The Petty Loss

In “Anecdotal Tales”, stories will be told.  Some will be fun, some will not.  Some will be great, some will be less so.  Some stories are true, some are merely possible.  This is one of them.

The Petty Loss

The size of a misfortune is not determinable by an outsider’s measurement of it, but only by the measurement applied to it by the person specially affected by it. The king’s lost crown is a vast matter to the king, but of no consequence to the child.  The lost toy is a great matter to the child, but in the king’s eyes it is not a thing to break the heart about.” –Mark Twain

The small boy was instantly struck with fright
When his eyes were met by the tragic sight.
Warren came home and saw the door ajar
And worried his cat could be rather far.

His precious pet was the curious type
Its need for adventure was always ripe.
The family tried to keep the door shut
So the cat would be safe from any mutt.

Often Warren looked at the furry face,
Warning the feline of the outside place.
He liked the fluff ball to stay at his side,
Who knew what could happen to it outside?

Hours of searching with no cat around,
No paw prints to follow on the hard ground.
Calling out and searching were all in vain,
The parents called it with the start of rain.

So Warren went to bed, the time was late
He couldn’t believe his best friend’s new fate.
Tears flowed as he thought of his pet with dread,
Then he heard a meow from under his bed.

Pic from Best of Web

The boy sat up quickly, hearing the noise,
He cleared away all the mess and the toys.
And there, in a heap, just as sure as that,
Was the confused, still sleepy, pussycat.

Rambo’s Pain

In “Anecdotal Tales”, stories will be told.  Some will be fun, some will not.  Some will be great, some will be less so.  Some stories are true, some are merely possible.  This is one of them.

Rambo’s Pain

Of all God’s creatures there is only one that cannot be made the slave of the lash.  That one is the cat.  If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve man, but it would deteriorate the cat.” –Mark Twain

Rambo hobbled across the floor.  He had suffered a grave injury; one which he would never fully recover from.  Rambo had been scratched, scraped, and attacked before.  This time was different.  He could feel the powerful drugs that had been administered by men in face masks starting to wear off.  Rambo was still groggy, but he was conscious enough to comprehend what had been done to him.  Rambo looked at his fresh scar and howled.  It is a cruel fate indeed to have a cat “snipped”.

You want to cut -what- now?

Rambo walked through his home with illusions floating about him.  He suddenly felt the need to run up to the kitchen counter, meow, and run back to the bathroom.  He wasn’t exactly sure what mystery force was out to get him, but he let the delusions dictate his behavior for the moment.  Of course, once he stopped scurrying about, he realized the price of his exertion.  His front paws were just fine, but Rambo’s hind legs had a stinging pain that was exacerbated by his antics.  The result was a slightly rhythmic tone in his mind with every span of ground he passed.  As his paws went “step step, step step”, his nerves answered back “fine-Ow!, fine-Ow!”.

The newly butchered cat tried to figure out what he had done to deserve such a cruel punishment.  Yes, he had lobbed his fair share of hairballs onto the carpet.  It was summer, it was hot, and his fur still needed to be maintained.  What else was a cat to do?  That wasn’t the sort of activity that would be hindered by having “those” organs removed.  Perhaps his owners were jealous of the attention he had lavished upon the next door cat.

He couldn’t help what came naturally to his him.  They were called instincts for a reason.  And Rambo had always had a thing for Siamese felines.  He was just being neighborly.  Humans, they just didn’t understand.

Go. Away.

At last, the sun began to shine in the perfect way.  Rambo knew that there was still one treat left in his life.  There would be no more associating with the finer residents of his species.  No more frolicking.  And running after anything, be it mouse or dust bunny, was simply out of the question until he healed up.  But there was one hope for enjoyment in the cat’s life.

Rambo settled on a warm spot of carpet as the afternoon sun lulled him back to sleep.  Rambo the mighty would not be denied this one final comfort.  After all that had been taken from him, the cat just wanted to lay in the sunbeam and be the master of his small domain.

