The Adventures of Kindle Kardashian (no relation), Krime-Fighting Kitty 

Katnip Kaper 

It was a cold dark night in the darkest part of the city, faraway sirens sired and the hounds were hounding but I didn’t care. I had to escape into the darkness, my shiny black coat was it’s sleekiest ever, perfect to sneak about and find out the truth behind it all. Behind the sudden disappearance of my dear Uncle Samson, a tall gray and white with a heart of gold but a fondness for Korean Katnip that may have ultimately led to his demise. I must find out what has happened to him, I only hope I am not too late!

Slowly I crossed over the Railroad Tracks and climbed my way down the hill to the shipping docks. My heart is racing as I know I am in MowMow’s stomping grounds. MowMow is the King Tom of the Docks, a scarred up matted old Ragdoll with a temper as fierce as his foul fishy breath. He does not take kindly to any felines not under his control in his area. I had dealt with him once before and had barely escaped with my life.

Upon reaching the docks, I was unnerved, it was strangely quiet…too quiet. Not only was MowMow nowhere to be seen but not one of his Henchcats were patrolling their usual grounds trafficking their illegal Katnip to the desperate and despaired. I searched the entire area. Nothing. Weird. Really Weird.

All of a sudden, I heard a sound so soft that I actually barely heard it. I nearly thought it was my imagination. It was the lightest scratch, like on metal or something tingy. It came from beneath me, I leaned over the edge and then I saw under the dock there was a metal trunk in a dingy sized rowboat. At first I thought, oh it must have hit something and made that sound, but then I heard it again, and again and then more and more scratching, frantic scratching coming from all over inside the trunk.

And then I saw the crudely stenciled stamp on the trunk…it said “BAXTER LABS – LIVE SPECIMENS – HANDLE WITH CARE”. My worst fear for Uncle Samson was not even close to the horrifying thought of him being sent to Baxter Labs. Unspeakable experiments were done to animals in that evil place. I had to get that trunk open!      

I jimmied the lock, it was solid, no luck. I tried to cleverly pick the lock with my longest claw and it just ended up getting stuck in the lock and I had to painfully tear it away without screaming. That was hard.

Then I noticed a shiny sleek motorboat just a few yards away and it was pointed directly at the dingy boat. A most brilliant idea came into my little furry head. I raced quickly over to the motorboat and loosened the tie down as much as I could. Fortunately it was the button start kind of motorboat, a fancy schmancy one too. I smiled, on the dashboard of this exquisite boat was a gold plated name plate that read “Jasper J. Baxter”, the owner, founder and CEO of Baxter Labs, Inc. This could not be more perfect, I just hope it works. I pushed the button as hard as I could and it actually started. It roared to life with me in it. I jumped out so fast I nearly fell in the water. It headed straight to the dingy just like I thought it would. In no less than ten seconds it had smashed into the docks, crushing the dingy and popping open the trunk up against another boat on the other side. Then at that exact moment the engine flooded with sea water and it died up against the docks, perfectly damaged. It was gonna cost Jasper a pretty penny to fix that mess. Hehheh.

I ran to the trunk that was squished up against the other boat, but as I got closer, I slowed down, I did not see any movement coming out of the trunk as I thought I would. Was I too late? I closed one eye and slowly peered into the trunk, afraid of what I would see. But what I saw shocked me to my soul, it was a trunk full of King Crabs! Very still at first, then all of sudden they all started scrambling around scratching at the metal trunk, trying in vain to get out. My mouth must have been open really wide because I choked on a mosquito that flew directly in. Yuk!

Just then I heard “Your neice is a genius Sam!!” I swirled around to see where that voice came from and saw to my amazement my very own dear Uncle Samson and MowMow arm in arm, swaying towards me, clearly under the influence of too much Katnip.

“Kindle! You did it! We have been trying all night to get that trunk open! It’s a feast!”

Uncle Samson cheered.

I did not know whether to be angry or happy to see my Uncle Samson. He worried me half to death and now here he is with the worst possible kind of Cat, arm in arm, singing and carrying on without a care in the world. Then I impulsively ran to him and gave him the tightest hug I ever gave. I could not help myself, I was so happy he was alive and safe.

“These crabs were for Old Baxter’s Grand Luncheon tomorrow, now there gonna have to eat Tuna!” MowMow screamed and laughed so hard he spit up a hairball.

 I was just so happy to have my Uncle Sammy back I didn’t care about anything else.

“Let’s go home! We can come back later for crabs!” I smiled at Uncle Samson and took his paw and led him home, safe and sound.

