Mike the Mysterious: Episode 6: Writer Wannabe

Mike, The Writer Wannabe

Mike had been out in the living room in his basket and still wearing that silly feathered hat for over a month now. I was getting worried about him. I was thinking it was time for a change of scenery. I must have broken the spell he was in when I moved the living room sofa back to its winter position, against the wall. I finally persuaded him to put the orange and black hat and cape away until October. "Besides, you're getting very dusty, Mike!" I complained to him.

He reminded me that I was supposed to be making him a new costume. A sparkly wizard's hat and cape. "We'll," I said, "that won't happen for awhile. So let's just put this costume away and pick out something else to wear. At least until it's time to pull out the bear's sweaters again." He frowned, but gave up his costume willingly. "It's been way to warm for this thing anyway," he groaned.

I gave him a good shake to get off all the dust that had accumulated on his melted back fur, and wiped the dirt from his golden, glass eyes. I could tell he was very appreciative of my efforts to spruce him up a bit.

So, today when I came into the office to turn on the computer, I found Mike already at the keyboard. He said it was time to write a story for Cat Tuesday and he was going to write his own story. I'd said I wasn't ready to do that yet, but he'd just jammed on a pair the bear's glasses; how he'd found them I'll never know, and started up the computer.

"I wanna be a writer like you," he stated mater-of-factly, and started clicking away at the keyboard.

"Wait," I yelled. That's my new computer. You're gonna mess things up. Move aside and let me do the typing. You just tell me what you want to say. Nobody, and that includes you fluffheads, is gonna use my keyboard!"

A wry glint flashed across a golden eye as he politely reminded me that Gretchen was allowed to blog, so why couldn't he blog, too? I had no rational answer that I could give him that didn't sound prejudiced against fluffheads, no matter how smart they were."Okay," I finally relented. "But if you mess things up I'm going to de-fluff you piece, by wiry piece.'
I'm sure the thought of being de-fluffed was horrifying to him. He didn't argue with me anymore, he just climbed up on the desk and started dictating to me.

"Okay," he began. "My name is Mike the Mysterious, as you well know, and I'm gonna write my memoirs."

"Wait," I said, holding my hand up to stop him from continuing. "Your memoirs? You have memories to write about?"

He just looked at me through a pair of yellow lenses that belonged to the bears, and stated: "I had a life once. Maybe it was a long time ago, but I did have a life."

"Sorry," I said. "Please continue."

"I need to get my thoughts together. Hand me a pencil, will you? And I'll need some note paper, those colorful sticky things you're always using will do. I'll need a Dictionary and a Thesaurus…"

I rolled my eyes as I watched him scurry about on my desk writing notes, thumbing through the Dictionary, the Thesaurus, and the spelling book I keep by the keyboard. I didn't even try to explain that the word program I used had a thing called spell-check.

Minutes ticked by while Mike made notes. Sticky note paper flew in all directions. I think he just loved the idea of scratching a few words and tearing off sheets of tiny paper and sticking them to things, more than he did in making serious notes about his life.
"Ummm, Mike?" I asked, after about twenty minutes of this activity. "Are we going to write today, or what?"

"Oh, yes," he squealed with delight. "Yes, just let me get something to nibble on first. All this thinking has made me hungry." Gretchen had woken up from her nap in her Crystal Geyser Box on the desk and had padded over to her munching table for a light snack. The distraction was too much for Mike, he flew across the desk to where Gretchen was happily scarffing down Temptations and solicited her for a few morsels.

I shouldn't have been surprised that Gretchen moved over so Mike could grab a few bits for himself. Had it been a real-life, furry creature, I'm sure Gretchen would have had a few distasteful words to say, maybe even a well placed swat to the nose…I don't think she's the snack-sharing type. But Mike is Mysterious and has a way with getting around things like sibling rivalry—in this case fluffhead annoyances. Besides, I think Gretchen's already aware that Mike can't really eat. He just pretends. So her little stash was in no real danger.

I had emails to answer and some blogs to look at so I let Mike alone for a spell. Next I noticed he'd found the extra pouch of Temptations and had taken over Gretchen's napping box. Would Gretchen allow him to do that? I looked around. Gretchen had departed for other parts of the apartment. She probably had to visit the little girlcat box and take a drink from the toilet.

I continued to blog, thankful that Mike was distracted from wanting me to write his memoirs. I glanced over at him after a few more minutes. He was enamored by the blue, foil packet that Gretchen's treats came in. It must have been like catnip to him, he got all glassy-eyed as he rolled around and bunny kicked the packet.

Okay, this was weirding me out. I took the packet of salmon flavored treats away from Mike and put them back in the cubbyhole on my hubby's desk. I noticed a few Hershey's chocolate bars stashed in there, too. Hmmm. I poked around some more and stole a candy bar for myself. He wouldn't mind. After all, it was chocolate, and when a woman comes across a chocolate bar, no matter who it belongs to, it's hers.

"Enough!" I told Mike. "Either you get back over here and tell me what to write, or take a nap. I've got work to do."