Creaky Chairs and Those that Love Them (Daily Post Challenge)

In “Anecdotal Tales”, stories will be told. Some will be fun, some will not. Some will be great, some will be less so. Some stories are true, some are merely possible. This is one of them.

Creaky Chairs and Those that Love Them (Daily Post Challenge)

Wealth consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants.” -Epictetus

Asking a person about their favorite possession can be tricky.  My first notion was to answer, “My cat”.  However, there are some, including my cat, who would state that a cat is a roommate, not a possession.  I don’t own her, especially since she was free.  (Mylar would also state that she is no one’s “thing”.  She is her own creature with plenty of attitude to show off.)  So I must share an anecdote about my favorite possession, one which Mylar happens to approve of.

Not my chair, but you get the idea.
From Wikipedia.

I once made a point of mentioning that I wanted my Dad’s rocking chair.  There are plenty of grand things in my parent’s house, but all I really cared about were the grandfather clock and rocking chair.  I like wood furniture.  Give me a bookshelf that I can hammer back together over a rusting metal rack any day.  However, waiting for my father to pass on is both morbid and requires more patience than I have in me.  So I went out and got my own dang rocking chair.

There is a furniture shop a few miles from where I live and they specialize in wood furniture.  That fact alone makes it my kind of place.  I stepped into the glass door and right near the front entry was a nice collection of rocking chairs all lined up like The Rockettes.  I was a happy camper.

Now, even as a young college student, I knew enough to respect the classic rocking chair.  I have no use for gliding chairs.  Chairs should sway back and forth soothingly on two long and curved slats of wood.  A rocking chair should not pivot to and fro on a parallelogram assembly.  Two horizontal pieces and two vertical pieces attached by metal screws constantly creating and changing angles as the wood yields weekly?  No.  That is not a rocking chair.  That is some cute little chair for tea parties.  I need solid wood construction.  I don’t want some pithy little twigs that are going to snap if they get bumped the wrong way and throw off the entire functionality of the chair.  Give me a classic rocking chair or nothing at all.

I’m a writer, not artist. Clearly.

I admit that I may be biased.  I was raised with a rocking horse that was really just one big runner with a flat seat and the wooden head of a horse attached.  In some morbidly macabre act of practicality, the handle for children to hold on to was not a piece of rope, but a pole crammed straight through the horse’s head.  “Hey kids, let’s all take a ride with Phineas Gage!”  Regardless, the seated see-sawing motion on this generations-old toy got me hooked on rocking chairs from an early age.

The salesman at the store was quite helpful.  I’m not sure what he thought of a guy in his early twenties buying a rocking chair, but he helped me find a simple one that I could afford and even carried it out to the car with me.  That’s when his skepticism began.

“How were you planning to get this home?”

“Oh, I’ll just put it in the back seat.”  I hadn’t actually thought the whole process through.  I somehow assumed that a four-foot tall piece of furniture with ski-like runners and no disassembly allowed would magically fit into my compact Dodge Neon’s rear area.  I knew it wouldn’t fit in the trunk, so it had to situate itself in the back.  What could possibly go wrong?

“I don’t know about this”, the man said as he turned it on its face and pushed.

I locked the front car seats as far forward as they would go.  The actual seat and back had plenty of room around it, but those runners that I cherished were troublesome.  Somehow, someway, the chair was the exact length of the back of my car, and the runners just barely fit inside the frame.  Okay, so the car window was pushed out a little bit.  It didn’t break, so I was content.

“That is the first time I have ever seen a chair like this fit in anything but a truck.”  I’m always glad to happily surprise seasoned salesmen.

That chair and I have bonded.  There is a blue scrape on its armrest from when I moved from one apartment to the next and my dresser got a little too frisky with its advances in the back of the truck.  I could try to scrape off the paint or cover up the abrasion, but why not let the chair have its war wound?  My cat has tried to show her affection for the piece of furniture by sharpening her claws on the lower pieces.  Happily, the finish is so slippery that she can’t get a good grip.  Her paws, much to her annoyance and my delight, just slide right off without leaving a mark.

