Tag Archives: thug cats

“Baldrick, the only way you’d get a wet kiss is in the water closet!”

19429917_1872839233039103_365946916303730842_nToday’s post is from Mike Still, a volunteer at Hazel House. Please rest assured that what happened to him won’t happen again….. and we wish him well in therapy.

My name is Mike Still, and I am an adjunct lecturer Communications. I’m also a nice guy, and a cat lover, so I volunteer at Hazel House.

I made a vital discovery Thursday while doing cat duty at Hazel House. A seven-pound (estimated) cat can move an eight-pound weight with relative ease.

Having filled up one of the large pitchers to top off the inhabitants’ water bowls, I found myself distracted by the charms of resident older kittens Frankie and Licorice. Telling myself that Dido – the usual occupier of the dresser in HH’s Hemingway room – is long on personality but short on body mass, I set the pitcher on top of her dresser and sat down in the floor to romp with the kittens.20258203_1891515134504846_4609540728349224597_nDIDO, pre-deed

After five minutes of play culminating in Licorice in my lap and Frankie on my knee, it happened. The relative humidity jumped without warning to an audible saturation and precipitation point. Frankie leaped and ran, avoiding much of the drastic physical change. Licorice was a bit slow, catching a substantial portion of the gallon of water that flowed onto my left side.

As the pitcher landed on the floor and the air turned rapidly into indigo around my mouth, Licorice sat there in amazement, shock and water. I caught a glimpse of a tannish-gray flash from the dresser to the far side of the room as Dido made her escape.

20246268_1891515204504839_1308763949938646724_n(Incidentally, there’s nothing like drying off a black kitten still in denial of the presence of liquid appearing in mid-air.) Licorice is a good kid, though, and shouldn’t show any signs of shock for some months.

As for Dido, she understands that mass AND velocity overcome mass any day of the week.

After mopping up the water, I headed out to get dry clothes. Stopping at the Valero gas station in Appalachia for a Diet Dr. Pepper, I was helpfully informed by the clerk that I could get a second one for just a dollar.

“No thanks,” I said. “This should just about meet my fluid needs for the day.”

20431557_1892722441050782_7311504748388822271_n

DIDO, post-deed

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Filed under animal rescue, Big Stone Gap, humor, Life reflections, Little Bookstore of Big Stone Gap, small town USA, Uncategorized, VA, Wendy Welch

Lissen up. Brutus is talkin’ here

battle axeThe following blog should be read in a Brooklyn-Mountains fusion accent.

Yes there is.

Yo. So I’m out in this nice subdivision, workin’ my usual scam, “Please lady, I ain’t eaten in three days” big soft eyes, little tiny mews, you know, the Puss in Boots treatment from that movie.

Hey, don’t judge me. You ever been hungry ’nuff ta beg? It ain’t nice, but it’s better’n starvin’. Suddenly the cops show up. That’s happened before, so I make a run for it. But maybe I’m a little slower, ’cause I’ve had this cold for awhile, can’t catch my breath.

And they got this noose, right, on a big pole? They get me in that, and I’m coughin’ an’ chokin’ on accounta the noose, and the chick who turned me in, is she all, “It’s for your own good, poor thing?”

No. She is not. She’s tellin’ the cops I’m the one poopin’ in her flower bed an’ terrorizin’ the other cats. Which I was NOT! Poopin’ in her geraniums. That’s the yorkie who gets out through the screen hole, but she don’t know it.

Anyway, I wind up in jail, and I’m lookin’ rough, ain’t had a bath in awhile, got this cough, so I figure, this is it, right? Death row.

In comes this little grey-haired lady. An’ I swear, if ever the word “pushover” was written on a forehead. She comes over to me with these big soft eyes and says, “If I take you home, will you be good?”

Heh. I go into the belly roll with that little paw wave humans like, battin’ imaginary yarn, an’ I make my eyes so big, you can fit Texas inside ’em.

She hauls me out to hold me–which I do not like; a guy wants his freedom – but I let her ’cause she’s gonna spring me. She puts me in onea those cardboard jail transport boxes, but I’m cool ’cause we’re going to her house, right? Home cookin’ plus maybe a chance to clean up a little before I hit the road again.

Wrong. The vet. She takes me to the friggin’ vet. Now a guy like me, three years old in the prime of life, it takes some finaglin’ to dodge all those do-gooders out there who wanna take my balls. I’ve managed this far, right?

So  if I ain’t busted outta a fewa those jail boxes in my time, I’m lyin’. I make my move an’ there I am in the lobby, giving ’em a merry chase just waitin’ for somebody to come in from the outside so’s I can make my break…

You ever met their receptionist? Dianna? All I’m sayin’ is, she’s got experience. Whatta woman. I never even saw it comin’.

I wake up all groggy on a table, an’ I think they’ve done it, but no, they’ve just checked me for STDs. Which I do not have. I may not be a gentleman, but I’m careful.

After this clean bill of health AND violation of my civil rights, they stick me in a cage. They say they’re gonna do the deed next week when I’m “calmer” then see if they can “socialize” me. They gave me a name: Brutus.

I gotta admit, I kinda like that part. Never had a name before.

The pushover lady came back an’ pulls a chair up to my cell, so I know it’s the old heart to heart social worker routine, yeah? She tells me I need to behave, if I do maybe somebody’ll take me home, and it’d be all soft laps an’ cream bowls, watchin’ the game on TV from the comfort of a heated room with a couch. I gotta admit, that don’t sound too bad. It’s just, I’m used to the outdoor life, minimal human contact, y’know?

She said they’d “assess” me in a week, see if I was headed for a barn or a house. Me, I’m gonna play this by ear. If this “socialization” involves those pretty nurses here rubbin’ me nice, I just might go along with it. But that “alteration” don’t sound so good. A barn, warm hay, mice, maybe some milk now an’ then…. hmm…..

Either way, I don’t hafta spend another winter beggin’. It’s hard on a guy’s self-esteem. Not to mention it can get really cold out there. Heh. Mighta lost my pair another way anyhow, y’know?

Que sera sera. Let’s just see what happens here.

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Filed under animal rescue, Big Stone Gap, humor, Hunger Games, Life reflections, Little Bookstore of Big Stone Gap, reading, small town USA, Uncategorized, Wendy Welch, writing