A-Z Challenge - C is for Cats

I know it doesn't take a lot of imagination to come up with C Is For Cats, but I simply could not pass up the opportunity to write about my cats again. Mostly because they are here. All the time. Right here. Walking all over my desk and keyboard.

Sometimes they will leave me alone and sit to look out the window. Lots of birds feed in the yard out there and nothing attracts a cat like a bird. Or maybe a mouse. A real one or a computer mouse. I like it better when it is the real one.

Harry, wishing he could get a bird

Since we have lost so many cats to rural predators, we have decided to keep our current four cats inside most of the time. Most of the time is the operable phrase, as two of them love to escape. Harry and Daisy really, really want to go explore the great outdoors. Daisy because she has already spend some time outside and knows what adventures lie there, and Harry because he would love to experience just one of those adventures.

Please, oh please let me out.

Daisy came to us by accident. Literally. She had gotten out of our neighbors house one day and would not come back. The neighbor lost track of her and she ended up in my barn one day after being injured. My neighbor was not interested in taking her back, so we have kept her. I couldn't stand the thought of her becoming coyote lunch while she was recovering from her injuries.

Daisy still likes to escape, but we usually can get her back in after a little while. Recently she escaped close to our bedtime, so I spent an extra half-hour trying to find her. I really did not want her out for the whole night. When she finally came running in just as I was letting the dog out, she brought a rabbit in with her. Turned out the rabbit was still alive and when I caught the cat, she dropped the rabbit, who then ran back into my laundry room.

Hubby got up and helped me corral cats and lock them in the sun room, while we tried to find the rabbit. No luck. It had hidden somewhere in the laundry room. By now it was an hour past our bedtime, and I was exhausted, so we decided to leave the back door open - it is in the laundry room - and hope the bunny would just go out during the night. And hopefully nothing would come inside.

That appeared to work. So far. No dead rabbit stinking up my house.

Visit some of the other bloggers participating in the challenge and see if they came up with something more clever for the day. Maybe someone actually wrote about being clever. A full list of the bloggers who have accepted the challenge can be found HERE

Say Hello to Spring

Please welcome my semi-regular Wednesday guest, Slim Randles as he shares more fun from the gang at the Mule Barn Truck Stop, who are featured in his popular weekly column, Home Country.

It was the sun’s fault; that’s all we could figure out later. Well, that and the demise of Doc’s phantom squirrel.

For a couple of days the sun had been warming our shoulders and making us smile. You know, whispering semi-forgotten things in our ears like “fly fishing … gardens … barbecue … swimming hole…”

Normally, our good doctor would’ve put another phony ad in the Valley Weekly Miracle offering a reward for his non-existent squirrel, Chipper, just to hoax us into spring. But after the last time, and the ransom money for squirrel nappers, everyone here knew there wasn’t a squirrel at Doc’s house. It just wouldn’t be the same as it had been.

So Doc got this madness started by putting an ad in the VWM that took a different turn: “Spring Special! Half off on all amputations. Call Doc.”

That was the first pickle out of the jar. The first tiny slip toward Spring Madness. We look up to Doc because he has more initials after his name than anyone else in town, and besides, he delivered all of us at least once. So we waited to see who would follow his example. In our case, you have to wait a week, of course, and despite a couple of inquiring phone calls, Alberta down at the paper wasn’t telling.

Turns out it was Dewey and Bert who struck next.

Bert’s quarter-page ad promoted the town’s first (in a long time) sock hop.

“Sock Hop! Town square! Wear socks! Nothing else!”

Now he didn’t say when this would take place, but we did notice some teenage boys hanging around the square just to see if there was any chance of naked nubile nymphets. There wasn’t.

Dewey Decker, the accident-prone king of garden fertilizer in the valley (it’s hard to damage cow manure) bought an ad for his garden-enhancing products offering a free taste test.