I make it up to her though.  Whenever I am having my quiet time in the rocking chair, Mylar gets to hop up on my lap.  Together we enjoy the guaranteed world of calm.  She gets to have her ears and back scratched.  I get to blissfully rock back and forth.  Sometimes I let my head lean back on the highest point of the frame that is in the perfect position to rest comfortably on.  Other times I sit up straight and put my free arm on the armrest that rises up to meet my sleepy arm at exactly the right height.

If it’s good enough for Twain, it’s good enough for me. (Photo source: here)

No matter how I sit in it, my rocking chair gives off the proper amount of “creak”.  Everyone has heard the sound that should emanate from a well-made rocker.  It should softly and reassuringly greet the user with a “creak-crauk”.  One backward movement provides the “creak”, and forward movement creates the “crauk”.  Like the cousin of a frog, it sings you to a simpler, more peaceful place.  Gliding chairs don’t have that sound, and therefore they are less worthy in my sight.  Then there are the shabby, abused chairs that make nothing but sound.  Every gesture and adjustment in one’s posture creates a symphony of noise.  I can’t handle that.  I may live on the ground floor, but I still have neighbors (and my sanity), to think of.  No, a rocking chair should only make two different sounds; three if you count the sigh of contentment from the user.

Bean bags chairs are great, but hard to get out of.  Recliners, back-massagers; they all have their place.  But for me, when I want to escape the trials and tribulations of the world, nothing is more relaxing than closing my eyes and swooping to and fro in my reliable wooden rocking chair.  That is, except for the one time my cat put her tail under the runner.  (She’s fine; her lesson was learned.  Both possessions have learned to respect the other.)

A Breakfast of Convenience

In “Anecdotal Tales”, stories will be told. Some will be fun, some will not. Some will be great, some will be less so. Some stories are true, some are merely possible. This is one of them.

A Breakfast of Convenience

Expect problems and eat them for breakfast” –Alfred A. Montapert

Charles was not having the easiest of mornings.  The hairball that he stepped in as soon as his feet left the bed had served as warning that nothing would go according to plan.  The blip in the power grid that had knocked out electricity just enough to reset his alarm clock had only added to his turbulent start.  Charles wiped the slippery gunk off his feet.  The sock had been just dirty before, now it acquired a new level of disgustingness.  A slimy residue clung to his skin while his cat looked on without remorse.  Charles needed food.  He would be fed and his anger would be soothed.  Or else.

Charles set foot in his kitchen without turning on the light.  He opened the fridge door and was met by a horrible scene.  The sole bulb in the refrigerator revealed that it was essentially bare.  There were some pads of butter, a jar of mayonnaise, and some sort of dish that had once resembled mashed potatoes in a purer, simply, less mold-encrusted time.  He looked to the freezer above and found only ice, garlic bread, and an ice cream bar.  Charles wanted cereal.  That was all that Charles wanted.  Moldy-potato-garlic-bread wasn’t going to suffice.

He went his cellular phone that he had placed by the front door and checked the clock.  As he had feared, Charles didn’t have time to run to the grocery store.  He knew that his commute was already going to be tight, so grabbing breakfast closer to work wasn’t an option.  Charles hadn’t gone to the bank in a while, so even the idea of using one of the vending machines at work was out of the question.  Charles cursed under his breath as his cat walked between his legs.  Glancing into the fridge, the cat looked to Charles and rubbed its chin against the man’s calves.  The cat could easily be fed with a scoop of cat food.  Charles’ dilemma was going to take a bit more ingenuity.

Determined to win at least one battle, Charles turned on the stove and went to grab some cat food.  Placing a handful of dusty cubes and stars in the metal bowl, Charles left his cat to merrily chew on its breakfast.  He returned to the kitchen and retrieved a bowl from the sink.  He checked the dish for cat hairs or debris, saw none, and placed it on top of the oven.  He removed the lone ice cream bar from the freezer, freed it from its packaging, and put the dairy product in the dish.  Then he reached for a clean bowl from the cupboard and filled it from the nearest cereal box.  Today, Charles was going to have bran flakes for breakfast, custom-made from his limited supplies.

