It’s not that I have anything against cats. I suppose they’re cuddly little critters. And fairly low maintenance at that.
Thing is, my love is out of the country and my son lives with his mom most of the time. They’re the ones who adore cats.
And here I am studying dry food versus raw fish.
––––––––––
Beate Sigriddaughter grew up in Germany and now lives in New Mexico with so much to tell about in-between.
By Will H. Blackwell, Jr.
A friend, leaving unexpectedly (trouble with “the law?”), sought a home for his still-unnamed rescue-cat, wondering if I …?
Foolishly, I said, “Yes.”
The little creature was intriguing—purest white! Purring softly as snowfall, it would ‘round up,’ snuggling.
Unimaginatively, I named it “Snowball.”
Undemanding, but seemingly inattentive, it didn’t learn its name.
Eyes crystal-blue—it made odd, squeaking sounds. I thought: You don’t even know how to meow!—eventually discovering, sadly, it was stone-deaf—a genetic-disorder among white, blue-eyed cats.
Evenings, though, if I shine laser-lights upon the wall, Snowball livens—chasing the moving dots like summer fireflies.
––––––––––
“I like writing about uncertain situations, that just might turn out all right in the long-run.” – the writer
By B.W. Carter
The cat (any cat, really) sits on her haunches by the back door, eyeing a beetle knocked on its back while trundling. The cat (tail thumping linoleum like a patrolman who, newly stumbled upon some vagabond, passes his baton palm to palm) measures up her quarry, one paw raised over tiny wheeling legs.
Pink flicker of tongue; steady, steady, the thump of her tail.
Then, with a disdainful air of the patrolman out for a more newsworthy crime, she turns head, shoulder, tail, and is off to another room. The beetle, forgotten, swims the air in circles on its back.
“I write because I can’t not write.” – the writer
By Pat Brunson
By Mrs. Jerry Wilson
Jerry Wilson said it a thousand times, “Cats are so damn stupid.” White Socks had nicked herself on a tuna can three times in the last eight years. All minor lacerations.
His wife said, “Then don’t give her a sharp can!” She rushed Jerry to the emergency room. The cat oblivious to all the drama.
“Yes Mr. Wilson, your fingers will need stiches,” the ER physician said. “Aren’t you the same guy I stitched up his fingers six months ago?” Jerry nodded.
“It’s essential only your wife operate the can opener.”
“I write to make people smile, whether in a journal article, short story, or cartoon.” – the writer
By Beth Moulton
My cat Lucy sleeps on my chest in the night. Sometimes I startle awake from the weight of him, afraid my heart is squeezing shut, but no. It’s just Lucy. He lays purring between my breasts, his heart to my heart.
When Lucy was a kitten, the vet told me he had a heart murmur.
“So do I,” I said.
Now, on bottomless nights, when Lucy aligns his heart with mine, and his purrs rumble through my chest, I wonder what my murmur feels like to him. And I hope with all of my heart that it feels like purring.
“I write because there are stories that need to be told and writing is the only way that I know to tell them.” – the author
By Michael Thomas Ellis
I am not a gnarled desire grasping
for a younger persuasion
nor a groomed garden cutting
to be tossed once withered.
I may have veined hands
and sweetbreads not fresh-baked
but I laugh deliciously
and live to knead your dreams.
So let me be your Persian cat
dug deep in the quilts
to be remembered
and found
without thinking
and I will reward you
with my purr.
Michael Thomas Ellis is looking forward to next year, trying hard to be an optimist.
They met every day.
The tabby cat appeared first, and took her place atop the old weathered table in the middle of the veranda. There she lay like a queen, her white paws tucked in, secure in her high ground advantage. The ginger cat came later and settled on the floor, never more than two meters away from the table.
They never played, never fought, never acknowledged each others existence in any way. Their relationship was a study in pretend indifference. A waste of time, to our human mind, but who were we to judge that inscrutable mystery, the cat.
thedrabble.wordpress.com 