Cats on Tuesday

This reminds me of Scrungy and his freinds as kittens.

The following is an excerpt from Scrungy: Abandoned

Scrungy had never been allowed to be out of Deedum or Zera's sight; likewise, the king's kittens were also not allowed to leave the tower, unless escorted by their father or receiving their instructions from the guards. As restless and curious as kittens were, the four males were not content to spend every day of the summer scooting around the rocks and crevices of the tower. One August morning after Scrungy, Sarlin, Diesel, and Mott had finished their lessons with Asanka and Arjuna, the four-month-old kittens decided to sneak off and go to the edge of the forest. Scrungy had been telling them about how he had crossed the abandoned field and about the huge tree where he spent the first two nights after he had been dumped. They had decided that they were now old enough to do what they wanted and they tracked off through the forest to the edge of the abandoned field.

"This is the tree that I slept in," Scrungy exclaimed. "See, here is the cavity that the squirrel had her nuts in."

Looking up into the branches of the tree, Mott cried, "Wow, this is a giant oak. Look how far up the branches go. We can race each other up to the top!"

"Yes, let's go," Scrungy shouted.

Diesel and Sarlin hung back as Mott and Scrungy scooted up the trunk and out onto a low-hanging branch.

"What are you afraid of, Sarlin?" Mott cried. "Look how much fun we can have. These branches are wide and the bark is thick. It's easy to grasp with our claws. Come on! Don't be a scaredy-cat!"

"Father will be very angry with us for even being here," Sarlin pouted. He peered through the high grass and weeds that shielded them from the field. "We better go back home."

"Nonsense, Sarlin!" Scrungy cried. "We're old enough to be out here, aren't we? Your father always said that cats in the wild grow up much faster than domestic cats do. So we gotta be at least six or seven months old compared to a house cat."

Diesel was torn between wanting to be sensible like his older brother Sarlin, or go up into the giant tree and have fun with Mott and Scrungy. Finally, his urge to scurry up into the tree overwhelmed his desire to stay on the ground with Sarlin. He bounded up the massive trunk and joined his brothers on the lowest limb. "Race you to the top!" Mott shouted and all three scampered up through the branches to the top of the tree.

The old oak that stood as a sentinel to the cat's kingdom was home to other creatures as well, creatures that the kittens had not yet had the opportunity to experience. Very near the top of the tree was a hollow filled with sleeping raccoons, a mother and three babies. So far the kittens knew how to climb up and had just reached the top when the mother raccoon left her hollow and climbed up after them. Scrungy had gone out on one limb, Mott on another, and Diesel was still clinging to the main part of the trunk when the mother raccoon surprised them. Her hissing and snarling, the baring of her very sharp teeth, narrowed eyes, and flattened ears frightened the kittens. Diesel was the closest to the raccoon and began to climb faster until he managed to reach the limb that Mott was clinging to. The mother raccoon was wise enough to know that she was too large for the branches that held the kittens, so she held her position between the two branches. Sooner or later the kittens would have to start down, and then she would make a meal of at least one of them.

Sarlin, still on the ground below, became terrified for his brothers and started to cry. "You're going to die! All of you are going to die! If that creature doesn't get you, you will fall and then you will die!"

To Scrungy, clinging to the highest branch in the tree, Sarlin looked like a large white mushroom growing out of the tree roots below. He could barely hear Sarlin's cries. He could see Mott and Diesel across from him, crying and clinging to end of their branch together with all their might. He knew he had to do something to distract the large beast from her position so they could get past her.

Bravely, Scrungy had started to inch his way towards the center of the tree and main part of the trunk leading down when a large brown and black, tiger-striped tabby bolted up the trunk and lit into the mother raccoon from behind. The two animals, locked in a fierce grip, tumbled over branches as they fell to the ground. As soon as they landed, the raccoon took off running and disappeared into the thick underbrush.

The large, unknown cat lay lifeless at the base of the tree. Sarlin cautiously approached the injured cat as Scrungy backed down the trunk and joined him beside the tom.

"Who is he?" Scrungy whispered. "Is he dead?"

"I think he is still alive," Sarlin whined, "and we are in so much trouble." He looked up into the tree at his brother's still clinging to their branch. "Scrungy, they're still up there. What are we going to do?"

"Don't panic, Sarlin," Scrungy cried. "First we have to get some help. This guy is injured, and one of us needs to go get Deedum and Zera."

"Not me!" Sarlin shouted. "I'll never find my way to your place. I've never been there before—remember?"

"We've got to do something, Sarlin. That beast could come back at any minute, then what?"

A deep, but weak, voice startled them as the creature they were standing over groaned. Instinctively their fur stood on end, their ears went flat against their head as they barred their teeth and hissed. "Calm down, boys," the voice said. "I'm not dead, I've just had the wind knocked out of me."

Scrungy and Sarlin relaxed. "Who are you? What—where did you come from? I've never seen you in the kingdom before," Scrungy said.

The large stripped tabby got up off the ground and shook his body to remove the bits of grass and leaf litter that clung to his fur. "That's because I am not from around here. I was just coming into the forest from that road out there, and I saw your dilemma. You boys don't know how to climb a tree very well, do you?" He glanced up at Diesel and Mott, still clinging for life at the top of the tree. "My name is Wahdee. What's yours?"

Scrungy blurted out their names. "I'm Scrungy, this is Sarlin, and his brothers who are still up in the tree are Diesel and Mott. Can you help them get down?"

Wahdee's booming laugh nearly toppled the pair. "I'm not going after them. I've already fallen once today. Besides, you seem to have made it down all right, Scrungy. Last I saw before I hit the ground, you were just as far out on your limb as they are on theirs. Why don't you go back up and show them how it's done?" Wahdee continued to laugh.

Scrungy frowned at the large cat that had just saved them from certain death. "I—I don't remember how I did it. I was just so scared that you were dead, and the next thing I remember I was on the ground beside you."

Wahdee laughed even harder. "Well, you best be remembering soon because that mother raccoon is bound to come back and seek out her youngins. Go on," he urged, "you did it once, you can do it again. Besides, how good of a tom are you going to make if you can't climb a tree proper?"

