, in between glee club, swim-meet, volleyball practice, yearbook committee, and church outings—I think she purposely avoided us.

Mama arranged the great room in such a way that the sofa acted as a room divider, vulnerable to sneak attacks from behind. I was wise never to sit there.

I paid close attention to Smokey, who seemed intrigued by the bald headed offering before him. He paced behind the couch, contemplating. And I, no stranger to his wicked, wicked ways, kept watching. A tiny voice inside my head told me to alert the victim, but a bigger voice, the one I listened to the most and sounded suspiciously like Russ's—which was Russ's—told me to sit back and enjoy the show.

Smokey, up now on his hind legs, craned for a better look. He scaled the back of the sofa, clinging, unnoticed by the victim whose head to Smokey must've looked like an inflated big toe. He dug his hind claws into the back of the couch for grip, reared back, and grabbed hold of Tom's bald head with his front claws and teeth, simultaneously growling in an unearthly shrill. Baldy leaped to his feet with Kat Kong attached to his head like a furry helmet. Beth and Mama hustled to remove the demonic cat from the head, but Smokey's claws were in good.

"Get it off," he yelped, but he wouldn't stay still long enough to allow anyone to pry off the cat. Mama and Beth stood back out of the line of swinging arms and frantic jerking. Mama left to get Daddy. And Beth, after a half effort of trying one more time with her index finger to poke the cat, ran snickering hand-over-mouth to the kitchen—a momentary hold up when Russ wouldn't move out of the doorway—to retrieve the cat repellent mixture of water and lemon juice. This spray bottle, with Smokey's name written in permanent ink, was usually found in a makeshift holster that Mama wore, but the bottle was drained of ammo on account of an earlier incident involving cat-in-the-closet.

Beth fumbled with screwing the top back on the now-filled spray bottle when Smokey retreated to the kitchen to slay the grunions Eddie brought out of the icebox as a diversion. It worked; grunions always did the trick. Eddie saved the day. Shake a bag of skinny fish and Smokey flew to the source. The scene exceeded all others by a landslide, so much that I hadn't noticed I was laughing … loudly, but not as loud as Russ. Or Beth.

Daddy came in to apologize for what he called "an unfriendly little feller." Bald Tom's building rage caused me to feel a tad guilty. Russ exhibited no such display of guilt and looked to be giving Smokey an extra grunion as a reward.

Bald Tom sat, eyes fixed to the floor, face blood-boiling red while Mama arranged wet paper towels on his head wounds. Beth was on standby, holding the peroxide and bandages trying to look all serious and sympathetic, as if he wouldn't remember her laugh opera. He remembered. His rage gained momentum and with his head mummified in bloody paper towels, he stood up and stormed out the door, but not without a parting comment. "You guys are primitive barbarians … freaks!"

I stood there letting the last word penetrate my senses. I thought of Smokey, pigeons, burps, farts, and a boatload of other setbacks and concluded at that very moment in time, Beth and I may never marry.




The author would like to note that she and her sister did indeed marry … twice each. She would also like to note that names were changed to protect the embarrassed.

Tricia Sutton is a novelist and short story writer. Her stories and articles can be found in The Rambler, Simple Joy, the Short Humour site, and forthcoming in The Shine Journal. A previous story titled The Bionic Cat was published here on Hazard Cat. This story is an excerpt from her unfinished novel. She's still married, has two daughters, four cats, and lives in Fresno, CA. She welcomes visitors to her publications blog.

Purrsonal Story "Larry" by Pamela Johnson

Larry
by Pamela Johnson


In October of 1996, my first husband and I decided to call it quits. Unlike the four tumultuous years we'd spent together, our last few days together were calm and surprisingly void of screaming and histrionics. I don't remember much about the day he left other than the fact that he looked kind of small and vulnerable amongst the boxes of clothes, tapes and musical equipment that reached the head liner of his electric blue Ford Aspire. Guy left me with pretty much everything we'd accumulated in our years together, including our one bedroom Bernal Heights apartment and the four cats we'd adopted together.