Soon the heat from the oven melted the ice cream bar.  The chocolate shell still had a filmy texture to it, but the vanilla-flavored ingredient became a drippy pool.  Charles snatched the dairy product from the stove and turned off the heat.  He wanted the “milk” to be as cold as possible.  He poured the entire contents of the dish into the bowl with the bran flakes and stirred the concoction.  The chocolate still refused to yield entirely.  Charles dismissed the abstinent element and tried to rationalize its existence.  It seemed as if every other cereal was adding a chocolate-flavored version, why not bran flakes?

Charles went to his living room couch and put the bowl of ice cream-topped cereal on his lap.  Not two seconds later, his cat jumped up on an unoccupied cushion and sniffed at the bowl.  Charles assumed that the feline still craved sustenance, as it always did.  The cat approached merrily, meowed expectantly, and then made advances towards the bowl.  Its tail flicked with anticipation.  Curious, Charles watched as his cat sniffed at the cereal.  Suddenly, the cat hissed, drew back in fear from the bowl, and ran off to the bedroom.  Charles began to wonder if his cat could hack up hairballs of revenge whenever it wanted.

Undeterred by his cat’s reaction, Charles put his spoon to the bowl and pulled out a few drippy flakes.  He looked at the lumpy mess in front of his mouth.  He felt his lip start to curl in revulsion.  Before he could overthink the matter, Charles jammed the spoon into his mouth and swallowed.  His gag reflex kicked in, but Charles fought through it.  The meal wasn’t much better than Charles had believed it would be.  He took the ceramic container and its contents of grossness back to the kitchen.  If he was going to choke this breakfast down, he was going to need help.

He reached inside the cupboard and pulled out a box of granulated sugar.  As he poured a large quantity into the bowl, Charles could only shrug.  If he was going to go down the road of dietary madness, he was going to take it that last mile and then some.

Cat on a Hot Car Roof

In “Anecdotal Tales”, stories will be told. Some will be fun, some will not. Some will be great, some will be less so. Some stories are true, some are merely possible. This is one of them.

Cat on a Hot Car Roof

Cats are rather delicate creatures and they are subject to a good many ailments, but I never heard of one who suffered from insomnia.”  ~Joseph Wood Krutch

Max was a particular sort.  Only the best food would do.  The search for the friendliest person to visit with never ceased.  And, most importantly, Max needed the best resting spot he could find.

Maximus von Scratchyerface, as Max preferred to be called but never was, simply wanted the best of the best.  At thirteen years of age, Max felt that he had stuck around the world long enough and suffered plenty, so he wanted the luxury life for however long he had left.  Most people that saw this cat knew that he had plenty of his nine lives left, assuming he didn’t die from obesity.

When Max had been a kitten, he had been as adorable as could be.  A short-haired cat, Max had gray hair over almost the entirety of his body.  The exceptions were his paws, the tip of his tail, and just under his nose.  Everyone who came across this cat commented on how adorable he was with his little white “mittens” for feet.  The white spot under his chin silently demanded attention and all who attended the feline scratched him while he purred contentedly.  More than a decade later, the beginnings of a bald spot were developing on the under-side of Max’s jaw, but all were too polite to mention it in his presence.

Today, as was the case with every day, Max was tired.  The warm sun had been hiding all week.  Whenever he went to his typical sunbathing window, all he had been greeted by were grey clouds.  This morning, the rain had poured down in droves, hypnotically sending Max into a state of slumber.  That, however, was the morning.  It was now time for Max’s post afternoon-nap. 

Walking through his little swinging flap in the kitchen door, Max strolled through the neighborhood.  Across the street, he noticed a flash of movement.  Max hunkered down in the grass, his head just barely above the ground as his tail wiggled in excitement.  He thought he saw something he could catch, but instead he found an item that would make a promising napping spot.  Pulling into the drive across the street was a bright red sport convertible.