Mike looked up at me with widened, glazed eyes. For a moment there I was afraid for the candy bar I held in my hand. You don't suppose Mike wants chocolate, too? Naw, I reminded myself. He's just a fluffhead. A quirky little piece of melted back nylon and…hmm, what was he made of, really? I had to take a look at his tag. Aw, yes, "Ty Inc © 2000 (hmm, he's just seven years old? how on earth could he have memoirs?) OAKBROOK, IL., REG. NO. PA—oh geesh, I had to get the magnifying glass—1965 (KR), ALL NEW MATERIAL, CONTENTS POLYESTER, FIBER & P.E. PELLETS IN CLOTH BAG, HANDMADE IN CHINA, CE." Well, that told me nothing. Whatever the outer material was, it certainly was defective. All but his legs and tail had melted in the dryer.

"Hey, come on, Mike!" I startled him out of his salmon flavored induced trance. "Let's get going here I've got other things to do today. I've also got to produce a story for Cat's on Tuesday."

"Oh, dear," his apology was a bit slurred. "Where were we? Ah, yes…my memoirs. Grab me that yellow legal pad, will you?" Mike shuffled across the desk, stepped on a few keys 3lzj;oirtiasfj and settled himself on the note pad by the hard drive, a small pencil tucked behind his ear. "It all began, a hundred years or so, ago; in a land very far away…" he paused, looked up at me over the tops of his glasses, "so far in fact that I'm afraid you've never heard of it, D."

Okay, I was beginning to see that this project was going to take longer than I thought, not to mention the stretch his imagination was going to take. I took his dictation without comment. He was pretty good at story telling actually, and I told him so. In the fluffhead world his story could possibly become a Best Seller.

Mike grinned, and as I was editing a few details, he had scurried back across the keyboard, stepping on a few more keys jwerjgno;ijheoiujtu9235hr and settled himself back in Gretchen's napping box. When I looked up he had my cell phone open and was punching numbers with his thick, black stub that he had for a paw.

"Hey, Mike! Not my cell phone!" I grabbed it before he could punch send. "Who in the world are you calling?"

"My agent," he said.

Cat Tuesday: Lazy Days

I'm sure Gattina's got lots more cat stories...go here to find out what the rest of the group is up too.

Sorry folks, I have no short story today. I know it's Tuesday and it's cat's day. So here's my lazy cat. She wouldn't get out of bed today...the roofers are back and doing more work on the roofs. For two days she's been under the covers. All the noise is too much for her...and me. I've just about got things settled down on my computer and should be back to normal next week. Just too much going on and only so much energy. I feel like a cat-nap myself. *yawn*

Have a good COT day, everybody.

Question: What's a cat's favorite color? Purr-ple!

Cats on Tuesday: Befriending Ferals

This is a true story...

For the past eight years a sweet, disabled, old man, whom I've dubbed the cat-man for the purpose of this story, has driven fourteen miles, round trip, each day to feed several groups of feral cats. He has a soft spot in his heart that is filled to the brim with compassion for the abandoned and feral kitties there. He saves table scraps, leftovers, and sometimes when he has the extra bit of cash, he buys a large bag of dry cat food. He has a sweet kitty of his own at home, and also gives her all the tender love and care that he gives to his kitties in the wild.

Eight years ago cat-man began visiting a friend's farm. It's not the kind of farm where you think: barns, barn cats, lady of the house to feed them and so for. It's the business end of the farm, shop buildings, office, bunkhouse for their workers. There's no one there to take care of, or has the time to care about the kitties that have been taken out there and dropped off.

The Alpha Cat

Cat-man's farmer friends look forward to him coming out and taking care of the wild kitties around their out buildings. He was even given a key to the shop building so he could go out and feed the kitties anytime he wanted and hangout with them. Every morning he gets up early, has his breakfast and goes out to visit his family of cats; three males and one female with five kitties.

Gray male--and acting father

Groups of cats come and go at their buildings, in their fields, and orchards. Some get run over on the road, other's get sick and just disappear, but for the past two years now, cat-man has made friends out of this group of, now, nine cats. He has a way with wild things, a cat whisperer of sorts. He has not named the wild cats, and no one else can even approach any of them; they skedaddle whenever anyone else comes around. But the cats do know his car and come running when he pulls into the lot. The old guy sits in a wheelchair and they come to him to be fed and petted. They hang out with him as he watches television for a few hours and chats with the foreman and some of the help. He is a farmer at heart, and misses the days when he could do that kind of work.

the old man's fuzzy buddy

One male cat in particular, the one cat-man has describes to me as his fuzzy buddy, is the first to come up to him every morning as soon as he arrives. When he has eaten his fill he climbs upon the man's chest, rubs against his chin, sits in lap, and takes a nap, purring. This wild cat will not think twice about using his claws on anyone else on the farm that even tries to come near him. Yet he is as gentle and loving as a domesticated cat to the old man.

fuzzy buddy in the shade

Out of the three males, his fuzzy buddy is the lowest cat on the cat's chain of hierarchy. The Alpha cat is a large grayish, striped cat; next in line is a gray male, and then the man's fuzzy buddy. The cat-man tells me that the Alpha male is the meanest thing on earth and keeps everyone in line. Fuzzy buddy is the one that gets the most abuse from the big boss cat.