At the ripe old age of 26, I was a divorcee, basically a complete failure in the eyes of the general population. In addition, I was attending college on the ten-year plan and peddling drinks to a smattering of early rising alcoholics at a local dive bar to pay the rent. I knew I'd never be able to find an affordable place to live that also allowed a small menagerie of pets. This was San Francisco during the Internet boom. About to give up hope, my mother informed me that I had a cousin who had recently moved to the Bay Area and was in need of someone to rent the basement apartment in her plush suburban home. I had never met my cousin Becky, but I jumped at the prospect of low rent and animal tolerance on her part. On Halloween
day, I loaded up a U-haul and moved my belongings to her house.

My new in-law apartment, and I'm saying that word generously, was a tiny, one-room studio with a kitchenette, a small bathroom, a wardrobe for a closet, a couple of windows that looked out at the siding of the neighboring house, and a front door, which opened out into the garage/laundry room. After loading in the last of my stuff, my cousin and her roommate Vicky descended the stairs to welcome me. Laughably, they asked if I needed any help. Both women were impeccably dressed in business attire, a bit tipsy, and even if they really wanted to give me a hand, they would have probably broken a nail or tripped on their three-inch Prada heels. I imagined they watched me from an upstairs window, as I wrangled my uncooperative mattress from the truck. After a quick exchange of pleasantries they clacked back up
the stairs, leaving me to survey the motley collection of boxes and bags
that summarized my existence. Lethargic and sad, I flopped onto my queen-sized mattress on the floor. Married life had been less than stellar, but at least there were two people to deal with all the hassles, not to mention stereo and VCR assembly. Now all I had were my cats. Waiting stoically in their carriers, I opened the doors, freeing them into the giant litter box of a home we now all shared. They sniffed the familiar smelling boxes and crouched low to the ground like feline soldiers preparing for battle.

As the days passed, it became glaringly obvious that my affordable rent was a lure to entice me into babysitting Becky's two children. The first few weeks I was more than happy to oblige. The holidays were coming and I wanted to feel part of a family unit. The problem was, I didn't want to be the adult in this family unit. I wanted to be the child: a chain smoking, hard drinking child with a severe dislike for waking before noon. It didn't take me long to grow weary of grilled cheese sandwiches, screaming toddlers, and Disney marathons. I needed the company of an adult, but neither Becky nor Vicky had much interest in spending any time with me.

Becky passed most of her nights with her boyfriend Paulo, a younger man who fancied himself an artist. I guess in fairness, I must acknowledge his prodigious output, which filled every nook and cranny of Becky's house. On the rare occasion that I saw him, he would insist that I come upstairs to check out his latest jester inspired masterpiece. Being a horrible liar, I would respond with a simple "wow," or "interesting," trying hard not to offend him with my actual opinions, which leaned more toward, "Don't quit your day job." Luckily, Paulo was a man of few words, most of which were about himself. He was a handsome guy with stiffly gelled black hair, who wore tight fitting Italian shirts, designer jeans, and shiny black shoes. Becky must have thought she had won the hottie lotto. In exchange for his company, she bought his interestingly bad art, and he got to ride in her black convertible Mercedes. There are worse arrangements.

I rarely saw Vicky, as she spent most of her time at work as a bank manager, or out on dates with her rich boyfriend. When I did see her in the garage or the laundry room, she would offer a quick, snippy "hey" and trot back upstairs to her bedroom, which was situated right above mine. The sound of her heels hitting the hard wood floors reverberated throughout my room.

Once the New Year started, I declared to Becky that my babysitting days were over. This did not go over well, and the alienation that ensued was palpable. I became the horrible hobbit who resided at the bottom of the stairs in a cat-infested hole in the wall. In order to avoid confrontation with Becky, I stayed inside. It was bad enough that I worked at a dead end job while attending classes with students who were almost a decade younger than me, but now my only social companions were four furry cats, who in their confined space began to misbehave.

The naughtiest cat was Larry, an 18 pound orange tabby who was trying to achieve alpha male status by scratching, spraying and fighting with my oldest cat Pooty. I would come home to find the place a wreck and Pooty riddled with battle scars; tufts of his black hair scattered around the room. While I was at work or school, Pooty would spend his days nesting on top of the kitchen cabinets, a permanent scowl affixed to his face.