The man with the ponytail carefully closed the door on the sport car and hurried inside.  Max had seen this man before.  He often wondered why the man had a tail attached to the back of his head, especially when he was so follicle-challenged on the rest of his head.  Max would never understand how humans kept warm without the proper amount of hair.

Making sure that he wasn’t seen, Max slinked over to the car.  He had never perched on a sports car’s hood before.  He assumed it would be just as warm as any other car engine, but classier.  Max leaned on his back two legs, flipped his tail back once, then twice, and then he sprang up on the car’s hood.

Immediately, the searing heat attacked the pads on Max’s paws.  He hopped down onto the ground and hissed at the front bumper.  Max couldn’t believe the vehicle would be so hot, so inhospitable, to one such as him.  Looking around, Max found the perfect solution.

There, on a ditch that ran along the concrete, was a deep puddle.  All things considered, the hole in the ground didn’t hold much water.  However it did have plenty of what Max was looking for; mud.  Max dipped his paws in the wet earth and immediately felt better.  The car hood was warm, just as he liked it.  The temperature simply needed a mild adjustment.

It only took a few minutes worth of work.  Max’s feet were quickly coated in mud.  The distance between the ditch and the car was minimal, so Max was able to track substantial amounts of mud with him.  He hopped up on the car, jumping up and down to avoid burning his paws.  He felt the hood cool down, but not as much as he liked.  Max sauntered back over to the ditch and recovered his feet.  He spattered the mud on the hood and felt it becoming more agreeable.  A third trip and the hood was the perfect temperature.  The bright red hood was now resembled a sun-burnt Dalmatian as it consisted entirely of large brown blobs taking up over half of the formerly-gleaning surface. 

The important thing was that the engine was now the proper temperature.  Max settled down and began to get comfortable.  Unfortunately, all the mud that he had used to cool off the metal surface was now sticking to his fur.  He started to contemplate just how dirty this nap was going to get him. 

Then, from across the yard, Max heard a sound.  It was a sound that always cheered him up.  He could hear the can-opener in his kitchen going to work.  Max forgot his desire for sleep and headed back home.  He gave one last look to the car, gave it a bored expression, blinked, and ran off to eat supper. 

No harm done, the cat thought to himself.

Dressed for the Dirty Duty

In “Anecdotal Tales”, stories will be told.  Some will be fun, some will not.  Some will be great, some will be less so.  Some stories are true, some are merely possible.  This is one of them.

Dressed for the Dirty Duty

(Over at her site, kiradault suggested that folks write about a funny memory.  If this story amuses, you have her to thank.  If it’s just all kinds of odd, then blame me.)

As I was growing up, my two siblings and I had our share of pets.  My mom had her birds here and there, my dad was indifferent, and there seemed to always be a fishing floating around in a glass container somewhere.  There was the giant fish tank that I had no desire to ever clean.  I still remember Jamie, the fish that I kept in a small bowl on top of my dresser.

Jamie met his end at the paws of a cat.  I know what you’re thinking, but Jamie did not die in the typical fashion.  Our cat at the time felt it deserved a more unique kind of death.  Instead of putting her paw in the bowl, catching Jamie, and eating him for dinner, our cat took a more sadistic option.  She used what kitty-strength she had and knocked over Jamie’s bowl.  There we found Jamie, gasping for air (or in his case, water), as the cat looked on.  Maybe she was gloating about her triumph and was going to eat Jamie but we interrupted her?  It seems possible, but I always figured that cat simply wanted all the attention for herself.

ImageI, being the youngest of the three, thought I should get all of the cat’s attention and none of the effort.  My brother, much like my dad, did not really have any interest in our cats.  So I happily let my sister do all the dirty work.  One day, for a reason I do not remember, I was assigned the task of cleaning out the litter box.  Thinking back on it, this was not the greatest hardship that could befall a small boy.  But for me, this sort of smelly task required reinforcements.

