I hadn't noticed anything unusual about the living room when I woke that morni
ng, shuffled past the sofa, on into the kitchen in an early morning daze and spooned Gretchen a teaspoon of her favorite breakfast food, White Meat Chicken and Whipped Egg Soufflé With Garden Greens, into her crystal dish (in reality it was just a pretty glass bowl). I mean, if humans can start their day with coffee or orange juice, then why not let the cat start its day with a few bites of something with such a yummy sounding name. After all it's only eighty-nine cents a can these day. And really, Gretchen only has a teaspoon full each morning, so the cost is divided over how many days she actually eats on it, right?
On with my story . . . like I said, I noticed nothing unusual about the living room until later that morning when I was going through the apartment tidying up. Then it hit me, something was amiss. There was this gnarly, black, furry face with flashing, golden eyes, staring up at me from the edge of the sofa. The edge of the sofa where Gretchen always sleeps. The poor creature had nearly reached its goal, Gretchen's green and purple quilt, when I realized that it was actually Mike. Okay, I know this is spooky to have this stuffed cat with these crazy eyes that follow every movement you make, but no
w the thing is walking about, or rather seems to be, in broad daylight.
Mike was caught in the act! He was inching his way up the back of the sofa and when I asked him just what he thought he was doing, he only glared at me with those golden orbs and penetrated my thoughts with his answer. "I'm tired of that dark corner behind the end of the sofa and I'm lonely. I thought I would take a walk and see how the world looks from another view." I protested, "But that's Gretchen's favorite place, and I don't think she'd like it much you going there without her knowing it."
Mike's facial expression didn't change (it never does), "I have permission," he spoke rather stuffily, "just last week when we were playing with all her toys on the sofa, she said I could join her on her quilt anytime I chose to. And I'm choosing to now."
Mike inched his way up the sofa and crawled between the folds of the quilt. I went on about my business; I had a very busy day ahead of me and no time to waste on a mentally talented, stuffed cat. "Very well," I murmured, "It's your hide—fur." Gretchen was off sleeping on my u
nmade bed so I knew Mike was safe for the time being. Gretchen never leaves the bed in the mornings until I make it up.
Time passed by as I continued my activities and I had forgotten where Mike was. I had not even given thought as to where Gretchen had ventured off to after I made the bed. As I passed by the sofa on another trip to the kitchen I noticed a remarkable sight. Gretchen and Mike were sharing a bath. Together, on the same blanket! On Gretchen's special blanket! I was amazed. Speechless, even. Gretchen would never share her blanket. Up until now she'd n
ot let Mike anywhere near her blanket.
"What's this?" I asked of the two cats. "Does this mean you're buddies, finally?" Gretchen just squeezed her eyes and continued her bathing, like I should even have to ask such a question. I turned my thoughts to Mike, "Well?" I tried my best at stuffed cat telepathy. Mike just squeezed his eyes and began to purr. Not a word of explanation did he transmit. "Oh, this is ridiculous!" I threw up my hands and left the room.
I had errands to run and left the apartment. When I returned with armfuls of groceries, Gretchen met me at the door, telling me all the news. She was all over the t
able as I emptied each sack, carrying on with happy trills, using her best cat language, a language I've yet to master. Then after poking her head into each grocery sack, she found her treat. I've learned a long time ago that a cat knows when you've been shopping and it's better to come home with a goody or two than to incur the wrath of a spoiled cat. Besides, Gretchen's the only one I have left to spoil.
Distracted by her new toy, Gretchen forgot the news she was telling me and pranced off to bat it about for a while. That's when I glanced over at the sofa and noticed Mike was still on the quilt. His eyes dazzling in the late afternoon sun.
"Well, Mike?" I prodded, knowing he was better at communicating to me the goings on that afternoon than Gretchen was. "What's been going on here? What was Gretchen all excited about?"
Mike let go the white toy mouse he'd held firm under his paw, "Everything was going great until you left. Then that jealous ol' White Kitten, you let sleep in one of Gretchen's beds, wanted to climb up here and sleep on the quilt with us." Mike narrowed his eyes and lowered his dark brow, "but I promptly put her in her place; said she had to stay where she belonged. The sofa was mine and Gretchen's special place."
I glanced round at Gretchen's bed next to the organ. All seemed the same as when I'd left it. White Kitten in her place, Black Panther Cub (from the zoo), and even gray and white striped Beanie Tiger lay undisturbed.
"You're making this up," I reprimanded Mike. "White Kitten hasn't moved an ounce of fluff since this morning." If there's one more thing I don't need in this place is another spooky, stuffed animal. Then right before my eyes, and Mike's too, Gretchen came marching up between us and dropped the white kitten on the quilt and left. Mike inched backwards, hissed at White Kitten, crouched low, ready to pounce and throw her off,
when Gretchen reappeared and sat down in-between the two with the Panther Cub from the zoo.
Whether peace between Whitten Kitten and Mike was ever restored or not, I'll never know. I'd seen enough and went to the kitchen to make dinner. They would all have new places to squabble over next week anyway, when I move the sofa into its summer place.