After doling out hundreds of dollars to treat an abscess on one of Pooty's nastier wounds, I began to take out my frustration on Larry. Whenever he veered towards misbehavior, I screamed at him to assert my authority.

"Larry! Get out of there."

"Larry, Stop it."

"Larry, leave Pooty alone!"

"Larry! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

I felt horrible for yelling at the poor animal. He too was in hell. But, I still did it. The once majestic male animal would turn into a cowering, compulsive grooming fool at the sound of my raised, angry voice. I tried to make it up to him by brushing his fur while he rolled around in ecstasy on my bed, or speaking to him in a loud baby voice that would make him drool.

"Larry. Larry. Larry. You know I love you. Come here. Oh, you're a good boy, Larry."

It was a constant struggle to keep the peace at my house. Larry was high maintenance. Every day, I had to shower the gargantuan, red-headed maniac with a verbal combination of undying love and top of my lung screaming. It got to the point that I was communicating with Larry more than real adult people. He loved the attention, even the yelling, but I was slowly losing my mind.

As my isolation grew, my self-esteem began to plummet, and I fell into a weird sort of hibernation, confined within the four tiny walls of my studio. If I heard footsteps coming down the stairs, I would wait and listen until the garage door was closed before I attempted my exit. Larry could sense that something was up, and would try to gain my attention with more mischief and destruction. The yelling continued, as the other cats cowered under the bed.

"Larry, STOP IT!!!"

"Larry, Larry, Laaaaaarrrrrryyyyyy!!!"

"No, no, no!"

Within minutes, we would make up. I would coo like the crazy cat lady while he basked in the glow of my adulation. On the rare occasions that I encountered my housemates, they would look at me with strange disapproval, especially Vicky, who regarded me with an evil eye that was unmistakably pointed at my lifestyle. I couldn't understand her cold demeanor. I had never been anything but nice to her.

But one night, it all came to a head. I heard loud, stomping footsteps descending the stairs and then an assertive knock on my door. My heart raced. I was overwhelmed with a sense of impending doom. I had rarely seen Becky in the past month and now she was standing outside my door. I figured she was going to kick my ass to the curb, as my rent was late and my babysitting days were over. I opened the door with great hesitation. Becky eyed me with a stern, serious expression. I could tell that she was about to let me have it. Her forehead wrinkles were in full on crinkle mode and her skinny arms were folded tightly across her barely existent chest.

"Hey," I said as friendly as I could muster.

"Can I come in?"

"Sure."

I stepped back and offered her the uncomfortable wicker chair. I sat cautiously on my unmade bed. The cats scattered under the frame, afraid of the Obsession-wearing intruder.

"We need to talk." She paused and looked at me with an expression that could melt a glacier.

"This is really difficult," she continued.

Oh, shit, here it comes. I grabbed a pillow and placed it on my lap as some sort of softening for the ensuing blow.

"This is really none of my business, but Vicky can hear you."

I sat there silent and confused, unsure of what to say. Can hear what? Loud music? Late night TV?

Becky uncrossed her legs and leaned towards me. She whispered.

"You and your boyfriend."

"Huh?" I replied.

I was at a loss. I didn't have a boyfriend. In the months that I'd lived there I hadn't ever brought a single person into that apartment, it was too fucking small.

"She can hear you and Larry. Her room is right above yours and she says it gets pretty loud."

"Larry? My boyfriend Larry?"

I burst out laughing and rolled back onto the bed. Becky stared at me like I was mad or drunk or both. I couldn't contain myself, as this was the most hilarious thing I had ever heard. I imagined Vicky pressing her ear to the floor as I yelled at my boyfriend to "Leave Pooty alone," and then cooing that I loved him in a weird baby voice. She must have thought I was a very strange and abusive girlfriend to a poor mute man named Larry. No wonder she avoided me.

"Larry," I called out in my sweetest come-hither voice. Larry poked his head out from under the bed.

"Come here, Larry." Larry jumped onto my lap. I scratched his chin as reassurance that everything was okay.

"Becky, I want you to meet Larry. My boyfriend."