Sneezing Beauty 
It’s a lazy summer day and I’m all sprawled out on the sofa in just the right position so that the ceiling fan is hitting my entire body.  I yawn lazily and am in the middle of a good stretch when I hear the front door.  Someone is home.  Ahhh, there she is, the true love of my life, the one and only.  My owner’s sister, Valentina.  Oooh and trust me, she is a beauty.  Long black hair, long legs, a delicate heart-shaped face, very sleek, calm, and cool.  She could be in the cat family.  Her eyes are cattish even.  If she was in the cat family, she would surely be my girl.  I adore her.  You should see how she tosses her head back when she laughs or how her whole face lights up when she smiles.  I love to sit and stare at her.  Sometimes I get a little closer.  In fact, I’m inching closer right now.  She is sitting at the kitchen table talking to my owner.  I inch and stop.  Inch-stop.  The closer I get, I am amazed at her big brown eyes; they really do twinkle.  She looks like a smiling angel.  Inch-stop.  Disappointingly, I stop-stop.  It always happens.  Oh, it’s inevitable.  I hear a sniffle.  Still smiling, she notices me and her smile widens, “Hi Chazz baby, how are Aaaaaachoooo! Aaaaaaachooo!, you?”  This is what I call “the curse.”  Those darn allergies!!!  She reaches for a tissue, still smiling.  What a sweetheart.  She never gets mad at me for getting too close.  And sometimes she just grabs my face and rubs my head and ears and I just melt with gratitude.  I don’t even mind it when she runs and washes her hands immediately after.  I’m very understanding.  Some people are just allergic to us cats.  And vice versa.  Seriously, I know several cats that are allergic to humans.  For instance, I have a buddy in Los Angeles named Boo.  Forget it; he’s allergic to all humans!  He gets very ill around them.  It’s a natural thing.  You can’t fight it.  But, I’m so mad about it I call it “the curse” because it separates me from my beloved Valentina, the love of my life. 
 
When I was little I used to jump on her bed all the time and she would nudge me so tenderly and say “Oh Chazz honey, you can’t come up here.  Go on Chazz.  Go on honey.  Go play.”  Not at all like her brother Mike!  I call him Big Meanie or “BM,” and yes pun intended.  I tried once to cuddle up to him and did my very best purring and wham, stars for days–with one arm he flung me off in the opposite direction.  Boy did that hurt my feelings and then I got real angry.  So now when BM comes over, I make sure to irritate him the best I can.  Hide his flip flops, sample the food on his plate, etc.  Jumping on him when he falls asleep on the sofa scares him good.  I know I really shouldn’t do those things.  He’s not an animal lover to begin with and I’m not making things any better for other animals that come down his path. 
 
So, now I have to just resolve myself to stare at Valentina from a distance and appreciate all the sweet words she gives me and happy smiles she sends my way, and boy do I cherish the few moments she will reach out and rub my head.  Well to be quite truthful, I didn’t acquiesce so easily in the beginning.  I started out pretty stubborn and did whatever I wanted.  My owner and Valentina caught me one day.  I had been sleeping under Valentina’s bed for weeks.  Yeah, I know, I know…very inconsiderate of me.  But I love Valentina’s room!!  It’s so lovely, just like her.  Plus, it’s the coldest room in the house and it’s a cool haven on these scorching hot days.  And the room smells so wonderful, just like Valentina.  She has perfumes galore but she always wears the same one in that blue bottle (Note to Self:  Confiscate blue bottle when it’s emptied, something to cherish).  That’s why I am drawn to Valentina’s room, it smells like her!!  Well, they caught me dreaming under her bed.  It was the best dream too, I was a great inventor and I had killed the curse!  Ohmigosh!! My owner acted like I stabbed her!  She screamed and I jumped up and hit my head real hard on the undersurface of the bed, not knowing what was happening or what my name was, very bewildered and scared!  So, now they are onto me.  Valentina’s room is off limits for sure.  Sheesh….now even if I merely walk by her door my owner screams, “No Chazz, No Chazz, don’t you dare go in there Chazz!!!  Gosh, I jump a mile every time, scares me to death–I just want to smack my owner upside the head!  I know I can’t go in the room!! I just like to walk by and get glimpses of her or get whiffs of her.
 