Earlier this summer a female came upon the scene. She had kittens suckling and hidden somewhere, but each day she came to try out the food. The cat-man patiently coaxed her to him, day after day, until she just came right up and ate beside the other cats at his feet. Not too many weeks went by after she had first appeared than she brought out her five kittens from their hiding place for the old man to see.

Kitties first outing, about 5 or 6 weeks old

The momma cat has taught her babies about how nice this man is and not to be afraid. Over the weeks, one by one, each has made approaches to the shop building and learned to eat the food. Now the kittens dash about inside the shop building, playing and napping on the furniture as if they owned the place.

Kitties playing in the shop's office

The mean cat, or the boss of them all, as the old man puts it, lets the kittens play near him and tolerates them. But will spit at them if they get to close. The all gray one tends to the kittens like a father when the momma cat is off somewhere. Fuzzy buddy is a little battle scared and worn, but the cat-man won't interfere because it means an execution for the Alpha male. He's at a dilemma over this situation, but because he loves all the cats, he can't bring harm to one for doing what comes naturally in a feral world. But, he says, sometimes it's hard to watch him beat up on the two other males, especially because he and fuzzy buddy are so close. Or maybe because of it.

Kitties test the food

Cat-man has tamed other little groups of wild cats such as these in the past eight years; watched them as kittens come out of hiding and make friends. And he's sadly had to bury a few. His heart breaks, when one is lost, but he lets them alone, and they have given him their friendship in return. And sometimes their mice.

Momma and kitties eating and washing up

From the variety of the litter, it looks as if each of the three males had a part in fathering the kittens. There's a gray one, a fuzzy one, like the old mans fuzzy buddy, and one like the Alpha male. And two like the mother.

They are growing up healthy and happy for now. But like most feral cats, they'll never be adopted by forever families. These cats are destined to remain wild and as long as the cat-man can get out to see them, they will not go hungry. Even some of the laborers that live in the bunkhouse are now saving food for them. Plus...as it is in all farm buildings, there are always plenty of mice.

Cats on Tuesday: Neighborhood Nightlife: A New Gal In The Village

While you are sleeping, snug and comfy in your beds, dreams floating round in your head, 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?

The giant moth hit the window screen, startling Necco from her dozing on the back of the sofa, at the close of twilight. The sofa was in it's summer position under the open, living room window; the moth's sudden appearance caused the pale tortoise shell cat to sink all four sets of her claws into the cotton throw, raising the hair along her spine from the back of her neck to the tip of her tail. In an attempt to get at the lamp's light inside the room, the moth fluttered against the screen again, but this time Necco was alert and pounced upon the screen, nearly knocking it from its framing. Last summer Necco had popped a screen from the bedroom during the day and scared the living daylights out of her guardian, and herself. It wasn't a long way to the ground; living on the ground floor, so flying out the window wouldn't have caused her any harm, unless you think about her dignity, and the fact that suddenly being outside in a world she'd only viewed through the window screens, would really be a terrifying thing for a cat such as herself.

Her guardians immediately secured all the window screens after that, perchance Necco should again, accidentally hit the screen too hard while after a bug, or in one of her wound up, fast-as-a-race-car, window-to-window midnight sorties. Spazzing out her male guardian called it. Racing from the front room windows to the back room windows, often with only one bounce onto and off of the bed, hitting the bedroom windowsill with perfect precision. Well, that's what cats do best, Necco had protested, after her guardian had once scolded her about it in the middle of the night. It’s a form of exercise that keeps my muscles toned, my claws sharp, and my senses honed, she'd complained to him. Like any human could understand her feline language. She couldn't exactly understand the human form of speech either, but she was a very bright cat and could figure things out pretty fast. She'd been in a human environment since she'd left her mother's side at five weeks old. More than three years now. So she's had a lot of practice at learning what humans had to say.

The moth rattled its wings against the screen again, bringing a sudden, swift, paw strike so hard that it was knocked from the screen onto the lawn below. The longest of the summer days had come and gone, almost a month ago now; hastening the darkness at an earlier hour; hastening the retirement for the night for her elder guardians. Soon they'd be asleep and snoring in rhythmic sighs and snorts. Soon the moon would be high and it would be time for Thorny to bring her, and all the other apartment cats in building four of the Rainbow Estates Senior Village, the latest gossip and happenings—the news.

Because it had been quite stormy out for the past three nights and the windows had to be closed to keep the rain out, Thorny hadn't come to visit. Necco wandered from window to window anyway, but he never showed. The rains had ceased around noon today and even though the breeze was still a bit cool for older folks, Necco's guardians had left all their windows open. They said it was ideal sleeping weather.

A lot had been going on in the little Village since Thorny's last visit, two apartments had been vacated, re-cleaned and received two new sets of tenants. Just before the rains came, Necco was sure she saw a cat carrier being unloaded from the moving truck. She was anxious to know about the new cat in the Village.