A smile lifted Becky's face with the wacky realization that things weren't as they seemed. The tension broke and we laughed with abandon in that smelly apartment until tears streamed down our faces. In the days that followed, I ventured out into the garage, but I never bonded with Becky or Vicky. Six months later, I left the suburbs and moved into a spacious, renovated crack house in the Bay View with a man who would later become my second husband. I was crazy about him. Thankfully, so were my cats.

If Life Could Be Like That by Angie Skelhorn

IF LIFE COULD BE LIKE THAT
by Angie Skelhorn

I enjoy my morning coffee in the company of the sun, wind, and wildlife. On this day I sat alone for some time without distraction. My cat, Oscar, decided to attract my attention. He made his way under the balcony, on to the brace-boards and was calling out.

Oscar playfully rubbed himself along the wood. I stood, walked over, and gave him some love before I directed him how to come down.

My little friend rushed, tail in the air, to where I waited at the bottom of the stairs. Again we shared niceties. Once I knew he was safe and could decide for himself to stay or come, I returned to where I sat. Seconds later Oscar came running. He gave me a sharp meow to announce his presence. Two seconds later he jumped into my lap. He rolled over on to his back, then on to his paws. I reached out to stroke his soft hair. His purr said it all. His joy for the moment quickly spread into me. I'm grateful for Oscar even though before we met I didn't want another feline.

Let me start at the beginning. Many, many, many years ago I dreamt in my arms a smoky grey cat. Upon a visit to the family farm I heard a panic meow. Amongst the tall weeds I found a scared smoky grey kitten just old enough to be on his own. I named him Chucky and brought him home with me to the city.

The delicate little kitten stayed by my side for twenty-three years. He possessed the ability to calm. He brought me great comfort.

Chucky was a rough looking cat when he had a stroke. I tried to bring him ease in his hour of need. After Chucky was laid to rest I didn't want another feline. The scar on my heart needed time to heal.

Oscar and I met on a sunny afternoon about four years go. I was living down town, when Oscar adopted me as his friend. The truck I was in pulled up into the parking spot. I stepped out. I saw an orange lightly, striped cat coming toward me from a distance. I invited him in to my ground floor apartment for a meal. He ate stayed for awhile and, with a loud meow at the front door, requested to be let outside.

His visits were quite frequent. I named him Oscar. He is the perfect silhouette of a sleek golden statue.

I moved to the home my grandfather built for my grandmother. There is a love story behind the construction.

Oscar wasn't going to be left behind. During the move my friends daughter put Oscar in the bathroom until all was settled. Oscar never fought his relocation. He slept while a few of my closest friends organized what needed to be done.

My friend's daughter cared for Oscar. She kept him safe from harm. When it came time to leave she wrapped Oscar inside her coat. She talked gently to ease his travels. He rested in her arms like a baby.

Oscar adjusted quickly to his new environment. My little friend will sit by the front door and release one large meow when he wants outside to roam. No matter how long he is in the hay fields, he'll always come home.

I'm not impressed with the chipmunks, birds and other small creatures he brings to me as offerings of devotion. That I could do without. I never scold him for I understand what he does is only part of the circle of life.

I value Oscar's psychic sensitivity. He has the same ability as all cats; Oscar is sensitive to energy vibrations. His radar reacts when Spirit are especially active allowing me to know it is time to tune in.

My little friend is polite pet. When he returns home he lets out a quick meow to say thank you as he charges through the door on his way to his food dish.

Oscar spends his life being pampered because he doesn't expect much. His wants
are small. His needs basic. A safe home, a clean litter box, fresh water, food for his tiny belly and every now and then some affection.

Oscar brings me as much comfort as I bring him. A solid friendship of giving and receiving love and support.

If people could be more like Oscar what a world we would have; the power to bring out the best in each other. There, through the good times and bad. A loyal companion. A true friend.

Author Bio- Angie Skelhorn's web site. Her first novel "On The Edge," will be released by http://clublighthousepublishing.com in August 2010.