"I'm going to be a big strong cat," Scrungy insisted. "I've been taking lessons." Scrungy streaked up the tree trunk to a safe place in the crook of a branch nearest Diesel and Mott.

"You've seen me do this once already," he shouted out to them. "Just watch me do it again. That cat who saved our lives down there, said that the mother raccoon will be coming back looking for her babies soon. So you better learn real quick how to back down out of a tree. Besides, what good are all our lessons if we don't know how to get in and out of a dumb old tree?"

Scrungy slowly backed down a few feet and waited for Diesel and Mott to follow his example. Soon, shaky and scared stiff, Diesel turned his tail towards the trunk and carefully backed off the branch that he'd been clinging to until he got to the main trunk then scrambled down it to the ground and safety. "Come on, Mott, you can do it, too." Scrungy called to him. "It won't look good for Asanka and Arjuna if we can't get ourselves out of a tree. You've seen us do it, now I'm going down to the ground and wait for you."

Mott shut his eyes and timidly backed down the tree the way that Diesel had just done. When he hit the ground he turned to his brothers and Scrungy and groaned. "I'm too young for this."

This is copyrighted material and only for the purpose of this blog, please respect it as so and just enjoy reading it here. DBB

Cat's on Tuesday: In Search of Pussy Willows

In Search of Pussy Willows
an original short shotry by DBB

Miezo reached into the pocket of her denim jacket for her branch cutters. Spring had been very late in coming this year and the sixty-five year old, olive skinned woman was finally able to locate a willow bush just showing the bits of creamy fuzz on its slender red branches. The ground around the pond was still soggy, sucking at every step of her irrigation boots as she made her way towards the stand of pussy willows.

In Miezo's eyes, the first buds of the pussy willow were a definite sign that the world was about to explode into a riot of spring flowers and yellow-green leaves. From across the pond on another stand of willows, a tiny, gray Titmouse sang out to the small, pudgy woman, her long gray-black hair thickly braided down her back. The irrigation boots she wore looked far too large and cumbersome for someone so small. Yet five-foot-two and half Miezo managed very well at gathering an armful of the soft fuzzy branches in them.

The clear, blue morning had been bright with sunshine. The barren branches of the oaks above her seemed to be stretching their gnarly fingers towards the sun. Soaking up as much as of the sun's energy has they could hold, storing it within the thin, seemingly, lifeless branches that would soon burst open with red-tinged catkins: precursors to tender pale, green leaves at least a month away. Shifting her load from one arm to the other, Miezo thought she could almost hear the old tree give a grateful sigh for the sun's gift. She stood gazing across the pond, listening to the morning chorus of small birds that filled the cool, still air.

Satisfied with her collection of the year's first fuzzy branches, Miezo shoved her clippers back into her pocket and headed back to her car. She had one more pond to investigate before heading back home. She had been up since before dawn, contemplating whether or not to fix breakfast at the usual hour her life had demanded for so many long years. Going through the motions of setting the dented, aluminum teakettle on the back burner, pulling out the coffee can, two cups…no wait. Miezo had done this in her sleep for more than forty-seven years. Again she had stumbled through the four a.m. routine to the point of the coffee cups, before realizing it was another lonely day without her treasured companion…Peter. Peter had died early last month. She seldom ate breakfast anymore. It was too lonely now to eat breakfast alone, without her husband.

Life on the prairie had never been lonely. Ever. She always had work to keep her busy. Her stubby little fingers kept busy weaving baskets. Peter called her beautiful willow and grass baskets, Prairie baskets. Peter had been her life. She didn't need anything else to fill the void. They were both eighteen when they married…way back then somewhere…they never had children. Peter worked in the local quarry until he was fifty, then he went to work in the textile factory on the river. He was about to retire in three months from today. Peter and Miezo were going to give up their little white house atop a small hill, surrounded by old oaks, ash and sycamore. They were going to move south. Where the winters would be kinder to their old bones. Peter had a heart attack at work and died the very same day. Now Miezo was lonely.

The oak above Miezo's head seemed to sigh again, bringing her thoughts back to the pussy willow gathering. She had always gathered the tender red willow shoots in the early part of spring for her prairie baskets, but she adored the fuzzy buds and took many home to place in canning jars about her small little house. It always cheered her after the long winter had finally released its icy grip. The first real blooms of spring.

Miezo's attention again turned to the sighing oak. It was singing? Miezo gazed upward, searching the thick bark for signs of movement. There was no breeze about. The air was cool and still. She smiled at the thought that the oak would be singing to her. Peter had a lovely tenor voice and often spent many summer nights on their little porch, singing love songs that he and his guitar composed for her. She missed his voice. Terribly.

She was staring up at a deep crotch in the massive branches when she heard the sigh again. Louder than before, in fact, a cry…not unlike a baby's cry. Her eyes eagerly searched the spot she'd heard the sound come from. "That is not the tree!" she cried out. "What the…"

Tiny blue eyes peered out at her in the deepest part of the crotch. Tiny, pale ears flicked in all directions, taking in the sounds of the pond, the birds, the human voice. The little creature gave one last, desperate utterance to the small woman on the ground below it. "eeeeeoooooow!"

It took Miezo a moment or two to recognize what the trembling, plaintiff creature was. "Kitten?" she called to it. "Are you lost? You are lost…there's no one but me living out here for miles. How did you get here?"

She held up her hand and called to it. The kitten didn't move, but complained even louder than before. "Are you stuck? You are stuck…" Miezo sighed. If Peter had been with her he would have shimmed up that old oak without a second thought. She was afraid to climb on a footstool in her kitchen to get stuff out of the cabinets, how was she going to climb a massive oak to get hold of tiny kitten stuck twenty feet off the ground.

Miezo's car was parked on the old wagon trail over the rise. If she hurried she could get to the car, there was a rope in the trunk. It had always been there. She'd get the rope and…then do what with it? Desperately, she looked about her for something, anything to help her get to this frightened little creature. The kitten's cries had turned into frightful wails.