Who's to say what's real and what's not. Without the imaginings in our life, about the animate and inanimate, life would be so dull. Gretchen's on going relationship with Mike, a stuffed cat with pitiful fake fur and brilliant golden eyes that seem to glow and penetrate your mind, is always part real and part not. Only I, the author of these tales, know the difference. We can't all see fairies, or hear the thoughts of mysterious stuffed cats, but we can all imagine what it would be like to know them. DBB
ng, shuffled past the sofa, on into the kitchen in an early morning daze and spooned Gretchen a teaspoon of her favorite breakfast food, White Meat Chicken and Whipped Egg Soufflé With Garden Greens, into her crystal dish (in reality it was just a pretty glass bowl). I mean, if humans can start their day with coffee or orange juice, then why not let the cat start its day with a few bites of something with such a yummy sounding name. After all it's only eighty-nine cents a can these day. And really, Gretchen only has a teaspoon full each morning, so the cost is divided over how many days she actually eats on it, right?
On with my story . . . like I said, I noticed nothing unusual about the living room until later that morning when I was going through the apartment tidying up. Then it hit me, something was amiss. There was this gnarly, black, furry face with flashing, golden eyes, staring up at me from the edge of the sofa. The edge of the sofa where Gretchen always sleeps. The poor creature had nearly reached its goal, Gretchen's green and purple quilt, when I realized that it was actually Mike. Okay, I know this is spooky to have this stuffed cat with these crazy eyes that follow every movement you make, but no
w the thing is walking about, or rather seems to be, in broad daylight.Mike was caught in the act! He was inching his way up the back of the sofa and when I asked him just what he thought he was doing, he only glared at me with those golden orbs and penetrated my thoughts with his answer. "I'm tired of that dark corner behind the end of the sofa and I'm lonely. I thought I would take a walk and see how the world looks from another view." I protested, "But that's Gretchen's favorite place, and I don't think she'd like it much you going there without her knowing it."
Mike's facial expression didn't change (it never does), "I have permission," he spoke rather stuffily, "just last week when we were playing with all her toys on the sofa, she said I could join her on her quilt anytime I chose to. And I'm choosing to now."
Mike inched his way up the sofa and crawled between the folds of the quilt. I went on about my business; I had a very busy day ahead of me and no time to waste on a mentally talented, stuffed cat. "Very well," I murmured, "It's your hide—fur." Gretchen was off sleeping on my u
nmade bed so I knew Mike was safe for the time being. Gretchen never leaves the bed in the mornings until I make it up.Time passed by as I continued my activities and I had forgotten where Mike was. I had not even given thought as to where Gretchen had ventured off to after I made the bed. As I passed by the sofa on another trip to the kitchen I noticed a remarkable sight. Gretchen and Mike were sharing a bath. Together, on the same blanket! On Gretchen's special blanket! I was amazed. Speechless, even. Gretchen would never share her blanket. Up until now she'd n
ot let Mike anywhere near her blanket."What's this?" I asked of the two cats. "Does this mean you're buddies, finally?" Gretchen just squeezed her eyes and continued her bathing, like I should even have to ask such a question. I turned my thoughts to Mike, "Well?" I tried my best at stuffed cat telepathy. Mike just squeezed his eyes and began to purr. Not a word of explanation did he transmit. "Oh, this is ridiculous!" I threw up my hands and left the room.
I had errands to run and left the apartment. When I returned with armfuls of groceries, Gretchen met me at the door, telling me all the news. She was all over the t
able as I emptied each sack, carrying on with happy trills, using her best cat language, a language I've yet to master. Then after poking her head into each grocery sack, she found her treat. I've learned a long time ago that a cat knows when you've been shopping and it's better to come home with a goody or two than to incur the wrath of a spoiled cat. Besides, Gretchen's the only one I have left to spoil.Distracted by her new toy, Gretchen forgot the news she was telling me and pranced off to bat it about for a while. That's when I glanced over at the sofa and noticed Mike was still on the quilt. His eyes dazzling in the late afternoon sun.
"Well, Mike?" I prodded, knowing he was better at communicating to me the goings on that afternoon than Gretchen was. "What's been going on here? What was Gretchen all excited about?"Mike let go the white toy mouse he'd held firm under his paw, "Everything was going great until you left. Then that jealous ol' White Kitten, you let sleep in one of Gretchen's beds, wanted to climb up here and sleep on the quilt with us." Mike narrowed his eyes and lowered his dark brow, "but I promptly put her in her place; said she had to stay where she belonged. The sofa was mine and Gretchen's special place."
I glanced round at Gretchen's bed next to the organ. All seemed the same as when I'd left it. White Kitten in her place, Black Panther Cub (from the zoo), and even gray and white striped Beanie Tiger lay undisturbed.
"You're making this up," I reprimanded Mike. "White Kitten hasn't moved an ounce of fluff since this morning." If there's one more thing I don't need in this place is another spooky, stuffed animal. Then right before my eyes, and Mike's too, Gretchen came marching up between us and dropped the white kitten on the quilt and left. Mike inched backwards, hissed at White Kitten, crouched low, ready to pounce and throw her off,
when Gretchen reappeared and sat down in-between the two with the Panther Cub from the zoo.Whether peace between Whitten Kitten and Mike was ever restored or not, I'll never know. I'd seen enough and went to the kitchen to make dinner. They would all have new places to squabble over next week anyway, when I move the sofa into its summer place.
Who's to say what's real and what's not. Without the imaginings in our life, about the animate and inanimate, life would be so dull. Gretchen's on going relationship with Mike, a stuffed cat with pitiful fake fur and brilliant golden eyes that seem to glow and penetrate your mind, is always part real and part not. Only I, the author of these tales, know the difference. We can't all see fairies, or hear the thoughts of mysterious stuffed cats, but we can all imagine what it would be like to know them. DBB
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