Purrsonal Story Nurse Tink by Sharman Horwood

Nurse Tink
by Sharman Horwood

Never underestimate the persistence of an ordinary cat when it wants to make you feel better. For the nineteen years of her life, Tinkerbell believed I needed to be looked after. When migraines clamped down, for instance, the pain driving me to a dark room for the day, Tink came too. She’d curl up next to me, staying until the pain left, often leaving just as it subsided.

One day I wrenched the muscles in my back. The pain was unbelievable. I don’t know how I did it, whether lifting heavy boxes or just twisting the wrong way. But I was in agony. I took pain killers, muscle relaxants, and laid down on the couch, waiting for the pain to go.
Tink didn’t have her own cat door, but she did know about an unlatched basement window which served the same purpose. Shortly after I laid down, I heard it go thunk. Tink pattered quickly up the stairs, jumping up on my chest. This was odd. She was on me, not curling up at my side.

I pushed her off. But there was something else that didn’t go with her. And it moved! I flicked on the light. Blinking up at me, its nose near my chin, was a mouse. Alive.

I shrieked. I’m not afraid of mice but I’d never had one quite this close before. I grabbed it, jumped up, and tossed it outside. Tink followed, a little unwillingly. I shut the door, lowered myself cautiously back down to the couch, the pulled muscles all the while screaming with pain.

Fifteen minutes later the basement window thumped again. Tink trotted up the stairs, and jumped up—again, dropping the stunned mouse on my chest.

I caught it by the tail and hurled it out the door, Tink following at my firm request. I laid back down, pain receding. I sighed gratefully. The painkillers were finally kicking in.

Two minutes later, the window thudded again. Tink barely landed, mouse in mouth, before I lept to my feet. The mouse flew out the door, followed by one very persistent cat muttering a few things about humans not recognizing a good thing when they had it. Or that’s what I imagined she was saying. She was never one to mince words.

This time I quickly hobbled downstairs to lock the basement window.

As I laid back down on the couch, though, I noticed the agony in my back had faded. I tentatively twisted my shoulder. Definitely much less. I could move it easily; the pain was a weak memory. All my leaping about had worked where medication hadn’t.

Apparently, Tink was right. A live mouse is the best medicine for what ails you.





Bio:


Sharman Horwood is a science fiction/fantasy writer who teaches ESL in Seoul, South Korea. Her first published short story is in CATFANTASTIC IV, and she has written a textbook published in Korea for ESL, titled NORTH AMERICAN DISCUSSIONS OF TODAY. In between writing two novels, one of which is a sequel to an Andre Norton novel, she has also collaborated on an alternate history novel, QUEEN OF IRON YEARS, with New Zealand writer, Lyn McConchie.

Purrsonal Story "The Bravest Cat in the World" by Suzan L. Wiener

The Bravest Cat In The World

By Suzan L. Wiener


My husband Howard, often talked about getting a cat, but my allergies precluded our owning a pet. I liked animals, but if I came within inches of a cat, I had sneezing fits that lasted up to l0 minutes.

One rainy afternoon, however, a pet found us. I heard an awful meowing at our door, and when I rushed to open it, there sat a forlorn cat. Though the cat's rain-drenched fur was mattered, I immediately noticed her beautiful gray, black and white coat.

Despite my apprehensions, I could not resist the poor animal. I invited her in and waited for the sneezing to commence. I gave her food and water and Fluffy decided to stay and curled up next to the fireplace.

Howard wanted to keep her, but I didn't want to live the rest of my life with sneezing spasms. My husband tried to assure me, "Don't worry," he said. "We'll put a notice in the paper. I'm sure someone will claim this gorgeous cat."

As the days passed, the new member of our family became more entwined in our lives. We bought her many toys, but she played only with the ball Howard had made for her from aluminum foil. She favored Howard and loved to sit by his feet or accompany him in the backyard while he puttered in his garden. (Maybe my constant sneezing drove Fluffy away).

Bright and early one Saturday morning, Howard went into the backyard to plant some tomatoes. Fluffy, as usual, followed closely behind. I was in the kitchen washing dishes when suddenly I heard a loud commotion.