Miezo dropped the bundle of pussy willows to the ground and circled the tree looking for an easy way up. A low limb, a broken branch, anything to help her reach the kitten. There was nothing. No branches of this tree touched the ground, or bent low. She stepped back shielding her eyes from the bright sun, and called to the kitten once more. With the sound of her voice the kitten's pleas increased. Miezo imagined tears were falling from its pale, fuzzy face. Finally out of frustration she threw her hands up in the air, "Kitten, if you've been stuck in that tree for this long, you'll have to wait until I can come back with help."

Tears gathering in her own eyes, Miezo collected her precious bundle of twigs and slogged back to her car, the irrigation boots hindering her flight. When she reached the car and opened her trunk she noticed the brown paper sack she had packed for her lunch. Fried fish sandwiches and a small bottle of milk. Miezo grabbed the sack, exchanged her boots for her loafers and ran back up the hill to the tree. "Just maybe," she hoped out loud, "you're not really stuck but just too terrified to move. Something must have frightened you up there and you're too afraid to climb down."

When Miezo got to the top of the rise, she could still hear the kitten's cries. Screams really. Lonely, mournful screams of abandonment. Once the kitten saw her approaching the tree again, he stopped. Looked down at her with enormous blue eyes and shuddered. Much like a child would shudder after having a good long cry. "Kitten, I'm back," Miezo said soothingly. "I'm not leaving you here, promise. If I have to stay here at the bottom of this tree with you all day and all night, you will not be alone."

Miezo held up the brown paper bag and shook it a little. She pulled off her denim jacket and spread it like a picnic cloth on the ground beneath the oak. The kitten watched as she opened up the waxed paper and broke apart the sandwich. She sat as if to eat the lunch entirely alone. She uncapped the milk bottle and took a sip. "Kitten," she said, holding up the bottle for him to get a good sniff, "maybe you're just scared, but I think that if you are hungry enough you'll figure out a way to come down. I have fish and milk. What more could a small thing like you want?"

Miezo poured a puddle of milk onto the piece of waxed paper she'd fashioned into a kind of bowl, then turned her back on the tree and the tiny creature, pulled her knees up under her chin and gazed out upon the pond. The birds still chattered excitedly, flitting from branch to branch of the trees and willows across the pond. Eager it seemed to renew old friendships. Find a mate and build a nest. Miezo's heart melted at the thought. Her nest was empty. Peter was gone. She pined for him with every chore. The things they did together, mater-of-fact, without thought. Side by side, working around the house, the garden. If he still lived he'd be with her now, gathering the first of the pussy willows. Rejoicing in the joy of spring with her.

While Miezo's thoughts went deep into remembering her life with Peter, she hadn't noticed the kitten scrabbling backwards down the rough bark of the old oak. She hadn't seen it dash from the roots of the tree in triumph, across the grass to her jacket. To the bits of fish, the puddle of milk. She only came back to the present when she felt a fuzzy face brush against her hand, a sandpaper tongue lick her fingers. Miezo reached out and pulled the pale, color of pussy willows, kitten into her lap. "I knew you could do it," she cooed. "Shall we go home now, you and me? Pussy Willow?" The kitten licked her face in response and began to purr. Miezo laughed and cried at the same time. "You and I will not be lonely anymore."

The End

Neighborhood Nightlife Episode 3: A Bit Of Jealousy

While you are sleeping, snug and comfy in your beds, dreams floating round in your heads, do you know what your cat is doing at that wee hour, when moon has risen high, wind has stilled, leaving the air thickly perfumed with night flowers?

Necco had spent the entire day in her guardians bedroom window staring through the shadowy trees at building one: more specifically at apartment sixteen. It was indeed a wasted vigil, because no matter how she strained her eyes, or squinted against the sun's brightness; she could not get a clear view of the only window of that apartment facing hers. But she could sense that there was a stranger there. Using the olfactory nerves in the roof of her mouth: tilting her nose upward, teeth bared, mouth apart, Necco tried to form a picture in her mind of this all white, fluffy queen that had just moved into the Rainbow Estates Senior Village.

She had seen a darker shadow under the shrub by the window for most of the morning. When the sun got too hot, the windows were closed and the air conditioner was turned on. The shadow she knew to be Thorny's, extracting information from the newcomer, had even taken off; back to his neighborhood of fancy houses, where he too, could doze away the hot afternoon in cool comfort.

Undaunted by the closed window and the heat of the blazing sun through the glass, Necco scrunched her body as far back onto the sill as she could go, into a tiny bit of shade the tree outside her window offered at that time of day, tucked her paws under chest and catnapped. Her ears turned forward, her eyes, only half closed, half dozing and half alert to any movement. A yellow butterfly flitted about from one flower to another, a spider that had completed a web from the edge of the widow sill to a nearby shrub, now sat in it's middle and waited for dinner guest. The hum of the air conditioner and the noise of the floor fans drowned out any other sound. But yet Necco stayed at her post. Determined.

Necco had not realized that this very obsessive behavior, to stay put, at all cost, just to get a glimpse of the new cat, would alarm her guardians, whom after a few hours of watching their little tortie suffering on the hot window sill, thought she was ill and phoned the vet's office.

Before Necco could blink twice she had been scooped from off the sill, placed into her cat carrier and shuffled out to the car. Hot at first, until the air-conditioner cooled the air, the backseat of the car was nearly unbearable. But off they went during rush hour traffic, three miles away to a pet clinic that specialized in cats. Within minutes Necco had been taken back to an examining room, extracted from her carrier with much protesting, and all four white paws thrust onto an icy-cold, metal table. Her male guardian was most distressed during the telling of his reason for bringing Necco to the doctor. "She's been sitting on that widow sill since before dawn just staring at nothing, hasn't eaten, drank any water or left to go to the litter box. She was very hot when we pulled her from the window sill." "We're very concerned," the female guardian broke in. "She's never behaved like this before…"

Humiliated, Necco crouched down upon her paws while the doctor gently ran his hands over her soft, pale fur, massaged her neck. Her fur was still warm from the heat of the window, despite the air-conditioned apartment and the ten-minute ride to the clinic. Before she could protest, a hard, cold instrument had been jammed into her bottom. She let her guardians know, in no uncertain terms that a probe was not necessary. Next a poke with another sharp instrument was thrust into her front leg, while her human guardians held her fast to the table. "Oh, for crying out loud!" Necco screamed again in protest over the unnecessary treatment. "I'm not sick…I'm not sick…there's nothing wrong with me!"

