Fetcher's Disappearance

I don't think I shared this with readers here, but I had a short story published in a recent (August 8th) Chicken Soup of the Soul book. The new book is titled Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Cat Really Did That? and can be found here on Amazon and other places. My story is on page 93 and is titled The Cat That Wouldn't Hunt, a cat and mouse story.

The kitty I write about has, of course, passed away since my story dates in the 1980s. His name was Fetcher, and he had a very distinct personality.

Like all cats, he was king of the household, and unfortunately he tried to be king of the neighborhood. Next door lived a Siamese and a Manx (the cat with no tail). Our Fetcher tried, successfully, to bully them by eating their food (kept in their garage) and daring the two cats to attempt to eat any at all.

Their human soon noticed this behavior, and I began finding hefty items lying in my nearby yard, items like a bicycle pedal and an unusual looking rock. At first I was perplexed, but eventually I saw Fetcher in action and realized what must be happening. He was being used for target practice to deter his bullying ways.

I spoke to my neighbor about it, but she denied throwing anything at Fetcher while vehemently telling me to keep him out of her yard, sort of hard to do since he was an outdoor/indoor cat. She had a son and daughter so they could have been the missile throwers.

I tried to persuade Fetcher to discontinue his bullying ways, kept an eye on him more than usual, but time and projectiles continued. And then Fetcher disappeared.

I begged my neighbor to tell me if she had seen Fetcher, but of course she hadn't. On the chance she was telling the truth, I walked and walked the streets of our neighborhood, knocking on doors, stating my plight. Fetcher never came home, and I never saw him again.

I realize he did a bad thing by bullying her cats, but certainly not bad enough for what I think happened to him. She could easily have kept her cats' food inside as I did Fetcher's, but she was not that type of person. So I lost a loved pet, but now I have given him immortality in my published story about The Cat That Wouldn't Hunt. I still miss you, Fetcher, wherever you are.

Falling...Falling...Fallen

Yesterday morning I was drinking my coffee in the swing on the back porch and all of a sudden a squirrel's nest crashed to the ground from one of the pine trees. One little baby squirrel, which didn't even look like a squirrel but like a teeny naked mouse, rolled out onto the open grass and let out the loudest squeaks imaginable. It sounded exactly like Mopsy's squeaky mouse toy. Something to the right of the porch caught my eye and there was this cat I had never seen before. Well, of course, I shooed him away, way out of the yard. I came back to the swing to watch, hoping the mom or dad would come down to get the little squealer. He must have dropped three or four stories. I have thirteen huge pines in my back yard.

I was about to give up when, yep, here she comes, cagey at first, going up and down another tree, sniffing in the birdbath, dashing back toward the fence, each time getting a little nearer on the forward onslaught. Finally, she got to the nesting material, nosed through it, then made a mad dash to the little one, nosed him around some (I saw his legs kicking), picked him up in her mouth just like a cat picks up her young, and sprinted out of my yard with him. I watched and saw her go up one of my neighbor's trees. She said my yard was too dangerous.

Then I started wondering whether that was really one of his parents? Maybe a neighbor squirrel family witnessed the event and called the Squirrel Department of Social Services, and that is who the rescuer was. It does seem like the squirrelly parents should be charged with negligence or something. After all, four stories is nothing to sneeze at. They built inadequate housing.

Okay, enough of this nonsense. The little baby was rescued and I am happy.

Then, inspiration struck, and I got out my watercolors to paint this example of animal humanity.