First and foremost, I donned a pair of woodshop glasses.  You know; those flexi-plastic light-green things that hug to your face to keep the sawdust out.  For some reason, I thought it was imperative that I have those over my eyes.  Quickly added to my supplies list were gloves.  Now, one hears “gloves” and thinks perhaps some food handlers gloves or maybe some mittens.  Nope, I once again raided my dad’s woodshop and got the thickest, roughest, most industrial gloves one could ask for.  One never knows where a cat has been or what trouble they have gotten into; clearly their poop required extra protection.

You would think that would be enough. Perhaps this eight year-old in his hyper-color t-shirt (tie-dye orange, thankyouverymuch) would wear a bandana to cover his nose.  For some reason, that was the one part of me I did not cover.  No, in the middle of summer I decided to don my winter coat as protection against the two or three pithy clumps that needed to be scooped.

So there I was; a young fellow with combed-“enough” hair decked out in jeans, the aforementioned tie-dye shirt, a puffy winter jacket, green worker glasses, and burlap-like gloves.  I of course felt the need to top it all off with a hardhat.  Bright white; to contrast the black winter jacket, I’m sure.  And I did it.  I comically held my breath long enough to get those three little pieces of pee and poop into a milk carton.  I made quite the show of exhaling the now “clean and refreshing” air.  I am not entirely proud of this overly dramatic show of wackiness.  I would like to just scoop it up, toss it in a carton, and pour some cat litter over it.  But I cannot.  There is one obstacle standing in my way; my family.

I have a family that remembers far too much.  Should my family ever forget?  They have photos of the whole thing.  So whenever I get too full of just how spiffy I am, they have the perfect ammo to deflate me.  Darnit.

Solomon’s Wages

In “Anecdotal Tales”, stories will be told. Some will be fun, some will not. Some will be great, some will be less so. Some stories are true, some are merely possible. This is one of them.

Solomon’s Wages

In the course of human events there are certain things that have been found to be true and irrefutable.  Conflict will arise when cultures meet.  Men and women will have different views on almost every topic.  And you should never, ever, try to keep a cat from eating.

Solomon was a firm believer in this concept.  He felt that his duties were clearly establish, and therefore he should be reasonably compensated for his competency.  Also, that pay should come in a timely manner.  He was excellent at chasing imaginary objects around the room and then stopping to lick his tail at a moment’s notice.  He had done an incredibly thorough job of layering each and every cloth surface in his workplace with a thick sheet of hair.  (This was additionally true of any article of clothing, no matter how briefly it had been out of the drier.  And there was no one, no one that could meow as harshly and piercingly at random cars and noises quite like he could.  Since Solomon had yet to receive any feedback suggesting how he could improve his performance, it was his believe that the execution of his duties met with management’s satisfaction.  Yet, his food still remained on an unreliable delivery schedule.

The nineteenth of October retained an air of infamy for just such a reason.  Solomon had done his best to lounge all day.  He had basked in the sunlight that came through the glass windows and had soaked up all the rays that lit up the aged carpet.  A bird had appeared just as Solomon had been closing his eyes.  He had taken the initiative to roust himself from his well-deserved rest and jumped to the defensive.  He had run to the window and meowed defiantly at the intruder.  The bird, who had played its role well, had tried to feign a calm manner, but Solomon knew that he had invoked absolute terror into the birdbrain’s wretched soul.  It taken less than two hours for the bird to fly away and Solomon felt confident that his berating and threatening would prevent it from ever returning.  It was only after Solomon had meowed at the window a few more minutes in victorious declaration (followed, naturally, by a ceremonial licking of his main), that Solomon allowed himself to return to the task at hand.  Thus Solomon continued his scheduled sleep and remained focused on that task long after the sun had clocked out for the day.