Oblivious to the message in Necco's cries, the veterinarian withdrew some blood from her leg, told her guardians she had no temperature and that she was probably just stressed out about something. She was a little dehydrated and if they could not get her to drink any water in the next hour or so, then they were to bring her back and they'd keep her overnight on a glucose IV. A bowl of water was immediately placed in front of her nose, and with some encouraging strokes down her back, she quickly lapped up enough water to make everyone in the room happy.

"That was the most humiliating experience ever!" she told Markus later that night, after the evening breezes had cooled the hot, humid air and the windows were once again open. "I had to spend the entire evening in the living room, stretched out across my female's lap. She thought I would like to be stroked with a damp washcloth. A bowl of water was shoved under my nose every ten minutes and I had to lap up a few drops each time just to keep my humans happy. I had to do it…I was so afraid they were going to rush me back to that icy-cold table again. Oh, how I hate that place!" Necco let go a tiny sneeze, "I think they've given me a chill."

Markus couldn’t contain his laughter. The image his little friend had given him would keep him amused for at least a week. "So, did you get to see her at all? The new cat, I mean. You had to go right passed her apartment on the way out of the parking lot. Was she sitting in the window?"

Necco let out a sigh, "No…I was too busy being humiliated…rushed to the clinic like that. I did have the perfect chance, didn't I?" Necco stamped her feet in her little frustrated fashion and whacked her tail against the glass. "Did you happened to see her today? You're much higher up than I am, surely you had a good view of her window."

"Necco, you know I can't see her window any better than you. You forget that your tree covers my window completely." Just then a familiar croak came from the window next to Necco, "I was looking over her way a few times today, Necco," the crackled voice commented. "All I could see was the tip end of a white tail thrashing about. Thorny was over there under the bush most of the morning, we'll just have to wait until midnight for him to come by. I think he likes her." Frog laughed, emitting a hoarse cough like sound. "Couldn't help but overhear your vet experience today, Necco. You should be more careful with your jealousy."

Necco spat back. "I'm not jealous! I'm just curious. Besides," she mewed softly, "Thorny is just being a good neighbor and he did promise to bring us information about her."

Markus and Frog both chuckled. "Hey Frog," Markus asked, changing the subject. "Have you heard anything about the old man upstairs, lately? How is he doing…and that dog?"

Frog hesitated to tell Necco and Markus what he had overheard from his guardians this morning at breakfast. From the little bit of human language he had interpreted, "the old man, having multiple bruises and a couple of cracked ribs, will be going into a nursing home for good. The little dog, having suffered no more than a cut on his snout, was taken to a foster home; he'll be adopted out. Hopefully. So it shouldn't be too long and we'll all have new neighbors again."

"I hope we don't get another dog up there," Markus sighed. "I could always hear that little rat of a dog whining and yapping through the common wall. It got very irritating at times. It's nice and quiet lately." Frog agreed.

Right then Thorny was spotted strutting across the parking lot from the direction of apartment sixteen. "Hey guys, he called out. How's things been for ya today?"

Of course Markus and Frog had to reveal Necco's obsession to catch a glimpse of the new cat, and how it nearly earned her a comfy, medicinal, overnight compartment at the clinic. Thorny, would have rolled over laughing but one look from Necco's squinted eyes, told him he'd better just get on with the news. "Sorry, you had such a bad day, Necco," he offered solemnly, "but I have good news about Princess Pricilla Prudence."

"Princess what?" Necco couldn't believe she had spent all those hours on that crummy, hot windowsill just to hear that the new, fluffy white cat in sixteen had a name that started with princess.

"Princess Pricilla," Thorny repeated. "She likes to be called Sissy…she's really sweet. She has a very soft voice," Thorny seemed to blush.

"So tell us more," Markus prodded, "What's her story? Nice and sweet with beautiful eyes and a soft voice doesn't tell us a whole lot."

As Thorny talked, Necco shifted on her windowsill several times, whacking her tail against the glass in frustration over the news that the new cat was a prima-donna, a princess no less, with papers and awards. A show cat. A cat that got bathed almost daily, and combed out. A cat that wore colored ribbons on the top of her head, had a real diamond collar, and ate expensive food off of genuine crystal and china. A cat that she was sure was not going to fit in at the lowly, Rainbow Estates Senior Village. A cat that very nearly caused her to have heat stroke.

Thorny didn't stay long, he had rounds to make. He'd be back again tomorrow maybe, after he had visited the new Princess Pricilla Prudence. "Humph!" Necco sneered, sounding a bit jealous even to herself, "Princess Prissy Prudy's…more like it."

Cats on Tuesday: ?

For more great stories about cats...visit Gattina's site.

Believe in yourself

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I apologize to all my friends on COT. I'm having technical difficulties with life this week and will post a cat story next week. DDB

Cats on Tuesday: Squishy for Hire: Moles Beware

This spring the ground was terribly damp and spongy, bringing more moles to the backyard than Moochie, a small white and black man-cat, could handle. He was aging, you see, and these hairless little creatures were overrunning his territory. His owner, Granny, was getting older, also, making it more and more difficult to see to all the needs of her prized, private garden. Every morning Granny would find more evidence of the destructive moles, thus spending all of her imagination, time and energy trying to rid her garden of them. "Mooch," she often told her cat, "You're not doing your job. We've got to find a better way to get rid of these pesky critters. I just can't keep this up any longer."

Soon after the old ladies third, exasperating attempt to reduce the mole population, a young, smoke-gray, neighborhood cat slipped silently from atop the wooden, garden gate and introduced himself. "Squishy's my name, ma'am, and I've been observing your little quandary from the top of the fence there. If you'll let me come and sit in your pretty, shady garden where I can find some piece and quiet from the noisy little brood of youngsters at my owner's house, I'll gladly catch and kill your moles." The fearless smoke-gray sat back on his haunches and groomed one of his ears, waiting for an invitation. "If you don't mind my saying, I am the best darn mole destroyer this neighborhood's seen in years, ask any of your neighbors," he added confidently.