There certainly is something goofy and fun about spring. Just ask Alberta down at the paper. She has this little spring smile …
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To buy Slim’s books, go to www.slimrandles.com

Wednesday's Guest - Slim Randles

I always enjoy the cowboy philosophy and humor that Slim Randles shares with us. I hope you do, too. For more of his wit and wisdom, check out his new book A Cowboy's Guide to Growing up Right

Life is kinda like a corrugated, washboard ranch road, I believe. Give anything enough time and experience and warts and scars and grooves will get worn in it. The down times and the up times, and the way they tend to alternate can lead to a corrugation in our dirt roads and our lives.

Any good cowboy knows how to handle a washboard road, though. Taken slowly, a pickup truck hits each little dip and rattles its carburetor until it puts a kink in the distributor clamp. It takes forever to get someplace, and the scenery never seems to change.  It makes for a tedious drive to that line shack or windmill or distant pasture. Of course, it does give a guy time to compose a symphony or a letter to Congress.

Unless there is a huge hole in the washboard road ahead which needs to be avoided, there is only one way to handle a washboard road or a person’s life: gun it.

Oh yeah. You step down on the pedal and kick that monster up to about 52 miles an hour and everything smooths out. Fly, baby, fly. We hit only the high spots on the road and live a bit daringly, challenging the existence of any possible oilpan-killing rock ahead. The country slips by more excitingly and a driver tends to grin a lot.

And in life, we can wallow forever in the slow and low stuff and take ages to get somewhere, or we can floor it, give a yell, and skip along on the high spots.

Somehow, that sounds like more fun.
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Brought to you by Slim’s award-winning books at www.slimrandles.com, and in better bookstores and bunkhouses throughout the free world.

Wednesday's Guest - Slim Randles

I must have been cloned. Otherwise how could I be in three places at once. Here in my office working. Over at the Blood Red Pencil for my usual first Wednesday blog, and as a guest at a neat blog, Coffee With a Canine, where I introduce our dog, Poppy. While I am off gallivanting all over the Internet, my friend Slim Randles shares a post with you. Enjoy....

The phone rang just before Dewey pulled off his clothes for his end-of-workday shower.

“Hi Dewey.”

He smiled. “Hi Emily.”

“Hope I’m not interfering with anything by calling you.”

“Just got home from work and about to dive into a shower, so you called at a good time. How are you?”

He thought that would be a good way to start a conversation with this paragon of single bureaucratic woman.

“I’m fine. Thanks, Dewey. May I ask you some more questions? Got them right here. Tell me first, though, do you always shower after work?”

“Every day.”

“Any special reason? I mean, is it related to the cow manure thing?”

“Directly, actually. Cow manure … well, it permeates my very existence. It fills my waking hours. It … oh, it’s hard to explain.”

The king of fertilizer grinned as Emily Stickles wrote notes on the other end of the phone. If she wanted to think of him as having a fertilizer fetish, he didn’t mind. As long as she called.

“I’ve been reading up, Dewey. I think that … together … we can break this hold cow manure has on your life.”

“Oh, Emily, you really think so? What should I do about it, you think?”

“To get started, you should picture yourself free of cow manure. Just tell your mind that cow manure has no place in your thoughts and your life. Let’s see if that will cancel out some of the … unpleasantness.”

“You think cow manure is unpleasant, Emily?”

“You like it?”

 “Let’s say I like what it can do for others. It’s a little like a smile or sunshine,” said our fertilizer king, “it works wonders when you spread it around a little.”

Emily Stickles, the county employee in charge of fixing things for people who don’t realize they need fixing, was silent.

 “Dewey, we really need to talk.”

 “Dinner at the Chinese place tomorrow, maybe?”

 Then he just sat there, glowing in fertile, pre-shower radiance, and grinned.
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Brought to you by Slim’s award-winning book “A Cowboy’s Guide to Growing Up Right.” Learn more at http://www.nmsantos.com/Slim/Slim.html 

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January seems to be a great month for lots of e-book discounts. Many publishers and writer's groups are offering titles for 99cents or for free. If you have a Kindle, this is a good time to stock up on some good reads. My suspense novel, One Small Victory, is free for two more days. The authors at Backlist eBooks have some of their books listed for only 99cents. Their sale ends on January 8th.

The Day After Christmas - What a Mess

The day after Christmas was usually one of the best and one of the worst days of the year for our family.