The night deepened, her guardian's soft snoring sounds filled her ears as she swiveled them this way and that, tuning out the mundane apartment sounds so that she could hear her friend approaching. The breeze had stilled, the harmonized voices of the crickets and frogs living in the ditches at the properties edge, echoed in the quiet air.

Necco heard the familiar thalump of thickly padded paws landing on the windowsill above her. Markus had awakened from his nap. He slept on the pillow next to his elder guardian's, head. Mo, short for Molina, a tall thin, silver headed lady that had been widowed for nearly thirty years, and only recently, in the past six months, moved into the Village. Necco figured by the way she went and up and down those wicked stairs that she was probably the most agile human in all of the four buildings in the complex. "Markus?" Necco pressed her face and whiskers against the screen, and whispered into the still night. "It's about time you got up. Thorny should be here any minute."

Markus yawned, stretched, then settled his butt on the hard surface of the windowsill before he spoke to Necco. "Yeah, I reckon he's got a lot to tell us tonight." Now, two pairs of ears studied the sounds of the night. The familiar croak of Frog, the orange tabby with the damaged vocal cords, shattered the stillness. "Hey over there, Markus? Necco?" he called. "Sure is good to have these window open again. Thought that dab burned rain would never quit. I guess Thorny's comin' tonight?"

Before Necco or Markus could answer, all three sighted the charcoal and black striped tom marching across the lighted parking lot. He jumped onto the hood of Necco's guardian's car and greeted all three. After a few niceties about the rain and how he'd stayed indoors the past three stormy nights—he was no fool. He had a whole neighborhood of warm, toasty homes to choose from. A gift he'd said. He was so charming and irresistible that all the neighbors vied for his attention. So to please them all, he spent equal amounts of time in each home, enjoying every last morsel of their finest cat dishes.

Necco couldn't stand it. Things had been too quiet in their little senior village since the ambulance took away the little dog, known only as the dog to all the cats in building four, and his guardian, at daybreak, over a week ago. Thorny had learned from Kitty Kat in number eight, that the squeaky little excuse of a dog that lived above Frog, in number six, had somehow gotten tangled up in his leash as he and the old gentlemen that owned him went out to pee. The little rat dog ended up tripping the old man and they tumbled down the stairs, waking everybody in building four, and building one, as four paramedic units, sirens whaling, pulled into the parking lot at four-thirty in the morning. How many pacemakers where jostled by all that excitement would have been interesting to find out. That alone had given the apartment cats in building four enough to talk about for days.

But Necco knew all of that, what she really wanted to know was who moved into the first unit in building one, number sixteen, where Nanny had lived. She knew she'd seen a cat carrier and wanted Thorny to go over there and find out if there was indeed a new cat in the village and all about it.

Thorny had been way ahead of her. He'd trotted over to the new tenants apartment shortly after they moved in, before the rains had started, and sat under the nearest shrub by the window. He saw the gal for himself. "You'd be pleased to know, Necco, that I've already introduce myself to her, and, of course, I told her all about the rest of you. She's a pretty little thing, if I do say so myself. She has a poofy little face and dreamy golden eyes," Thorny stopped, glanced over to the bedroom room window where she would be sitting by now, but because of the tree in front of her apartment, Thorny doubted she could see Necco, or any of the others. He scratched at a pesky itch behind his left ear with his hind paw.

"Well?" Necco egged, "What does she look like, besides her dreamy yellow eyes? What color is her fur and what is her breed? How old is she…I can't stand it, tell us all about her."

Thorny took another moment to wash the paw he'd just scratched his ear with, can't be too careful, you know. Necco stood up, hunched her back and spat, getting Thorny's attention again. "You don't have to go get in a huff, Necco. I'm getting to that part. She's got long white hair and a long poofy white tail. I think she said she's a Persian, or some such thing. She sure is sweet though. You'd all like her."

Thorny yawned, bored with the night and wanting to find a warm bed to sleep in before the day dawned, and before it got too hot. He had such a hard time sometimes, choosing the right house to nap in. They were all so cool and comfy. Life is so hard for a stray that is as charming as he is. "I'll tell you more tomorrow night," he said, turning to leave before Necco could stamp her feet and whack her tale against the widow pane, the way she had a habit of doing when things didn't go her way. "At least tell me her name…" Necco called after him. "Oh," he called back over his shoulder, "forgot to get that bit of information. Tomorrow night, perhaps," then he was gone.

Necco was frustrated and disappointed. Apartment life has its limits. She'd have to depend upon Thorny, a lovable and sassy stray, to bring more news tomorrow night. She said goodnight, to Frog and Markus, friends that she'd never seen the faces of; hearing only their voices echoing in the night.

This is a work of fiction based on real episodes in the life of an apartment cat. Any coincidence to any real human, place or animal is only in the imagination of the author. DBB

Cats on Tuesdays: Mike the Mysterious Episode 5: Feather Love

It's been about a month since Mike was appointed Employee of the Month by the real cat brains of the household, Gretchen, the Queen of Domesticity. Well, all during that time, the Queen has taxed her little kingdom of Fluffheads to the limit. Besides making them find and pick up all of her 84 pink plastic balls, whenever she's through playing with them, I suspect that she's also been having Mike fetch her treats in the middle of the night, while we sleep.