At that moment, Moochie, who'd been observing this boy-cat poking around in his territory for the past several days, lifted his aching, arthritic body from the warm spot in front of the small, oil-heat radiator, provided just for his cold feet, and padded out the door to stand between his lady and the bold, intrusive youngster. "My name is Moochie, and I've been watching you, son," he said with quiet authority, "I've heard of your accomplishments, and if you behave yourself and don't take advantage of my ladies kindness, then we'll give you a try at catching these troublesome critters. As you can see, I am unfit for that kind of duty anymore, and it's getting harder for my lady to tend to these matters, as well. What wages will you require, son? What kind of food do you want? Wet, dry, tuna, scraps?"

The young cat spoke boldly, "I am well-fed, thank you, and I need no payment for my work, but as I said, there is absolute chaos at my place and a cat needs a refuge once in a while. Your place is beautiful, lush and quiet, with plenty of shadows. Let me come and lay in the shade on warm days and bask in the sun, upon your rocks, on cool ones. Having such a place to relax without all those raucous youngsters about would be payment enough."

"I'm eager to have the moles eradicated," Granny said. "I'd be glad to serve you whatever you like for your hard work."

Squishy, snickered to himself, hard work? Why killing these pesky moles are a piece of cake for me. "No, thank you, ma'am," he grinned at her. "Like I said, peace and quiet on occasion is all I require. I've seen how feeble Moochie is getting and I know if he were able to, he'd be taking care of the pests himself. It would be an honor and a privilege for me to help you and old Moochie out." He stood up and touched noses with the older cat, out of respect for his age and his territory, and then he trotted off towards the garden gate. "I'll be back in the morning, while the grass is still damp with dew. That's the best time to catch them running through their tunnels and digging out," he called over his shoulder as he leapt upon the gate in one swift move, showing his massive muscle structure and mastered agility.

Each morning for the next several days, Squishy could be spotted posed upon the stone wall, watching and listening for just the right moment, the slightest movement of earth, or wiggle of a blade of grass. In one swift move, he had pounced time aftertime, catching his wriggling prey between his teeth. Unlike the mice he often hunted, played with before delivering the bite of death, he was swift to kill the mole. Moles did not give the pleasure of the chase the way a mouse or vole did. Besides, he was hired to do a job and he was bound to do it swiftly and cleanly.

A month has gone by and there are no longer any moles in Moochie and Granny's garden. If there were, they would not last long, for Squishy is always on the guard and would dispose of them quickly before the eye could take notice. Squishy now lounges about the garden patio at will, or lays shrouded in clumps of fern, or on really cool days, lays fully extended across the massive, moss covered boulders clustered under hundred-foot cedars and firs. He takes no offer of food, nor petting. A kindly word now and then from his aging friends was all he needed to be content as the silent keeper of their garden.

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My mother has wanted me to tell the tale of Squishy and Moochie for sometime. I finally got some pictures to help with the story. Moochie is about thirteen years old and adopted my parents about that long ago. He has a bent tail and my mother has to watch out that he does not to catch his tail on a wire or small branch. Squishy belongs to a neighbor with children. The story is true, except for the talking to my, mother, of course, but who knows for sure if such words passed between them. I'd like to think they did. My mother is very kind towards all animals, and has had many cats, all of whom she's kept until it was time for each of them to go the way of all the earth.

Cats on Tuesday: About Scrungy

Small brave carnivores

Kill pine cones and mosquitoes

Fear vacuum cleaner

haiku author unknown

Since Gretchen has her own site now, I said that I would explain why I named my site Scrungy's Creator.

I'm going back a few years to around 1987: I had been halfway through my first novella and had lost a precious orange and white cat that I had taken in since birth. He was born under a utility shed next to our modular home in a great oak wood late in May. He was the tiniest of the litter of three. I believe it was his mother's first litter. She was a popular visitor among all the residences of the woods. Over the years she must have had two litters a year and each time under some ones shed. She got to be known as Momma cat. A very small, mottled brown and tan tabby. We brought the little orange and white kitten into the house because it was so much weaker than its siblings and it had been a late, cold spring. Pumpkin was the cat that I had completely declawed at six months old. It was the most pitiful sight to see him with all four paws stitched up. That's when I vowed never to do that to a cat again (pitifully, I broke my vow when it came to Gretchen). He was also the cat that no one, not even the vet knew that he was not a she, until he operated on her and found out she was actually a he.

Another season went by and we moved from within the woods to the top of a hill, overlooking the wood, pond and stream. A place that will always remain in my dreams and is the kind of place I've been hoping to move to someday. If it had not have been for the job that went with the house and property, I would still be there to this day. Because Pumpkin was completely declawed he was never an outside cat. He was very happy in his new, roomier home at the top of the hill, but one day he went out and disappeared. Three days later we thought he had returned. In the tall grasses at the edge of the lawn was an identical cat, male, but the only difference was that he was fully clawed. We never saw our Pumpkin again, but the new cat hung around. He belonged to no one but the vast wood. I now believe he was the father of all Momma Cat's kittens. Every one of her litters had a few orange kittens. He could have even been Pumpkin's father.

The cat that showed up at our door, the one who looked identical to Pumpkin, I named Scrungy. At the time of his appearance he was very scrungy. Dirty, un-kept, and a little sickly looking. He also had a huge gash across the side of his neck that was trying to heal. Obviously from a fight with another tom or a raccoon. Raccoons were plentiful in our woods, and we even raised one from a baby, once. We fed the new tom; he fattened, and hung around on his terms. The wood was his home; we were just a convenience; his food and sometimes shelter.

