Tag Archive: writing


Bye-Bye Bib

I have never been fond of cats. Not only am I highly allergic to them, but I find their sometimes aloof, always underfoot behavior to be highly annoying.  I am enough of a clutz on my own without a cat constantly winding itself around my ankles.  One day, my husband was out hunting and brought home a tiny, malnourished dirtball he found among a litter of barn cats. It was the runt and had received a corneal abrasion at the paws of one of its littermates.

“But look at her- she’s so pathetic,”  wheedled my husband, “She’ll die if we don’t take care of her.”  This, coming from a man who will shoot anything in season, including Bambi, Thumper and all of their forest friends.  I could tell he was a lost cause already.  And seriously, how could I sentence a baby animal to death?  Not even I am that mean.  I did make him promise to keep her in the garage, otherwise my allergies would be unbearable.  He fed her, washed her, made her a bed and bought the kitty litter box-thingy.  Soon, she was riding around on his shoulder and using all of us as her own personal jungle gyms.  Brian named her Bib, short for born in a barn, and she was every bit as weird as her name.  She would fetch like a dog, pounce on leaves and dustbunnies, but wouldn’t hunt anything living.  She was even afraid of bugs.  She would entertain us by sneaking up on us when we were outside or in the garage, grabbing our lower legs with her front paws, then tearing away like a maniac. We would speak to her and she would always answer with a meow, often at different pitches, as if she were really talking.  Brian frequently did Lassie scenarios with her and, against my will, I found myself becoming quite attached.

On New Year’s Eve, I let her out of the garage to play with the neighbor’s cat.  When my daughter and I came home, we saw her sitting by the corner of the garage.  She meowed and tried to walk to us, but her rear legs kept collapsing.  I knew immediately that she had been hit by a car, so my husband and I bundled her up in a blanket and took her to the animal hospital.  The news wasn’t good; her pelvis had been fractured in at least 4 places, including the joint itself. Surgery, if it would even be successful, would cost several thousand dollars, payable upfront.  We didn’t have it, especially right after Christmas.  We didn’t want her to suffer, so we decided to have her put to sleep.  Brian was so upset that he couldn’t bear to see her like that, so I stayed with her while the Vet administered the medication. I patted her face and talked to her while her head slumped to the blankets.  One second she was there, looking at me, then she was gone.  When they gave me her little blue collar with the bell on it, I bawled like a baby.  I guess if a non-cat person like me can change, almost anyone can.  We’ll miss you, Bib, you little allergen-toting putty-tat.  I love you.

She snuck into the house

Inspector of the catch

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Little Pig, Little Pig

I am standing alone on a bleak, empty plain. The sky above me is ominous, full of gray,

boiling clouds. I turn in a circle, looking and listening for anyone, anything on the

flat, grassy expanse. In the distance, I spy an old, two-story farmhouse, neglected

and seemingly empty. As I squint at it, I become aware of howling in the distance.

I turn around to see a ravenous pack of wolves streaming towards me. I am instantly

terrified and sprint towards the safety of the house.  As I run, I can feel the wolves

getting closer, hear the thudding of their paws against the ground and their

snarls as they gain on me. The closer I get to the house, the slower my legs are

moving, as if I am trying to run underwater, and the farmhouse seems miles away.

The wolves are now so close that I can hear their panting and their hungry whines.

My heart is pounding in my chest as I hit the porch at last, only to find the front door

locked. Desperate, I flee around to the side and find the entrance to a root cellar.

I yank the door open and fall down the short flight of steps to the cellar floor,

scrambling back up just in time to slam the door shut as the wolves reach it. Their claws

are tearing frantically against the wood, trying to rip the door open and get to me.

My knees give way and I fall to the floor,exhausted. Still hearing the frustrated

growls of the wolves, I scoot to the far side of the cellar and slump against the

wall, wondering if the door will hold. As I catch my breath, I notice that there is

no door leading up to the inside of the house, no sounds of occupants above.

I am trapped in the cellar with the wolves still gathered outside. Then, I wake up.

I had this dream repeatedly throughout my childhood.  Has anyone else ever had

a recurring nightmare?  Feel up to sharing?

What big teeth you have...