The only clue I have is the little trail of crumbs left behind in the morning. How Mike's getting the jar lid open is beyond me. I know Gretchen can't do it, so he must be using his special, mysterious powers to get the Temptations out of the jar. We buy Gretchen the Salmon flavored Temptations and pour them from the blue foil pouch into a jar with a screw on lid. Otherwise, Gretchen would chew on the pouch until she gets the treats out. I know plastic is not good for her and have to keep it away from her. Besides, once the foil pouch is full of little teeth holes the rest get stale. And she definitely knows which of the jars holds her treats.

Gretchen has been rather moody lately because her boyfriend, who lives in Sweden, can't talk to her on the computer for a whole month; his humans took a very long and far away vacation. So, she spends most of her time hanging out in a windowsill, daydreaming about her sweetheart. Meanwhile, Mike has been forced to do her bidding. The only thing I know for sure he can't do for her, and probably won't do no matter what the prize, is clean out the litter box. I still have that honor.

The other Fluffheads, White Kitten, Zoo Kitty and Beanie Kitty are all lazing about as usual. They give a good show in the beginning but as soon as Mike turns his back they're back in their cozy little bed, sleeping. I asked Mike why he lets them get away with so much? He just shrugged and said, "They have good intentions for creatures with heads full of fiberfill, besides, I can get the job done faster and better by doing it myself."

"Well," I said, patting him on his soft, little head, also picking a few pieces of lint from his crumpled up black fur, "You should be rewarded for all of your hard work. So what would you like this month? Did Gretchen name you her Employee of the Month for July, too?"

Mike's eyes stared at the floor. "I think she's too busy dreaming and thinking up poems to care about what I get as a reward. I suppose it would be nice, to be Employee of the Month again, but it's rather boring, I think." his golden eyes twinkled in the sunlight streaming through the window, brightening his countenance a bit. "Couldn't I have something different this time? Like some feathers of my very own?"

Feathers? I thought about what I had at the moment that had feathers on it that Mike would like. I didn't think it would be nice to take a feather or two from Gretchen's new feather wand. I'm sure that would make her quiet unhappy to share what was now her favorite toy. "How about a change of sweaters?" I suggested. "The bears aren't using them right now and you do look rather spiffy in them. Would you like to pick out a new color?"

I pulled out the craft drawer where I keep the bears things, placed it on the kitchen table and showed Mike a few sweaters. Mike looked interested for a tiny moment, and even picked out a red and tan colored sweater; I think just to please me. But I could see he had his hopes set on feathers. Mike was about to don the new sweater and cap when he spied the Halloween costumes for the bears. A witches hat with orange under the brim and a vampires cap, black on one side and orange on the other. "Oh!" he exclaimed excitedly, "Orange! More orange! I like orange. I look good in orange."

I said, "It's not Halloween for several months, why don't you wait. "No!" he said a little more forcefully than I think he intended. "Please excuse me," he said more quietly, "I really like the orange and if I could have some orange feathers on the hat…wouldn't that look great?" With sparkling eyes and upturned whiskers, the best thing he could do for a smile, he pleaded, "Please?"

Okay, I thought, why not. Mike does all the work around here for Gretchen; why not let him have what pleases him for a little while. The bears won't mind, after all, they've been unceremoniously dumped into a large, black, plastic garbage bag and stored in the storeroom. Then it hit me. "Go ahead and pick out what you like," I said to Mike, "I've got an idea. I'll be right back." While Mike, and now Gretchen, were going through the bears clothes in the craft drawer, I slipped off to my bedroom closet where I have hat's stored in boxes. In one of them was a bright, orange straw hat from Hawaii with lots of fluffy orange feathers on it. Mike nearly cried when he saw me come back into he room with it. So we pinched a few feathers from places that wouldn't show, from the brim of the hat, and I glued them on the little witches hat that Mike had picked out.

I've never seen a happier fluffhead. We turned the little cape to the orange side out and Mike posed with his new duds and the orange straw hat that my mother had bought in Hawaii over forty years ago; it's been in a hatbox in my closet for the past ten.

"This makes me look mysterious, yes?" Mike grinned as he posed for the camera. "I like to look magical and mysterious, you know."

I thought about it for a moment and realized that Mike did look good in the black and orange costume, but I think what he really needs is a black and purple wizards outfit, with sparkling glitter and a shiny moon, and some stars on it. Then he'll really look mysterious. Perhaps next month I'll get around to it.

After scolding Gretchen and the Fluffheads about getting into the treat jar, they all agreed not to do that anymore. Once peace was restored, I played a rousing game of feathers and pink balls with Mike and Gretchen, and now, all are off in their favorite napping places, sleeping away a very, very hot afternoon. This is the kind of day I pray the AC doesn't fail. DBB

Cats on Tuesday

It's been a very busy couple of days for me and I cannot believe it's Cat Tuesday already. I haven't had much time to think about a story, and Gretchen has just told everyone about the excitment in her day on her site, plus the day is almost over for my end of the world, a new day already dawning with most of my cat friends, so I was just not going to post at all until I read an article in today's paper. An article by Deborah Wood in her column, Pet Talk in the Oregonian, made me think again on poor little Ragpuff's fate. I thought I would share it with all, mostly because I was concerned that Ragpuff already had a family and our manager just had him hauled off and dumped in a field somewhere...and what if he did have a family aready? And if he did, they would never know what had happened to him.