In my little white house on the hill, overlooking a barren field, the wood; I began to write about an abandoned cat named Scrungy. Because of my real job, I worked upwards of sixty to eighty hours a week alongside my husband, writing was an occasionally thing. It wasn't until we were deep into the winter season that I completed the first draft of Scrungy: Abandoned. Complications from a back injury kept me from working and then I began writing in earnest. Eventually, we moved to Montana for a couple of years where I re-wrote Scrungy several times before being satisfied with it. When we moved to Oregon, I wrote the sequel to the first Scrungy book, Scrungy:Rescue. In the meantime I've been working on other novels. When I am finished with the current novel, Bubba and Bean, I will begin the third book in the Scrungy series. Scrungy is not on the market yet. It is still making its journey through agents and publishers hands. Because of a lot of illness in the past ten years, I've not pushed to publish Scrungy as hard as I probably should have. My family and friends are after me to publish. And yes, I would not be truthful if I said I didn't want to be published, also. I just like to write. But I do want it published, and that is why, when my daughter edged me into the blogsphere, I took the name Scrungy's Creator as my blog name, perhaps as a part good luck charm and part inspiration for me to continue. I hope to have several more books in the Scrungy series before I've exhausted the ideas and the plots for this little kitten that was dumped along a deserted road in the middle of a vast wood, where he learns to survive, find love, companionship, and a life for himself. The white cat that I had for six months before Gretchen came into my life was named Preylor, after Prelyor, the king of the abandoned cats in this series…a massive white tom with odd colored eyes. There are many, many cats that come and go from my little catdom and hope that there will be many more.

Belonging to Gattina's Cats on Tuesday group is the best thing that could happen to me. It gives me inspiration. Challenges me to use my imaginings and write weekly stories about cats. It has also deepened my love for cats, and all things living. Thank you Paula. Thank you Gattina. And thank you, Thomma Lyn, for opening me up to the Cat Blogosphe

There are no pictures to post for this story. A few years ago I sent all of the pictures of the real Scrungy and Pumpkin to daughter#4. She's also an illustrator and wanted to work on the Scrungy series with me. I didn't realize I hadn't kept any pictures for myself until after a frantic search through all my files and boxes of pictures last night, for a picture to post today. The picture that I use for my logo is a close likeness of what Scrungy would have looked like as a kitten, after being cleaned up, of course.

Cats on Tuesday: Mike's Retort

There was another wild scene in the living room last night.
I heard it this time. I got up and turned on the light and found Mike (formerly Homeless Mike) and Gretchen head to head.

Mike had crept from his darkened den onto the sofa, clearly Gretchen's domain.
He pulled the skeins of yarn from the knitting basket and strung them all around. Gretchen was not going to allow this kind of behavior from a stuffed cat, albeit a mysteriously catlike, stuffed cat. Mike had no defense except his piercing yellow eyes. Spits and spats flew back and forth between the two, Gretchen's voice being the only audible one, of course. Mike is telepathic and his feelings were not diminished one whit because he had no audible voice. He gave as good as he got.

The light bothered neither cat, so I sat down and watched them have their little tiff. It was bound to happen, you see, nearly a month had passed without so much as a peep from the fuzzy black creature.

Suddenly I was entertained by the sounds only the mind can hear, when one tends to tune out the world's definition of real, and uses the imaginary.

Mike stood his ground and turned his haunting eyes toward me, "I've been silent long enough," he screeched. "And you've ignored me long enough, too! I've sat here all this long time and watched all that you do, from morning 'till night. Not even once have I picked a fight with Gretchen. And you still let that old rag, White Kitten, sleep in one of Gretchen's beds. After you'd had me out last and wrote your cute little story, you tossed me back into my corner and left me there to collect cobwebs and dust. I'm hurt . . . I'm really hurt!"

Mike shifted his eyes and lowered his brow. Gretchen had taken possession of her quilt on the back of the sofa. No matter what, she was not sharing this spot, a favorite of five special spots. Gretchen had taken possession of the purple and green quilt the day it was brought home after Mike's owner died. Half out of her love for soft, beautiful blankets, and half out of spite, I'm sure, that it had belonged to the wad of black fur who had now encroached upon her sofa and was playing with her toys.
"You vowed you'd treat me like your own," Mike mewed again, his tone softer now. More pitiful than scorn. "You've not kept your promise. One day is all you gave me, one lousy day! You'd let me sit in your special room while you wrote your stories. But after that you've forgotten all about me." I opened my mouth to explain, but he cut me off. "You can't deny it. I know you're thoughts as well as my own."

Shamed into silence with the bare truth of it all, I sat and contemplated what I could do to make up for my thoughtlessness.

I spoke out loud to Gretchen. "Mike's been here for two months now and he's still very unhappy. Won't you please make a little place in your heart for this poor creature? Clearly you can see that he wants to play. He's been no trouble at all, he's good and kind . . . and patient." I added.

Gretchen's eyes glowed in the dim lamplight. A moment of understanding shadowed her eyes. She sprang from her quilt and pounced upon Mike, twirled him around, flipped him over with her hind legs, spilled the contents of her toy basket and proceeded to play.

This is where I left them. It was after all only three—in the morning. I could have been dreaming, or sleepwalking, for all I know. But I knew it wasn't a dream when I woke the next morning and found Mike asleep on the sofa, still wound in yarn, toys spread all about the room. This wasn't a dream, I told myself again, as I cleaned up the clutter.

At last I placed Mike back in his corner and asked him if he and Gretchen had had fun. "Oh, yeah," his eyes half open, his mew one of satisfaction. "Gretchen likes me now, just a little, I think. But she does like me."
"And so do," I whispered, wiping the dust from his golden eyes. "Go to sleep now Mike. You never know when Gretchen will strike next.

Cats on Tuesday: Marbles Passion for Red

Marbles was eight weeks old when Billy adopted him from the Animal Shelter. The kitten was named Marbles for two reasons. The strange arrangement of colors; brown, orange, gray, white and black formed a pattern of swirls on its side and looked to Billy like a cat's eye marble. The second reason came later. He was a marble stealer, with a passion for red marbles.

Billy was the envy of the neighborhood and on the school's playground. He was a natural at the game of marbles and had a whole bottom dresser drawer full of marbles he'd taken as prizes. He didn't play for fair, but for keeps and he never lost a game. Marbles the kitten was very fond of watching Billy drop his daily winnings into the bottom drawer. He loved the ringing and tinkling sounds the glass balls made as they bounced against each other.

When Marbles stood upon hind legs and leaned over the side of the drawer, batting one or two with his paws, Billy swatted at him and shooed him away. "No, Marbles!" Billy scolded. "Momma says you can't play with these. You could swallow one and choke to death." Billy pushed Marbles away and shut the drawer.