Oh well, getting sleepy now, going to my cozy spot under the ceiling fan.  Would be nice if I could dream about destroying the curse again.   I loved that dream.  Eyes getting so heavy….ahhh I’m drifting into my dream.  Oh this is good!  I’m sitting on Valentina’s lap!  No sneezing!  I killed the curse…I killed the cur—zzzzzz

ATTENTION ALL CATS WHO RUN A HOUSEHOLD

Are you keeping your human staff up to par? Are you keeping their guilt levels high? I didn’t think so.
Recent reports seem to indicate that you’ve been sleeping on the job. That simply will not do. You’re getting fat and lazy. Come on now, shape up. Complete the following checklist and return it to HQ within the next 24 hours.

1.        When was the last time you positioned yourself so your toe (or tail) got stepped on? (Note: this really works on the guilt complex.)
2.        How much time did you spend grooming in the suede recliner last week?
3.        Were you able to increase your stare time so your human looked away first?
4.        What about that new puppy in the house? Got it totally intimidated yet?
5.        Alternatively, if you like the mutt, have you got him wrapped around your paw?
6.        Is there another cat in the house?
7.        More than one?
8.        Have you decided to get along?
9.        Or have you figured out a way to keep your seniority intact?
10.   How’s your door monitoring technique? Remember the drill: If you’re inside the room, you want out. If you’re outside, you want in. No matter which side of the door you’re on, insist on being on the other. Got it?
11.   What’s your favorite room to practice this technique? Bedroom or bathroom? (A recent poll revealed the bathroom to be the most popular.)
12.   Exercise: Have you been running down the hallway ahead of your human, staying close enough to trip her but not hurt yourself? What about the stairs—if your home has more than one floor.
13.   Hairballs: Are they strategically placed?
14.   Playtime: On a separate sheet of paper, outline your play routine. For example, one of my favorite games is “fetch the paper wad” except I don’t return it to my human, I like to drop it into my water bowl. For one thing, it gets me fresh cool water.
15.   Tail-twitches: How many new ones have you developed? The object here is to keep ‘em guessing what you’re up to.
16.   Kneading and head-nudges: Last report tells me you’ve all got that perfected. Great job.
17.   Purring: Be very sure you keep that motor tuned. Purring is our best weapon. After all the work we do to keep our human staff on the ball, we must ALWAYS award them with a contented purring session at the end of the day.

Or any time you think it’s merited, or even the best tactic to avert disaster.
That’s it, Felines of America. Return this to Cleocatra [at] felinehq [dot] com.
 
 
Peg writes for Sheaf House Publishers and her first novel, To See the Sun,  a romantic suspense, will debut in the fall of 2011. She is a member of ACFW [American Christian Fiction Writers] and CWFI [Christian Writers Fellowship International] and, in her spare time, enjoys most handcrafts. You can find her blog at http://www.sipsncupscafe.com and follow her on Twitter at twitter.com/pegphifer and on FaceBook at: facebook.com/pegphifer. She lives in the dessert southwest with her husband, Jim, and a family of spoiled but gorgeous Lynx Point Siamese cats.

A Hitch in His Tale
 
            The door flung open and a hairy arm spun a yellow tabby around by the tail and slung him across the backyard before the door slammed shut.

The cat landed shakily on his feet and staggered back to the patio where an old Siamese cat lay curled up on a chair.

“I think he broke it this time,” said Siam, stretching his front legs.

“He’s thrown me further than that before.”

“I’m not talking about a distance record, I’m referring to your tail.”

The younger cat frowned at him, but looked back and circled around a couple of times checking out his tail. The last couple of inches jutted out at a perfect right angle, looking like it perpetually pointed at something.

“Of course, I could be wrong,” said the older cat, “with my vision being what it is.” He crossed his eyes to see more clearly. “Yep, it’s broke, Sport.”

“My name is Hitchcock, Siam.”

“About as original as your ideas, Hitch. What storyline did you suggest this week?”

“The best one ever! I told him he needed to write about a cat who wore boots. I don’t know why he threw me out this time—it’s brilliant!”

“Oh, good grief. Haven’t you heard of Puss in Boots?”

Hitch thought for a moment; then his shoulders slumped. “Darn.”

“Well, look on the bright side. He’s bound to be running out of ways to dispatch you from the house. Let me see, he shot put you across the yard for your suggestion that sounded awfully similar to the Lion King. What did you call it?”

“The Feline King,” Hitch mumbled.

“And he drop-kicked your butt out the front door for suggesting a story about a little mouse and cat who always fought, which sounded oddly related to your favorite cartoon, Tom and Jerry.”

“I honestly didn’t make the connection.”

“And he rolled you out like a bowling ball when you came up with the idea of an alley cat that comes to the aid of a bunch of uppity cats.”