Impulse to save a stray cat may mean swiping someone's pet instead
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Pets/Question time

Q: My animal-loving daughter is moving back home for the summer after her junior year at college. She's been feeding a cat (dubbed Mooch for the moment) that's been hanging out in her neighborhood and wants to bring him home with her. I'm concerned that the cat may belong to someone. Many years ago (before I realized the importance of cats living inside), my husband and I had a cat that we found out was living part time with a neighbor -- we never knew until they told us. My family wants to do the right thing; we just need help figuring out what it is.

A: There are roughly as many feral, abandoned and homeless cats as there are cats with loving homes, so the odds are good that Mooch needs you. Still, many cats do hang out at multiple homes, and you don't want to take someone's pet.
First, take a look at the cat and his habits. Does Mooch seem thin and hungry or round and shiny? Is he hanging around the yard most of the time, or does he seem to be splitting his time with another home?
A great way to find if he has a home is to put a collar on him with your daughter's number and a note to say, "Call if you own this cat."
Cats seldom stray far from their homes, so your daughter should ask the neighbors if he belongs to any of them.
With digital cameras, it's easy to create "Found Cat" posters, and most newspapers run "Found Pet" ads without charge.
Before taking the cat, she should have it scanned at a veterinarian's office or the local shelter for a microchip. She should also leave information with the shelter about the cat in case someone comes looking for Mooch.
People who have found an animal -- or lost one -- can get more helpful tips at http://www.lostapet.org/.

~~~~

For what it's worth, I probably could have done more than I did to help Ragpuff (don't know what his real name was, of course), and I can't say, right now, if I will pursue what happened to this little creature anymore. It's a lot more complicated than I can tell about and I need to do some more thinking on the subject. A lesson learned.

Cats on Tuesdays: Neighborhood Nightlife

While you're sleeping, snug and comfy in your beds, dreams floating round in your head, 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?

Apartment life is daunting at best. Small, cramped corners of life often limited to only one or two indoor cats per unit. This tale is about Necco and her feline neighbors. There are eight apartment units in Necco's building, seven occupied by cats, and one with a dog. Small, rat-like dog, but a dog none the less. No one ever spoke directly to the dog, only about it.

Necco, a pretty pale tortie with sparkling green eyes, spent many lonely nights during the winter, sitting on one windowsill or another, staring out into the starry, cold, darkness. All throughout the silent winter, Necco savored every thought, stored every idea, so that as soon as the warm summer nights came, and the windows were left open, she could have something to talk about with her neighbors.

Summer came late this year; one cold snap after another kept the nighttime windows closed all through June. Frustrated she paced, flew to each window in haste at every shadowy movement on the apartment grounds. Finally, finally, the weather mellowed out and the windows were left open. Necco sat on the wide bedroom windowsill, eagerly taking in great gulps air: scents of sweet, damp, earth, mingled with other scents floating in on the midnight air. Her guardians were asleep in their beds, their breaths slow and even, the soft whirl of the refrigerator could be heard in the kitchen, the low, slow, click, click, click, as the seconds ticked by on the living room wall clock. Her ears twitched quickly in every direction identifying each tiny sound.

"Necco, are you there?" a whisper floated down from the apartment above, barely audible above her own beating heart. Necco twitched her tail, perked her ears and leaned into the screen, hoping it would hold her weight. Markus, a black and white, lived above her. He too had waited seemingly endless nights for the windows to be left open to the outside air. "It's me, Markus," he called in a low whisper. His guardian was a woman who lived alone and rarely left her windows open all night. "Has Thorny come by yet?"

Thorny was a large, charcoal gray and thick black striped, roaming tom that lived somewhere out there in the darkness. There was no single home he permanently called his own. He was a roamer, a charmer, too, there were many homes in the neighborhood with willing humans that claimed him, fed him, caressed him, and talked to him as if he were human, too. Thorny knew everyone and everything in the neighborhood, and he was the apartment cat's only source of news.

Another voice whispered into the warm, fragrant air, "Necco? Markus?" it croaked. Frog was duly named because he had once been strangled on the Venetian blinds cord when he was a little guy. The little orange tabby was only eight weeks old at the time. He'd been bouncing in and out of the windows with glee, pawing the dangling cord until his hind legs slipped out from underneath him, he floundered in midair by the neck, gargling and gasping for breath. His guardian had heard him choking and rushed into the room, untangling him just in the nick of time. Life number one was nearly over by the time she revived him. No one remembered what his real name was. Just Frog is all anyone new him by. His vocal cords had been damaged and he would forever croak instead of mew.

"Frog!" Necco and Markus greeted him in unison. "Have you seen Thorny, yet?"
Frog pushed his head into the screen, sidling into it to get the maximum view of the parking lot. "Nope, not yet, I'll go look out the living room window."
"Let's all go to the other side," Necco suggested, "we can talk better in there, less chance of waking our guardians."

Each cat silently dropped from the bedroom window, sped down the hall and leaped stealthily into the front room windows. Thorny had just come into view, the full moonlight shimmering off his shiny, stripped coat, prancing heavily through the dew covered grass.