Evening time came.  Night set in.  Solomon looked to the refrigerator in contemplation.  His cohort had left for his own mission hours ago.  Surely he would have clocked out by now.  (Solomon always clung to the notion that he was more dedicated to his assigned duties than his counter-part.  Solomon would do his best to ignore the man’s continued whining and lamenting when he called his friends to talk about “how things were going at work”.  Solomon never complained about all he had to do in one day and felt that the man could certainly do the same.)  He often wondered where the man’s priorities lay.  Solomon hadn’t asked to be stationed in this quadrant.  He was sure that his performance in the pound had been more than satisfactory.  He had purred at strangers and joined his comrades in howling at night into the wee small hours of the morning.  When the man had come and selected him, Solomon thought he was being promoted.  The rumbling in his empty stomach now questioned if he had committed some egregious wrong while stationed at the pound and this was some sort of punishment.  Was the management invoking some sort of home-arrest or solitary confinement that they had not informed him of?

The frogs outside slowed their croaking until they were silent.  The crowd of cars that had been making their commute home trickled down to a few errant vehicles.  Darkness had descended in its entirety.  Solomon had almost given up on being fed.  He leapt onto the cleanest corner of the bed that he could find and started kneading his paws in, preparing to sleep his hunger away.  However as he was completing his last circle, Solomon heard the familiar jingling of keys at the door.  His eyes wide open and alert, he hopped down to the floor and plodded quietly towards the coat closet.  From the other side of the large wood door came the noise of jingling and clattering.  Solomon meowed at the clumsiness of the human.  One day the fool would stop dropping his keys before unlocking the door.

Finally, the man pushed the door open, paying no attention to the placement of Solomon’s tail, and he let the door swing shut behind him.  His eyes were narrow slits and Solomon meowed louder in case his hearing was as hindered as his eyesight.  The man grumbled something in retort and Solomon followed.  The man put his umbrella down, threw his keys on the floor, and then flopped down on the nearest couch cushion.  Solomon would not let his needs go unnoticed.

Feeling that his oral presentation of his displeasure was not sufficient tonight, Solomon took decisive action.  He leant back on his rear legs, let his rear swoosh back and forth ever so slightly in preparation, and then he jumped onto the cushion that supported the man’s head.  Solomon got no response.  Solomon meowed in the man’s ear, but that too was met with no reply.  Solomon, a normally polite creature, felt that his primal techniques would have to be used, no matter how uncouth they were.  With that, he let his claws slide out by the pads of his feet, and he batted at the man’s face.  At first, there was still no response from the man.  But as Solomon’s berating continued, the human squirmed and raised his hand to his face.  When Solomon finally saw his eyes open, he returned his gaze with one of contempt and impatience.   He refused to hiss, but both parties knew that he was thinking it.

Grumbling and rubbing his eyes, the man stood up and pulled a can of food from the pantry.  Normally Solomon was only entitled to half a ration, but the man removed the lid from the small tin of food and set it on the floor in its entirety.  Solomon was not going to argue over getting an extra portion.  He quickly went to work devouring the food on the kitchen floor.  Solomon only partially registered the sound of the man shutting the bedroom door when the horrid notion struck his mind.  His hairs stood up on end and the indignation struck him full force.  The man had forgotten his bowl of milk!  Solomon scarfed down the last bits of food, already planning which claw to scratch at the door with.

Avoiding Neverland

A teacher's reflections on preparing teens for life

Late~Night Ruminations

...for all the ramblings of my cluttered mind....

Short...but not always so sweet 💋

Life is a series of challenges ~Happy endings are not guaranteed

Running Away To Booktopia

Because let's face it, reality sucks most of the time.


Exploring my own creativity (and other people's) in the name of Education, Art and Spirituality. 'SquarEmzSpongeHat'. =~)

The Land of 10,000 Things

Charles Soule - writer.

You're Gonna Need a Bigger Blog

This blog, swallow you whole


easy reading is damn hard writing


S1NGLE living H1GH thinking

Listful Thinking

Listless: Lacking zest or vivacity

Kim Kircher

Strength from the Top of the Mountain

The Byronic Man

We can rebuild him. We have the technology... Drier. Hilariouser. More satirical than before.

The One Year Challenge

A one-year chronical of no flirting, no more dating and absolutely no sex.

Beth Amsbary

Workshop Leader, Storyteller, Grantwriter,