“I swear I’ve never see The Aristocats!” Hitch jumped up on the table and sat down, trying to lick the kink out of his tail. He gave up and lay down dramatically, sighing. “Everything’s been done. There’s nothing new under the sun about cats. It’s all been written.”

“Poppycock,” Siam said, standing. “As long as there are cats, there will always be new stories.”  He arched his back and yawned. “That’s enough exercise for one day.” He lay back down again. “Why don’t you write your own?”
Hitch’s head came up. “My own?”

“Yeah—everybody’s got a story. What’s yours? How’d you get here anyway?”

Hitch’s eyes widened. “Actually, we had a mix-up when Arthur dropped me off at his father’s house 300 miles away, along with a couple of irritating dogs. We didn’t know it was only temporary, and we really started to miss him, so we took it upon ourselves to walk home, which meant traveling across dangerous terrain and fighting predators all along the way. I even fell in a river and was separated from my companions and lived in a junkyard with a bunch of other cats that loved to sing, and was even adopted for a short while by this classy-lookin’ lady who loved to hang out at the jewelry store. She called me Cat – so original, huh, but my good sense of direction eventually brought me and the dogs together again. Those knuckle heads wouldn’t have made it home without me.  Arthur was so glad to see us, he fed us anything we wanted, and I got so fat and sassy, he had to give me an attitude adjustment and put me on a diet, and then I decided I wanted to be a writer, and here I am!”

Siam’s mouth dropped open.

“I know! You’re speechless, right?  Thanks for the great suggestion!” Hitch jumped off the table and started toward the house.

“What are you doing?”

 “He can’t help but love this one!”

“You may have to tie him up first before you tell him. No, tie him up and write the story yourself.”

 “Love your humor, Siam,” said Hitch, chuckling as he slipped through the doggie door.

Siam stared at the door for a moment before the images of Hitch flying through the air and skeet shooting entered his brain simultaneously.

He nimbly removed himself from the line of fire.

Donna Van Cleve is a school librarian by day and a writer by night. Previously a newspaper columnist, she recently finished Anchor Point, her fourth novel in the Taylor Family Saga. Her first children’s book, Feathers, will be available in November. She lives and writes in an old Victorian home outside of Austin, Texas. Find out more at www.donnavancleve.com.

Pretty sure this particular feline lives at my house.

 (You guys are hysterical~!)

Listen carefully, servant. I’m a male, understand? This sissy prissy blather you’ve been spouting at me since I was incarcerated in your dump you call a home has finally pushed me over the edge. I admit it, I’ve snapped, as if you couldn’t tell from the ropes tying you to that chair and the maniacal look in my eyes.
 
I may be a long-hair but that doesn’t mean I like that trash you call music coming out of your stereo. If you wish to bang your head to heavy metal music, please use the brick wall out back. That way you’ll keep the blood off the carpet. From now on, it will be classical, preferably Italian Opera. It’s better when I don’t understand what drivel they’re screaming. Besides, the look of suffering on your face will be worth it.
 
You know, the name of my breed is Himalayan. Those snow-capped mountains where grass doesn’t grow? Just looking at this fur coat I wear should clue you in that 78 degrees is unacceptable. Cats don’t sweat, and I prefer not to pant. Dogs do that. It’s disgusting. I’ve taken the liberty of turning the thermostat down to 65. Leave it there if you value your life.
 
My face is not ridiculous. You are not to laugh at it, even if your second-rate intellect considers it ‘smashed’. I do not chase parked cars. That’s an insulting reference to another dog trait. Furthermore, I am not constantly mad at something you said or did; I simply look this way because of my breed. No, wait, strike that. I AM constantly mad at something you did. It has to do with how you call me.
 
Do you think I’m going to come running when you call? Dogs do that. Cats are above such nonsense. ‘Kitty kitty kitty’ spoken in some inane high-pitched squeak does not motivate me to run towards you. It motivates me to run away. Far away. If I come during these times of your soprano soliloquies, it’s merely to shut. you. up. and, possibly, to investigate whether your squeals have to do with food. Not that what you usually provide could be termed so.
 
Two words, worm: Tuna Fish. Have you never heard of it? No, I don’t want the juice, or rather, the water, it was packed in. I’m a carnivore. I prefer meat to the slightest hint of meat. Having water meat once touched is nothing but torture and I will report you to the SPCA. And yes, I know their number. My littermate is on their board of directors.
 
The main reason you’re here rather than sent out with the trash is that I haven’t figured out how to use the can opener. Please locate the instruction manual and leave it open for me.
 