If that doesn't make sense to you, don't worry, I'm not sure it does to me either. But let me try to explain.

It was the best because:
There were now 364 more shopping days until Christmas.

It was the one day of the year when perhaps the kids were just as tired as we were, and they’d sleep off and on all day.

All the build up for the Big Day was finally over, and the noise level in the house had dropped about 20 decibels.

I didn’t have to cook since we had all those leftovers from Christmas dinner. (If we didn't have a big Christmas dinner, I was in trouble on that score.)

The kids would decide they liked each other after all, and we could go the whole day without a fight – maybe.

The kids would invite me to color with them, or play a game, and we could share some really good times together - as long as they let me win now and then.

But every coin has its flip side, and the other side of this day was:
After the glitter and tinsel of Christmas, after the giving and receiving, the celebrating, singing and eating, we could all sit back, unbutton the waistband of our pants and try to decide who would clean up the mess.

Who would get to spend the next four days sorting through the thousand-and-one little pieces of games, toys, and puzzles that in less than one day managed to get tossed together from one end of the house to another?

On Christmas day, nobody seemed to care, but the day after nobody was being nice anymore, and the house was filled with moaning and wailing and the sounds of blood-letting and bones breaking ...

"Find that Stratego piece or I'll break your arm off and beat you over the head with it!"

"I never touched your Stratego game! Mommeee!!"

I guess four days out of my life wasn't too much to ask.

Who would dig through the.22 bags of trash to find the instructions for assembling the model airplane, because, for once in his life, a kid cleaned up after himself and threw them away with the wrapping paper? (Since that same kid would think nothing of digging through the neighbors' trash to see if they threw away anything he could put to good use, maybe I could pawn that job off on him. )

Who would accept the challenge of figuring out what to do with all the unidentifiable things we received as gifts, such as the strange looking thing from Aunt Mildred that could either be a doily or a dishrag.

The gadget from Uncle Willie that favors a Chinese puzzle, but could actually be his eccentric approach to the can opener.

The game that takes an IQ of at least 300 just to open the box. 

The funny little knitted things from Aunt Lucy that are either thumb-less mittens or toe warmers.

I could have called them all personally to thank them for the gifts, and hope that somewhere in the conversation they will mention what they are. But that would have taken some of the fun out of lazy summer afternoons when we’d drag this stuff out again and play a new game called “What on Earth is It?”

Wednesday's Guest - Slim Randles

Here is another offering from humorist, Slim Randles, and his "Home Country" syndicated column. 

By the time we saw Dud, of course, the damage had been done.

It was Steve who spoke first.

"I don't believe it," the tall cowboy said.

We all turned then, and the full impact of the deed struck us almost simultaneously. There, on Dud's head, was a sculpture of such blasphemous proportions as would silence all of us in attendance at the Mule Barn truck stop's philosophy counter and world dilemma think tank. It was beautiful, of course, but it was also tragic.

"They call it feathered," said Dud, turning red. "A razor cut."

We just stared at the haircut without saying anything. It curved gracefully around his ears, it waved softly in sculptured layers over the top of his head. It fell in gradually decreasing thicknesses down the long back slope of his head toward its tapered termination at the neck.

"It was Anita's idea," Dud said. "She gave me the money for it and everything."

Finally, Doc spoke. "What's Kelly going to say?"

"That's the worst of it, all right," Dud said. "I know he's going to be hurt."
  
Kelly hadn't really worried too much about the future of his barbershop when Fantasy Fantails set up shop. He assumed it was a haircutting place for women who didn't want to take the time to go to the beauty parlor, and for guys who came to live in our small town from the city.

Kelly's has always been the stronghold of local manhood. The magazines had nothing to do with decorating a house or how your investments are working out. The magazines had everything to do with what kind of bait to use on catfish and how big an engine your pickup needed to pull a large boat. You wouldn't find a single advertisement showing a guy wearing a sweater tied around his neck. Not at Kelly's. In the past, when magazines were magazines, you could read how some guy captured Gestapo headquarters with his headhunter brides.

