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.