More heads pressed against window screens as he came within talking distance. Fluffy Girl, a pleasant Himalayan lived upstairs across the hall from the dog, which lived above Frog. Downstairs under Fluffy Girl was Kattie Kat, a broad tailed tan and cream Maine coon with deeply lined blue eyes. Prissy, a tiny, orange powder puff, of unknown origin lived across the hall from Markus, and above TBC (Troublesome Black Cat). An elderly widowed man was his guardian.

All of the humans living there were fifty-five an older; the apartment complex purported to be a Senior Village. Necco was the only one who still had two guardians; all the others in the village were single.

By the time Thorny reached the main patio and comforted himself under the golden glow of the round patio light, seven dark figures were perched upon window sills, ears trained towards the tom, waiting for the news. Stories flew from the windows to Thorny, from Thorny to windows. Necco and her friends lived in building four. Building three, set at an odd angle to building four, gained some new tenants over the winter months. Necco had seen a catly shadow in a window or two on occasion. Now Thorny was telling the cats in building four about the cats in building three, building two, and even building one. Nanny, an old momma cat in building one, had to go to the vet; she had a cough and never came back. The human, Mrs. Wassel, in building two, had fallen and broken her leg. Her children were moving her into an assisted living home and she would not be able to keep her cat, Freckles. In building three, Mrs. Korn's husband died and the management was forcing her to move into a single, one bedroom unit. Something about a couple needing her handicapped apartment was the reason. The news of that move had all the humans in a stir. Would anyone else who lived alone, and in a two-bedroom unit, be safe? It was a puzzle because every apartment in building three and four were two bedrooms and Necco's apartment was the only one now occupied by a couple. A new manager had come in during the winter and made so many new rules and changes that some of the older tenants had gotten sick over the shakeup and had to go to the hospital. Necco reflected about how disturbed her guardians had been by some of the things going on in the Village over the winter. But just last month, the new manager was fired. The newer, new manager, however, wasn't all that much better. There was still no rhyme or reason for the constant turmoil management kept the elderly tenants in.

Soon the moon had begun to set, the stars were fading in the dark-turquoise sky; Thorny had rounds to make, territory to claim and protect. "Too bad," he shook his massive shoulders and licked the fur on his spine back into place, "about Freckles, I mean. Nice old tom, doesn't have too much longer to live, himself. He's got to be near ninety-two by now (nearly 19 in human years). To have to find new guardians in his late years…" Thorny scratched a flea behind his left ear and shook his head, "just too bad…he'll probably end up getting…the you know what," he pressed his lips together and tried to talk out of the side of his mouth in a way that young Prissy couldn't hear him, "get the needle…" Six of the cats shuddered; they knew what the needle meant. They'd all visited the vet and heard the stories. Prissy was clueless.

Thorny bid them all a goodnight, or good morning if you chose to look at the hour. The cats sat in their windowsills for a few more moments, trying to talk to each other without seeing each other. Not one of them had ever seen what the other looked like. Only what they sounded like, or sometimes when the breeze was just right, what their scents said about them. Things were changing in their little neighborhood.

Now that the windows were open at night, Necco looked forward to Thorny's, and maybe one or two of his friends, visits around three o'clock in the wee hours of the morning and give them tidbits of neighborhood life.

The names and places have been changed to protect the felines and their guardians. What is your cat doing at three AM…do you know?

Cats on Tuesday: Catty and Mousey Games

Since Gretchen was little, by that I mean about two and half years ago, I found these little stuffed, furry mice in the local grocery/department store in our town. Back then they were sold individually for sixty-nine cents each. They were so like the real little gray mice that inhabit a kitchen cabinet full of dry stuff, beans or noodles and such. I particularly liked the individual ones over the package of three or more mice in different colors, and it was so easy to pick up just one and throw it the shopping bag every time I went to the store. Gretchen got so excited when we came home with shopping bags, that she anxiously snooped through each one until she found her new mouse, flipped it out of the sack and headed off to play with it until she was tired or had lost it.

She was fun to watch and finally ended up with about four-dozen mice altogether, before the store quit selling them in the bulk bin and started carrying only the packaged mice. That's when Gretchen's fun ended. The excitement and the smell of a new rabbit fur mouse hidden somewhere amongst the groceries was something Gretchen expected; looked forward to. For a while I bought the packages of colored mice and took them out of their wrappings before I got home and threw them into the bag, but it was not the same. The smell of the plastic wrapped mice did not have whatever smell the other ones had that alerted her mousing instincts; even being born in human surroundings cats are supposedly born with a natural instinct to hunt furry critters. There may be some exceptions to this rule because I've had a few house-born cats that hadn't the foggiest notion of what to do with a live, furry critter scurrying across the kitchen floor.