"Well," said Doc, shrugging. "That haircut of yours is a work of art, without a doubt. But there's at least one good thing about getting a really expensive haircut, Dud. Sooner or later, it'll grow out."
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Brought to you by Slim’s new book and great stocking stuffer “A Cowboy’s Guide to Growing Up Right.” Learn more at http://www.nmsantos.com/Slim/Slim.html

Wednesday's Guest - Tom Turkey

This time of year, turkeys are the most popular birds in the United States, so I thought I would go try to find one to see what he, or she, thinks about all this attention.

ME:  Um, excuse me. Are you a turkey?

TT:  Hey, keep it down. I'm trying to hide here.

ME:  Why?

TT:  Oh, you're not from around here, are you?

ME:  Actually, I am. Why?

TT:  Don't you know what tomorrow is?

ME:  Of course, it's Thanksgiving.

TT:  And what is the centerpiece of every Thanksgiving table? Yeah. You got it. Me. So that's why I'm hiding.

ME:  So... I'm guessing you are not too fond of the holiday.

TT:  Not unless it's being held at a vegan's house. Then I might even stop in for a bit of the corn.

ME:  Do you think they'd let you in?

TT:  It was a joke, already. As in that is the only house I'd willingly go to.

ME:  I see. I'm sensing that you would rather something else be the main dish at the Thanksgiving dinner.

TT:  You think? I'd suggest chicken, but they're my cousins. How about steak.

ME:  But a turkey was part of the first Thanksgiving dinner.

TT:  Yeah, but so was a lot of fish, and venison, and ducks, and other food. It's not fair that we are the only ones sacrificing for modern day celebrations.

ME:  You do have a good point there. Maybe you should hold a demonstration to protest.

TT:  Oh, that's a brilliant idea. Expose myself to the very people who want to eat me. Go on. Take your silly ideas and get out of here before I end up at some non-vegan house.

Wednesday's Guest - Slim Randles

Since it is deer hunting season in most states, I thought this piece from Slim would be fun to share. Enjoy....

It was that particular crispness in the pre-dawn air that got Jasper up and out early. He wasn’t going to the diggin’s today but had something else in mind.

After Arthur finished his kibble, Jasper tied him outside the cabin door and tried hard to ignore the look of accused betrayal on his pal’s face. Then Jasper got down the rifle and closed the door softly behind him.

A walk through the forest carpet of 15 minutes took him to that little rock outcropping that Jasper had discovered more than 40 years earlier. He set the barrel of the rifle on a short log and sat down. Only Jasper’s camouflaged face showed over the rock outcropping.

Then came the wait. The delicious anticipation. Time after time he checked the direction of the wind. He knew he was doing well when a squirrel came headfirst down a nearby pine and whisked around within six feet of Jasper.

Then, about ten, and just about the time Jasper was thinking how good another cup of coffee would taste back at the cabin, the woods went deathly quiet. Jasper went on full alert. He saw the antlers first, coming through tall brush. Two steps. Stop. One step. Stop. Hold there for long seconds, then another step. Jasper sat quietly. Two more steps. Stop. In a minute the buck would emerge at 30 yards, broadside, from behind a tree. It was going to be a classic hunting shot.

And then, after a few more steps, the big buck was there, broadside. Jasper waited until the deer turned his head to look back the way he came. Then, in one fluid movement, Jasper brought the rifle to his shoulder, put the front bead on that spot behind the buck’s shoulder, and quietly said, “Bang.”

Then he grinned and waved as the buck bounded away.

Back at the cabin, Jasper rubbed Arthur’s ears and gave him a detailed account of the hunt.

“And I didn’t have to pack in all that meat, either,” he said. “Tomorrow? A turkey hunt, I think.”

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Brought to you by Slim’s new book and great stocking stuffer “A Cowboy’s Guide to Growing Up Right.” Learn more at http://www.nmsantos.com/Slim/Slim.html

Wednesday's Guest - Slim Randles

When Dewey realized what he’d just told the woman of his dreams, he couldn’t say another thing. Struck dumb by the shock of telling her he was in cow manure, he silently handed her the flowers and looked down to see if the sidewalk would kindly swallow him.

But Emily Stickles, she of the perfect cheekbones and bureaucratic curiosity, smiled and looked at Dewey as if she’d just stumbled over a twenty-dollar bill.