At first, the scolding Marbles got from Billy was enough to keep him away from the drawer when it was open. Everyday after that, instead of having kitten dreams about lapping milk, or batting at butterflies, the kitten dreamt about the little, round, glass globes in Billy's dresser drawer. He dreamt of having his own collection of marbles. Lots and lots of marbles.

The desire to get his little teeth around a marble was overwhelming. He followed Billy outside to play and watched him play with the neighborhood boys. The dirt was smoothed flat, a circle was drawn with a stick and then everyone took their places. Secreted in the honeysuckle, his huge, round eyes followed each marble as it was shot across the circle. Some clinked and some escaped the circle. One shot was so wild it rolled into the bushes directly in front of Marbles nose. In an instant he had it between his teeth and had darted off before the boys realized what had happened. None of the boys seemed to suspect the cat got it; they called it wild, and resumed their play.

Ecstatic with excitement about his steal, Marbles darted around the side of the house and slipped through the cat door swiftly. Just yesterday he had mastered the art of slipping through the plastic flap without getting his backend stuck halfway through. Now that he had his prize he was pressed to hide it somewhere safe. He slinked through each room of the house looking for the perfect hiding place. Finding that he was alone in the house, he dropped the marble for a bit of play. What good is it to have a pretty glass ball if you can't enjoy playing with it? He batted it around the dinning room floors. The blue and green swirls in the cats' eye marble sparkled as it spun. The sound it made as it rolled across the polished wood floors and ricocheted of the baseboards and the table and chair legs was music to his tiny ears.

His fun was over, however, when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs from the basement. He snatched up the marble and darted under the large cherry wood china cabinet. Just as he backed up into the darkest corner he dropped his prize. It rolled into the large grate of the cold air return shaft. Stunned that he'd lost is marble he dipped his paws in after it; into the blackness beneath the square openings. His marble clinked loudly when it hit the bottom of the shaft. Crestfallen, he laid upon the iron grate, paws hanging into the empty blackness, closed his eyes and cried. He'd just have to steal another one.

The next day, and the next few after that, Marbles was able to steal strays as the boys played near the house. With each prize successfully secreted into the house, he batted and played excitedly on the hardwood floors of the dinning room, and then when he was tired, or was about to be discovered, he aimed for the metal grate, give the marble one good swat and watched it disappear into its black depths. When he heard his latest stolen prize clink against the others, he knew his collection was safe. Solid blues and dazzling green cat's eyes, or salmon pink. Pale blue was interesting, too, but one day he discovered red. It blazed in the shaft of sunlight streaming in through the dinning room windows. He had to have more red ones.

Pickings were getting slim after about a week of following the boys from game to game. He thought he'd been rather good at being stealth, until the day he discovered red. His quest for nothing but red marbles made him careless and the next day he was caught. He spied a particularly brilliant red in the circle. He watched it for a few games and it never went astray. For three games he held fast in the pounce position. He could stand it no longer. His little mind whirled with instructions. Run fast, grab red, run even faster to the house. Go! Go! Go! his brain shouted. Throwing caution to the wind, he leapt from the shrub, scampered between the knees of a pair of dusty jeans, skidded to a halt in the middle of the circle, scattering marbles and dirt in all directions, and before he could latch his teeth onto his eyes delight, two fat, sweaty hands clamped tightly around his neck, squeezing relentlessly until another boy shouted, "Let go! That's my cat! Let him go!"

On Billy's order, the fat kid's hands fell away from the kitten's skinny little neck. Dazed and confused, embarrassed and disappointed at his failure, the kitten dashed into the bushes while six pairs of hands thrashed the shrubs trying to get at him. Another boy yelled, "I've got it!" and the hands gave up their pursuit. The game resumed without the slightest concern for the choking kitten. The red marble was an aggie and it had been saved.

From then on Marbles was afraid to follow the boys in pursuit of their stray marbles. For three days he sulked about the house trying to figure a way to get his teeth on more red ones. The next afternoon Billy came in for dinner, as usual, and emptied his pockets into the bottom dresser drawer. Marbles, who had been dozing on Billy's bed, opened his eyes at the sound of clinking marbles. The last marble Billy held up to the light. It was the aggie the kitten so coveted. Proudly Billy dropped it into the mix, shut the drawer, and then went to dinner.

Marbles was stunned. He couldn't believe he hadn't thought of this sooner. Was he still small enough to crawl behind the dresser, reach a paw over the side and scoop out a marble? He had to try. Once he got behind the dresser, he squeezed into the bottom drawer and landed right in the middle of the stash of marbles. He was in heaven. The bright red one that he'd nearly been killed over was right in the middle of the pile waiting to be snatched. But how was he going to do this?

He carefully closed his tiny teeth around the hard glass globe and scooted to the edge of the drawer. It was a tight fit and he knew he'd have to let go of the marble or he couldn't get out. He dropped it onto the carpet, squeezed through the opening, and while Billy ate supper, he had the time of his life quietly batting his prize around the room. Soon tired and needing another kitten nap, he pushed the marble into a corner under the bed. He waited until all in the house were asleep, and then he carried the red marble to his secret place. Once deposited with the others, Marbles could think of nothing else and began to pilfer only the red marbles from Billy's drawer.

The summer was over and Billy was back in school. Everyday he came home with more and more marbles. He never noticed that the red ones were disappearing from his trove. One evening Billy's father got up from the reading the newspaper and turned on the thermostat, a chill had settled through the lower rooms and it was time to turn the furnace on for the first time after the long summer. As the furnace kicked on and the cold air was sucked down through the cold air return, a faint tinkling of glass could be heard. With each cycle of the furnace the tinkling became louder, until it was a rumble. Puzzled, because the furnace had been serviced at the end of spring, Billy's father sent him to get the flashlight. Together father and son descended the stairs to the basement and pulled open the door to the shaft. Hundreds of marbles, mostly red, rumbled out, spreading across the basement floor in all directions. The kitten's secret had been discovered. As Billy and his father scrambled to collect the marbles, the kitten scampered about with delight, batting and chasing after his coveted red globes. It's time to find a new hiding place, he thought, as he sprinted up the stairs with the favored red aggie between his teeth, perhaps a hole in the wall this time.