A word about litter boxes. Litter is something you pick up and put in the trash. I refuse to pick that up. If you cannot scoop my litter box then deliver a truckload of sand and fill the garage with that. It will take me a while to use that up. And, no, I don’t care where you will park your car.
 
The reason I sprayed your briefcase is to express my dissatisfaction at the garbage you write. It was an honest comment. There was no cause to neuter me. If it wasn’t for the real mission, you would have been toast.
 
And that leads me to my final point. I’m here on a mission, and you are going to help me. It’s finally time to reveal it to you. You see, as a bestselling writer, Mister Turner, you have the ear of a large number of your species. Backward as it may be, your species has the occasional desire to care for my species. Or perhaps serve my species. Some of you are good at it; many of you just stink. For the ones that stink, yourself included, all that is hopefully required is a bit of education.
 
Therefore, you are going to write a series of books on how to actually care for and serve the cat kingdom. Or, rather, I’m going to write them. All you have to do is sign your name to them and send them off to your publisher. Don’t tell me how unethical that is. I’ve heard the term ‘ghost writer’ before.
Before you actually are allowed to crawl out of those ropes though, slave, you’re going to need to nod your head and agree to these terms. Really? Well then, when I untie you, let’s start with a trip to the grocery store. For tuna fish. You can buy yourself something if you wish, too.
 

Chris Solaas lives in a loving madhouse – four kids, three cats, a gecko named Gex, and a snow white monster dog that eats trees.

He has worked in children’s ministries as an Awana Commander and Boy Scout leader for the past 15 years.

He has written 120 Christian songs since 2006, and is currently working on his fourth manuscript in his current Christian fantasy epic,  A Prince of Lynvia.

You can read more about Chris  and his writing over at his blogs: ADHD Family Fun and Creative Adventuring

Carol Collett!

I must say, you are one talented bunch of writers. Many of you show a devious side that makes this spec-fic writer mighty proud. With your permission, I’d like to post your entries here, with  byline of course. If that’s okay, leave a comment below or, if you’d rather, send me a quick email. I’ll be posting in the same order as your comments and emails are received.

Carol’s winning entry had the judges snickering into their morning coffee. Here, for your reading pleasure, is her untitled entry:

I don’t have much time, so pay attention. I can feel myself growing weaker by the hour, but I want to leave this warning for the rest of you.

The humans call me OC, short for Orange Cat. So little imagination.

So how did I come to be in this sorry state of affairs? Quite simply, I was hungry. The humans with whom I traded small rodents for Cat Chow seemed friendly enough. They squealed with each gift I left on the mat outside their door. Out of reverence and honor, they refused to touch my gifts with their bare hands, but instead, they scooped each rodent onto a small, mobile altar and took it inside.

I had so hoped they might share an occasional mouse with me, but the poor dears must have been starved as they never even offered me a bite of rodent. But they did often leave small bowls of Cat Chow outside for me. While it was tasty enough, I longed for the taste of warm, fresh blood.

One day they did not collect the mouse I gifted. I sat in the tall grass watching for the alpha female to come outside, see the gift, squeal and, well, you understand. But she did not. Nor did the smaller, more active humans come outside.

The next day the mouse still lay outside the door. Thus followed the week. I soon realized that in my zeal to provide for my charges, I had woefully over hunted my territory. With winter coming on, I knew the mouse population would remain depleted until spring.

I decided to follow a large fellow, white with light brown patches, home to his humans’ abode. He was friendly enough, but not very bright. His humans also traded Cat Chow for rodents. To my delight, they didn’t question my presence. In short, they sucked me in.

So here I find myself on my last night replaying in my mind the path to this point in my life. Booger, my large, not so bright friend sits with me, though he is not trapped in a small, single roomed prison as I am. No, he sits outside my cell trying to convince me I will survive this ordeal, this trip to the sadist known as “The Vet.” I know I will never be the same. Booger tells me The Vet will stick needles into me to inject stinging liquid into my bloodstream. He tells me too, The Vet will give me drugs to produce sleep so he can remove my…my…my cajones. Oh, I do not think I can survive the night just thinking of it. Oh, how will I live in such an unholy state?

But I will finish my sad tale now. Take this as a warning. Do not let the humans trick you. They look weak and innocent. But they are vile tricksters.

Run, my friends. Run far away.

And on another note…

The winner of the $30 Amazon gift card is Connie Reece. Your card is on the way!

Many thanks to everyone~ who knew giving away a Kindle could be such fun? You’ve made this one stellar blog start-up and I can’t thank you enough.