“Mr. Decker,” she said, kindly, “thank you for the flowers. And I’m curious … how long have you had this condition?”

“Er … ah…”

“Never mind. That will all come in time. Now I was just on my way to the café across the street there for lunch. Will you be my guest? That way we can discuss your problem and see if we can come to a workable solution.”

“Wha … bu…”

“Come along,” she said, slipping her arm through his. “One step at a time … that’s it.”

An hour later, Dewey was at the philosophy counter of the Mule Barn. The guys were there. Well, almost all the guys. When Dewey told them about how he introduced himself to the lovely Ms. Stickles, Steve, Dud and Bert suddenly had to go outside for some reason. The laughter out there made the plate-glass windows vibrate.

Only Doc was left to console Dewey.

“Well, Doo,” Doc said. “Leave it to you to make a great first impression.”

Then Doc had to turn his head away for a few seconds, too. Dewey pretended not to notice.

“See, the worst of it is she thinks I’m some kind of a nut with a manure fetish. I couldn’t have just told her I owned a fertilizer company. Not me. I have to sit through lunch making silly noises as she explained to me that there is always hope for an answer. I had no idea she was a graduate student in psychology, Doc.

“Doc?” Dewey’s face pleaded. “I’m a test case! I’m going to be doctoral thesis! I’m …. oh man…”

“And all that planning,” Doc said. “And all that washing. And then it has to end this way. Sorry, Doo.”

“Ending? No way,” Dewey said, the slightest smile emerging. “We’re having dinner at the Italian place tonight. She’s bringing her tape recorder.”

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Brought to you by Slim’s new book and great stocking stuffer “A Cowboy’s Guide to Growing Up Right.” Learn more at http://www.nmsantos.com/Slim/Slim.html

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Just a few more days to enter the Uncial Press Birthday contest to win an e-reader. Every day there is also a winner of a free e-book. Hop on over if you would like to play the games and win.

Wednesday's Guest - Slim Randles

The actual dressing and preening took place in Dewey’s house, witnessed by Doc and Steve. Dewey told them that morning over coffee and horoscopes that the stars were right. Today would be the day. This very day, before lunch had settled upon the land, verily, he would approach Emily Stickles and introduce himself.

Doc and Steve circled downwind there in the living room, sniffing, but failing to catch a hint of Dewey’s profession as the king of used hay, the sultan of assimilated sustenance, the pharaoh of fertilizer. Two showers had done their best. Our boy was ready.

“Now Dewey,” Steve said, “with your truck…”

“Washed it twice.”

Heads nodded in approval. Then Doc and Steve watched as Dewey tied the new tie on. The blue one.

“You have a tie clip or tie tack or something?” Doc asked. Dewey shook his head. Doc took his off and handed it to him. “Use this.”

“But Doc, it’s from a university, and I’m in the fertilizer business…”

“And your point is?”

“Oh … okay.”

Steve took the little bottle of Old Spice and pulled the little plug on it. “Hands up, Dewey.”

Dewey raised his arms and Steve got each armpit with the bottle.

“Cowboy way,” he explained.

Dewey was ready. He picked up the bouquet of flowers and paused at the door. “Hope I don’t blow this.”

“Dewey, just remember two things: tell her who you are and what you do, and be yourself.”

He nodded solemnly and walked out to the pickup with the fancy magnetic sign on the door and drove away.

He was sitting there, 20 minutes later, watching the front door of the county building. Waiting for Emily. Emily of his dreams, Emily of the cheekbones, Emily who kept an eye on the goings-on in the county.

And there she was, dressed in a business outfit, and she was walking toward him. Dewey knew. Now or never. He grabbed the flowers  and stepped out. She smiled back at him as he approached. Name and occupation, Dewey. Name and occupation.

“Miss Stickles,” he said, thrusting the flowers forward. “My name is Dewey Decker and I’m in cow manure.”
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Brought to you by Slim’s new book and great stocking stuffer “A Cowboy’s Guide to Growing Up Right.” Learn more at http://www.nmsantos.com/Slim/Slim.html