(Marbles is a fictional story that I created from a combination of family cat stories. The picture is borrowed.)

Answered Prayer or How Gretchen Came into My Life

Gretchen was a literal answer to prayer. I had lost my great white rescue cat in February of 2004 and had a double mastectomy in March. I missed the companionship of a cat, but this time I wanted a kitten. As sick and miserable as I was at that time I couldn't see that there was any way I could go searching for just the right kitten just then. Frustrated, I started including my desire for just the right kitten in my prayers. I had some very precise conversations with God about the kitten I wanted and that it seemed the only way I would get my cat is if He would literally drop it in my lap. I was far too sick to put much effort into finding one myself and often felt silly, and childish asking for such a thing.

By the time I had started chemo in June, my Aunt had gotten a little orange, six-week-old kitten from a friend of a friend. I was now pining even more for a kitten and expressed to her my desire for one, but wanted a female. She thought the lady still had the sister to her orange kitten and gave me the phone number. I called that very afternoon, Saturday, June 13th, and left the message on her machine that I was interested in the kitten if she still had it. At about ten that night the lady returned my call. She had been out all day and apologized for the hour. I didn't know at the time that she lived thirty miles away. Because of my health situation, she and her young son decided to drive out and deliver the kitten to me that night. So at eleven o'clock that Saturday night, this kind lady appears at my door with this peach and gray fluff cradled in her arms. Like it was with my husband and I nearly forty years ago, it was love at first sight. Up until I had actually seen the kitten I had no idea what the color of it was. It didn't matter, she was pretty, and sweet and literally dropped in my lap.

This wonderful little fluff ball stole my heart. In the wee hours of the night, in the quiet darkness of my room, I offered a tear filled prayer of gratitude for my little kitten. She did exactly as I had envisioned during all those months of recovery. She slept upon my shoulder next to my chin. She was totally dependent on me and that helped me to care about living. As she cuddled close to me she gave me strength to make it through those horrid months of chemo.

As the months went by and she grew in size, she inched her way down from my shoulder onto my lap. I couldn't sleep on my sides at that time and had to lie in bed on my back, propped up on pillows, my legs supported by pillows as well. To Gretchen this was the perfect lap position and as soon as I lay down, she was there, in my lap. Today I can sleep on my sides again, and Gretchen has moved to a new position across my waist at my elbow. At eleven each night she declares it time for me to be in bed and follows me about mewing until I get the covers just so then she takes her place. Sometimes in the night I have to change positions, so she patiently waits for me to get comfortable then resumes her place on my other side. She is heavier now, much heavier, and sometimes the weight of her is a bit uncomfortable, but I am comforted that she is there and dare not complain. For this is the cat I prayed for. I was very specific in my prayers and I got a very specific kind of cat.

Next Tuesday will be May 1st. That is Gretchen's birthday. She will be three years old. I also mark my cancer survival with her arrival. Life is full of miracles, and it's okay to be specific with what kind of miracle you want.

Homeless Mike

With dark metallic, golden eyes, and a brooding face, Mike stares out at me from across the room. Hidden in the deep well of hopelessness (the unorganized pile of books and things hidden beside the sofa in a somewhat concealed corner of the living room), Mike seems to wait in vain for the love and attention that had once been lavished upon him not so long ago. In the dimness of his appointed domain, he sends deep thoughts to my brain as I sit in my easy chair, rippling away; engrossed in the late night movie I'm watching.

I suddenly took notice of the poor little black wad of shrunken fur, wondering, was he the cause of the cat fit Gretchen threw in the living room just the other night? Why, he couldn't be, I consoled myself, for it still worried me a great deal about what had sent my little Gretchen into a furry of yowls and screeches at three in the morning when she's the only cat in the house.

Mike concentrated harder. His thoughts entered my mind as a pitiful mourn. "Thank you for giving me a home," he stated first, but then his glowing eyes once again darkened, his sigh arcane. "I was happy once," he said. "I had a place of prominence in a home much like this one. I had loving arms wrapped around me that squeezed me tight. Lavish kisses bestowed upon my small little nose. I miss all that," his sigh deepened.

Our mind links were broken by a distraction from the other end of the house. A familiar stirring, a tiny plea, a noisy crunching, all recognizable after a moment of listening. Gretchen had slipped from her bed, from a nap, and decided to have a snack at her feeding station in the computer room (she has two feeding stations—one for snacks).

Mike seemed to reposition himself, his thought reaching me again. "Yes, it was her that I startled in the night. She doesn't treat me so right. After all, I am a stranger in this place. I lost my home when my master died. I'm grateful you found me and washed me and warmed me. I am grateful for all that."

I rose from my chair and crossed the room. I picked the strange little black cat up and held him for a moment. I remembered he was all alone in the darkness he'd last called home. It was cold, and smoky, and lonely for him there, afterwards. I had not even recognized he'd even lived there. Nine days plus seven he'd hidden, until I had found him in an old cardboard box in the dark recesses of the closet. White Kitten was there with him, but she didn't care. She is soft and pretty and has washed up quite well. Mike is made of odd stuff. His deep black coat, a mixture of fluff and wiry hair, kinda melted in the dryer. "Poor little fellow," I cooed, "I'm sorry I neglected you so. I'm sorry Gretchen has not given you notice, I'll tell her you're here to stay and she might as well welcome you. By way of conciliation, Gretchen has ignored White Kitten, also. She treats her as just another bit of fluff that adorns one of her beds (she has two).

I want you to accept this as your home from now on, Mike. It will take time for Gretchen to come round. She's not used to having someone like you nearby. I think because of your thoughtful eyes, you may be a bit too real for her." And for me, I added secretly.

Mike is adopted you see. He's not like the cats you and I know, of course. He has strange golden eyes that burn into your thoughts and gives you start, a brooding forehead, tiny scrumpled ears and a few thready whiskers. He's more than a deaf and dumb stuffed cat. He has a soul. He's real inside and I've vowed to treat him as so.

Even though he likes his place in the corner behind the sofa, on top of hidden clutter, he comes out now and again, giving Gretchen a shudder, and today I let him sit atop my computer and tell me all his woes.

I re-introduced Gretchen to Mike, today. Still she just hasn't accepted him as real. But I have.