I opened the back door just in time to see the next-door neighbor's Doberman Pinscher charging toward Howard. Before I could scream, Fluffy ran to protect him. Howard couldn't move too quickly because of his bad back. With her fur standing on end, Fluffy hissed and scratched until the dog whimpered home.

That night we treated Fluffy to plenty of petting and the most expensive gourmet cat food we could buy. Howard made a medal that read, "The Bravest Cat in the World" and placed it around her neck. I'm not sure Fluffy understood why she was receiving so much extra attention, but she seemed to enjoy every minute of it.

Fluffy was Howard's cat, but that day she became my cat, too, despite the allergy pills I now take regularly. We both love our cat dearly. Fluffy's only problem is deciding whom she loves best.

Purrsonal Story Hungry Harold by Guy Belleranti

Hungry Harold
by Guy Belleranti

I have only been owned by one cat in my life, but what a cat he is! Harold, you see, is a Siamese. Handsome as a prince, his beautiful eyes glow blue one moment and red the next --just like the lights of a police car. And his meow.... No doubt about it - that meow of his would put any siren to shame! Indeed, when I think of Harold I think up all sorts of possible titles for books. How about THE CAT OF THE BASKERVILLES? Or maybe THE CALL OF THE SIAMESE?

Harold's voice is never in finer form than at his mealtime. For when he isn't planted in somebody's lap, purring (he's a very loving cat, and is even friends with our collie), he's waiting.... Waiting for dinner.

Canned cat food is his favorite, but he won't turn the dry, bagged variety away. Indeed, Harold talks up a storm when he believes it's time to eat, his vocals doing Garfield and other famous felines proud. And if the vocals don't work.... Well, Harold has other, more nefarious, means. Just ask my sister. One week she played sitter to Harold while my wife and I went out of town. On the first night she was awakened by a strange scraping sound. When it kept repeating she decided to investigate. She crept out to the kitchen, flipped on the light and caught Harold hot-pawed -- opening the door to the cabinet holding his food.

Then there's the time my wife and I decided Harold needed a diet. Being a chronologically superior Siamese, Harold's activity level was beginning to slow, causing him to grow quite portly. Oh, he was carrying his paunch with pride, but we had fears that if he became much heavier we'd soon be carrying him. So we cut back a bit on his food. My wife even made the bold suggestion that perhaps he ought to take kitty aerobics, but Harold had no use for nonsense such as this. So a diet it was to be.

After a time Harold slimmed down, cutting something of a svelte figure again. However, one day we came home from the grocery store and rushed out again on another errand. Silly us, we also left his new bag of cat food on the kitchen floor. When we returned a couple hours later, an impressive scene awaited. The bag lay ripped open with surgeon-like precision. Sprawled beside it, his stomach bulging, Harold purred a blue streak. The expression on his face reflected the purest contentment I've ever witnessed, maybe even surpassing the grin of Alice in Wonderland's Cheshire Cat.

We haven't attempted a repeat weight reduction program for Harold since that day. Cats may have nine lives, but their agenda has only room for one diet. And if Harold's happy being portly, who are we to tell him differently.

Purrsonal Story "Okay, I Admit It" by Diane Payne

Okay, I Admit It
by Diane Payne

The other day when my eleven-year-old daughter Ania and I were walking home from the dentist, she started laughing and told me the dentist asked if her mother was carrying a cat in that pack Tuesday afternoon. When Ania admitted that I was carrying a kitten in a pack (while she rolled her eyes to convey My mother), the dentist said she wouldn’t be caught dead doing that. The big joke is both Ania and I wear those little packs over our stomachs and we each carry a kitten when we walk Barto, our dog. Ania was the first to get a pack and she insisted I get one after the kittens grew too large to fit in one pack. I thought it was cute when Ania carried the cats and I walked both dogs, but the first time I carried a kitten in my pack, I must say, I felt a tad silly. Friends would stop and say, “See, I told you you’d turn into a cat person.”

“No, no. This is all Ania’s doings,” I’d protest.

“Whatever.”

Claudia, the mother cat, has jumped into the carrier for a couple of walks, but spends most of the time ducking her head, apparently embarrassed when her pals from the days she roamed free see her being carried around like a queen. When friends say we should let the cats go outside, let them live free, I remember the frightening episodes that occurred during the days Yak chased cats, and remind them we take the kittens to the woods when we let Barto run free, and I add, “The kittens seem quite happy to be carried through the woods.”