It has taken a good year, at least, to find a substitute for the gray bit of fluff she so loved to hunt. Gretchen would get thoroughly annoyed with us once the mice stopped showing up in the shopping bags. She'd wait for moments of revenge, hide behind the door, or jump out of the closet and bite my ankles as I passed by. She only does that when she's expecting something of me that I can't deliver, or have forgotten to deliver.

From furry mice we went to treats. She loves the Temptations Salmon treats in the bright blue foil pack over any other kind. She learned to identify the color of the bag in the grocery sack by our making a huge deal over it hoping to take her mind of the nonexistent mice. We let her pull the foil package out of the sacks and play with it until she tried to bite her way into it, then we'd open it and give her a snack.

Okay, I forgot sometimes, I mean she had a dozen bags already stockpiled and buying her another treat bag every time I went shopping was senseless. I tried other types of toys to give her reason to go through the sacks, but she never took to them. The plastic balls with the bells in them, they had her attention for about a minute, no surprise there anymore; the catnip toys, or balls filled with catnip, even catnip bubbles. No surprise there either.
Now I know it's entirely my fault. I've spoiled her rotten. Because of the furry mice hunts in her kitten days, she expects, no…demands something, to this day, of every shopping trip.

Well, I have found one thing that peaks her interest for about three minutes and that's the pink, practice golf balls. There's a dozen in a bag, and she now recognizes the bag and gets ready for me to open it and throw them one at a time, as soon as she spots them.

Sorry, I've drifted away from my reason for writing about the little furry mice made of gray rabbit fur in the first place. Back to the tale.

With about four-dozen mice accumulated, Gretchen played and played and played with the mice. When she'd finally lost the last of the lot under the fridge, between the sofa cushions, under the dresser, where a mouse could fall in a crack and hide, Gretchen would start her following me about routine, mewing in a distressed way. I learned to recognize this mew from that of treat, a spoonful of wet food, or dry. Once I realized what she was after, I, or rather, we—she and I—went on these mice hunts. I pulled out the furniture, looked under the bed, took the back scratcher to sweep them from under the sofa, the dresser or the fridge, all the while Gretchen crouched with frenzied anticipation for each mouse found and then placed in a pile in the middle of the living room floor for her to disperse at her leisure throughout the house again. This often took several days before all the mice had to be found again. Thank goodness!

The mouse find that I love the most is when we had a thirty-gallon aquarium. My husband and I often would turn off the TV at night before retiring for bed and just sit and enjoy the illuminated tank full of fish. I'm the one who cleaned the tank, so one would think I'd noticed it sooner than I did. Our Plecotomus, algae eater, usually took good care of the green furry things growing in the tank, but he didn't seem to be taking care of this dark gray fuzzy thing in the back corner by the filter tubes and it seemed to be growing. Next I noticed the flow of the filter wasn't the same. These, to me at least, were obvious signs of it needing cleaning. After a few more days of putting off the inevitable, I finally began to break down the tank for a good cleaning. The gray furry thing turned out to be one of Gretchen's brood. Somehow, she had managed to slip one through the small opening by the filter, into the tank. It had completely disintegrated by the time I had gotten to it. The now floating rabbit fur had clogged the filter and all that was left of it was this slimy, hairless piece of hide and the hard plastic form that made it look like a mouse in the first place.

Gretchen's down to about a dozen, well chewed, little gray mice now, and a few of the more expensive, longer furred critters that she really doesn't give a hoot about. We play our "you-throw-I-watch-you-pick-up" game with the few mice that are left only occasionally now (that's been replaced with the pink plastic golf balls). I think she's accepted the fact there probably aren't going to be anymore of them. I've sucked them up in the vacuum, she's dropped them in the waste baskets, a few she's dismantled entirely and a few she's chewed the tails off of, and of course, one went swimming. Often I'd find them under my pillow or buried in the blankets, or dropped in a shoe.

We still get that expectant look, and accompanying mew, upon entering the apartment with any grocery sack or shopping bag, but the excitement of the hunt is gone. I'm sure pet shops have furry gray mice piled in open bins like we once had here locally, but we live in a small community with only a few choices. I've thought of a dozen different ways to get them like that again, but I think it wouldn't work. I believe part of the excitement of finding the mouse, loose in the sack, had to be coupled with other smells that intrigued her and enticed her to play with them so vigorously…smells from the store, the clerk who touched them as she scanned and bagged them, smells from other people's hands perhaps, that had picked them up and put them back, long before I got to the store. Perhaps all those smells filled her imagination with a variety of things I'll never be aware of—because of her acute sense of smell.

One consolation: I'm sure in her little cat dreams, she's finding her favorite, little furry mice in grocery bag after grocery bag.

Tomorrow Gretchen will be flying her Cats on Tuesday Peace Banner for Wordless Wednesday, please stop by and have a look at it.

Cats on Tuesday: Episode Three - Mike's Day in the Sun

I hadn't noticed anything unusual about the living room when I woke that morning, 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 now 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 unmade 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 not 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 table 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