I didn’t plan on having cats, but I didn’t plan on having dogs either. When we let Claudia move in, we had an old dog that despised cats. Yak wasn’t happy about Claudia, but he was arthritic and realized his cat chasing days were over, and since Yak agreed to let Claudia remain, I had no choice but to consent, and Ania’s been elated ever since.

Not being a cat person, it took a few days to realize Claudia was female, and a few more days to discover she was a mother. Unfortunately, the vet didn’t tell us that until after she spayed Claudia. Ania found the two kittens out in the bushes. Yak couldn’t believe his bad luck when he discovered there were two more cats entering the house. Barto welcomed the distraction. The kittens liked to lie next to Yak because he was furry and didn’t move much. A couple of months after their arrival, Yak died, and the cats kept smelling his doggy bed, waiting for him to return. At times I think I’m still waiting for him to return.

Yak’s not the only reason I don’t know much about cats. I was allergic to them. The first week I broke out into hives whenever Claudia jumped on me or if I lay on my pillow after she had been there first. Ania would look at the welts on my body and dread the day Claudia would have to go. But, after a week, my body realized Claudia wasn’t leaving, and the hives miraculously disappeared.

After years of sitting in the homes of cat lovers, having their cats jump up against me and rubbing their tails in my face, and responding with eyes swelling shut and hives appearing wherever their fur touched my skin, I honestly believed cats were just devious creatures who not only knew they were causing me this great discomfort, but that they were deriving great pleasure from my misery. I always compared cats to dogs, dwelled on how cats snuck around a room and hid behind chairs, or climbed above furniture, then leapt off, scaring the wits out of me. I couldn’t understand why someone wanted a companion who spent the night outside doing who knows what, killed birds without mercy during the day, and had no use for taking walks. But, now I’ve learned cats like sleeping inside under the blankets at night, enjoy taking walks in a pack, and are easily entertained by screeching at birds while they sit by a window, flapping their tails madly.

People have told me repeatedly that cats won’t learn their names, won’t come when they’re called, but the cats react a bit like our dogs. They come running when we call, probably, like the dogs, hoping it means a treat or walk. And Midnight has learned one trick we’ve never been able to teach a dog. If we toss his toy mouse, he retrieves it, over and over. I’m impressed with his stamina.





After a lifetime of being catless, I’ve grown quite fond of seeing a cat sitting on my computer when I write (unless the tail is swishing like wipers over the monitor), another sitting on the printer, and yet another on the chair next to my table. At night, I thought they’d sleep on my daughter’s bunk bed, but no. They crawl into my bed, and Barto’s dog bed is in the corner, so it doesn’t take long before Ania yells that she’s feeling lonely and climbs into bed with us also. Talk about a family bed!

Having cats reminds me of when Ania was a toddler. Once again the house is filled with toys, mostly made out of boxes. There are tunnels, weird bouncy things attached to the ceiling fan, and a bunch of boxes taped together called The Ramshackle. There’s even a birch tree propped up against the wall so the cats can climb on the ledge near the ceiling.

The other day one of my students noticed the cat picture on my desk next to Ania and the dog pictures and said, “Come on, admit it. You’re a cat person now.”

Once again, I said Ania insisted that I keep the picture in my office so the cats wouldn’t feel left out. He has a cat and waited for me to state the truth.

“Okay. I admit it. I’m a cat person!”
“You really are,” he laughed. “I wouldn’t walk my cat around in a pack.”

And I can’t imagine our home without cats or taking a walk without the cats. Geesh, I really am a cat person. I admit it and it feels okay.




About the suthor: Diane teaches creative writing at University of Arkansas-Monticello,where is is also faculty advisor of Foliate Oak Literary Magazine. She is the author of two novels: Burning Tulips and A New Kind of Music. She has been published in hundreds of literary magazines. More info can be found at: Diane's Web site.

Purrsonal Story Steel City Cats by Samantha Priestley

Steel City Cats
by Samantha Priestley


We had made up our minds. The time was right. My daughters had reached the responsible and more mature ages of 10 and 7. They were prepared. They had cleaned the house and bought the equipment ready for the arrival. We were about to get our first family cat.

I had always enjoyed having family cats when I was a child and I was eager to carry on the tradition my family had started. And when the lady from the Cat’s Protection here in Sheffield, England, came to see us for our home visit, she told us she already had a cat in mind that might suit us.

“He’s used to children,” she said, as my two daughters eagerly showed off the basket and feeding bowls they had bought ready for the arrival of their long awaited pet.

“And he’s an outgoing cat, playful, used to noise so he should fit in brilliantly here. In fact, if anything,” she went on. “He’ll find it quiet compared to what he’s used to.”

I had put off getting a cat for a while. My kids pestered me for months, maybe even over a year, before I decided they were ready to take on the responsibility of a cat. We’d done goldfish and a hamster, and I used to joke to them that we were working our way up in size, but in a way we were. It’s one thing for a child to take care of a fish or a hamster in a cage, quite another, I think, to handle and look after a cat.

But now we were ready and it seemed we might even have the perfect cat lined up for us. “He’s wicked,” The Cat’s Protection lady told us. “Really long, with this amazing tail that goes on forever.”

So we arranged a visit to the foster home and prepared ourselves to meet Charlie.

In the foster home Charlie was found striding through the house as if he owned it, his long tail following his body around doorframes and sofas like the curl of an aroma in the air. He was picked up and placed into my arms, his warm body relaxing as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I was sold there and then. He’s a beautiful cat, sleek, black with white stocking feet, tail end, belly and the cutest little face. I stood there with this cat that, in my head was now already mine, feeling totally at ease with him, when the foster lady said. “And this is his sister.”

There huddled up on the sofa was a little black bundle of fur. I heard my daughters both say “Ahhh,” and “She’s adorable.” And I could see this wasn’t going to be easy.

While I already loved Charlie, my two daughters had obviously fallen for Charlie’s sister, Fi-fi. It was impossible to choose of course and that day, as the foster lady assured us that looking after two cats is no different really to looking after one, we ended up taking both cats home with us.

But it became obvious on the way home that Charlie was not the tough cookie everybody thought he was. While Fi-fi bit at the carrying case and tried to claw her way out, Charlie just sat and shook. Once we got home we noticed Fi-fi grooming Charlie and looking after him while he was evidently still very upset. After a week or so Charlie was still reluctant to be stroked or touched at all and was scared of any loud noise or anyone who visited the house. More out of interest really I phoned the Cat’s Protection and asked if they knew where the cats had been found or what had happened to them, as Charlie was quite shaken by the experience of being brought into our home.

While it’s impossible to know if it is the cause of Charlie’s disposition or not, the Cat’s Protection very kindly informed us that the two cats had been found in a steelworks. Real Sheffield cats then, I thought. My dad worked in a steelworks and I remember as a young girl going along for the company’s ‘take your child to work day’. I walked, my little hand tight in my father’s, while booms went off in various
parts of the factory and sparks flew from machinery as we passed. The place was big, loud, hot and scary for me, so I can only imagine what it must have been like for a little kitten. I knew my grandfather had also worked in the steelworks and my husband’s father had also been employed in one of the many factories producing steel here in Sheffield for our famous knives and forks and other items of solid Sheffield
steel. Steel seems to permeate our family, from our fathers and grandfathers, right down to our pets it seems

A year on and I’m happy to say that Charlie is now fully at home with us. The kids pick him up, we all stroke him and he’s become a very affectionate cat indeed, although not quite the confident, swaggering cat everyone thought he was. It has taken time, gentle handling, patience and a lot of love to win the heart and trust of Charlie, but it’s been worth it. Fi-fi, on the other hand, is a girl who knows her own mind and will do what she wants when she wants. They have their own personalities, just like we all do, and are affected by their experiences, I expect, just like we all are.

One thing is for sure, I’m glad we brought both cats home that day. They are different in so many ways and have become a part of our family. I wouldn’t be without my steel city cats for the world.