Those Toes

 Those Toes

long whiskers

little chin

those toes

 

 pointy teeth

sharp claws

those toes

 

pink nose

yellow eyes

those toes

 

twitchy tail

soft fur

those toes

 

soft belly

purring cat

and

those toes

 

 

Cali Girl

This is my cat, Cali, which is short for 'calico', which is a kind of cat. I adopted Cali from a shelter when she was eight years old. I discovered that when a camera is pointing at her she does this trick. We have no idea how she learned it or why she does it. Since she does it all the time, and it's very cute, I will post a new video next month.

Have you ever seen a cat do this?
Does your pet do an interesting trick?

I love my Cali Girl!

White Socks (fiction)

White Socks

The car ran out of gas again today. That’s why we’re staying in this shelter tonight. It’s just for one night, though. Mom said my Uncle George in Ohio will send some money.

She must be reading my thoughts, because she says, again, “Uncle George will send money.” She says it like saying it will make it true.
Then she says, “Go wash up for bed, Ben, but don’t talk to anyone in the men’s room…and be quick.”

She worries about me too much. I’m ten, and I know how to take care of myself. We’ve had this problem with restrooms for a few years. When I was little, she took me into the women’s room, but of course that won’t work now. Technically, my dad took me into the men’s room, mom told me, when I was potty training. But I don’t remember that. Or, him.

I take my toothbrush and soap to the men’s room. There’s an old man with a scruffy face staring into the mirror, rubbing his whiskers like he’s thinking hard about something. He looks kind of sketchy, so I stand sort of near a guy that looks like dad material.

“Here, son,” he says, “have some toothpaste.” He explains that a donation of travel-size toothpastes came in today. I accept the toothpaste and check under the cap for a seal. I brush quickly while the guy lectures me on the best way to brush. I leave before he tries to adopt me.

Back at our room, Mom is talking to a lady about whether we left our car in a safe place. That seems like a pointless conversation. Like we had a choice where to leave the car. I crawl under the itchy green blanket on my cot and hope this place isn’t too noisy. Someone in the next room coughs a lot. I’m glad there aren’t any crying babies. I can hear sirens in the distance, and the wind rattling the window. What I really want to hear is sleigh bells. Because tonight is Christmas Eve.

I know I probably won’t get any presents. We’ve had tough times for a while. Well, really since my dad died of cancer when I was three. It has only been extra bad since mom lost her job and couldn’t pay the rent. There’s always hope, though. Santa has a hard time finding kids in shelters, but I’ve been especially good, for Mom. So, I go to sleep as quickly as I can.

I dream about my cat, Socks. It’s a lame name, but honestly, he does look like he’s wearing socks. He’s all black except for his white feet. Santa brought Socks when I was five. He’s my best friend, and I dream about him every night. Tonight in my dream he’s chasing after a string I pull along the kitchen floor. He pounces on it with those sock feet then I pick him up and snuggle him. He tucks his head under my chin and purrs. He is nothing but softness and warmness. Suddenly he is crying. He is trapped in the neighbor’s window searching for me and calling for me to come get him.

I cry out and wake myself up. I look over to the next cot to see if I have woken my mom. Luckily, she is still sleeping. If she had woken, she would have said, for the hundredth time, “Ten-year-olds shouldn’t be homeless. You’re too young to know so much about heartbreak.” It takes a long time to get back to sleep.

Mornings come early in shelters. The last one sent everyone out at 6:00 am. Mom is shaking me, so I think we’re heading out, probably to see if our car is still there, and maybe to get some money from Uncle George, whoever that is.
“Ben,” she says, “Santa came! He’s here, in the lobby! Let’s go see, maybe he brought something.” She says that last part carefully. I know by now she means Santa might not know we’re here. Since, we got here late last night.

I put on my shoes and we go down to the lobby. Everyone has some sort of new item that stands out against all the old, used, and dirty. A little girl, about 6, has a little plastic doll and an even littler boy has a truck. The guy who gave me toothpaste has a striped hat and gloves.

Santa turns around and looks at me with a surprised face. I know right away he’s just a Santa’s helper. His beard is fake and his buttons are done up wrong. The fake Santa goes to his beat-up Toyota out front and comes back with a package.
He pats me on the shoulder a little too hard, hands me the package and says, “Sorry, Dude. Merry Christmas.”

Inside the package is a 3-pack of boys’ white socks, size medium. The toothpaste guy says, “Man, that stinks. No kid wants socks for Christmas! I’ll take ‘em if you don’t want ‘em.”
The lady Mom was talking to last night starts a loud argument with him. I give a pair to the little boy with the truck, since he isn’t wearing any and his sneakers are holey. Mom is crying, and I tell her, “Mom, it’s okay, I like the socks, really.”

I want the lady to stop arguing with toothpaste guy, so I give him a pair, although I doubt they’d fit. Then she starts arguing with me to take them back. I tell her, “No, it’s perfect, see? I still have a pair for me.”

I sit down on the floor to prove it. I pull off my shoes and old socks. The bare tile is cold. Everyone is watching me like they’ve never seen someone get socks for Christmas.

The new socks feel like heaven. They’re soft and cushy. The whiteness reminds me of laundry and something about home. I look at my white feet and all of a sudden I know something.

I’ve heard the saying about knowing something is going to happen, knowing it in your heart. But, I think I know it in my feet, too. I know it is true with all of me. Everyone is still looking at me. I look at Mom and say, “I think we’re going home.”

My throat is too choked up to say it out loud, but I think it. “I’ll be there soon, Socks. I’ll get you home soon.”

Goodbye Barney (personal narrative, cats)

Barney was a skinny, tiny kitten. He was a soft tan color with lighter tan stripes. He was also a wild, naughty thing. Even as a teeny six-week-old kitten, people would take one look at his eyes and say, “Oh, he’s going to be trouble!”
And trouble he was. We only had Barney for one year, and in that one year he managed to destroy the wallpaper, shred seven or eight stuffed animals, leave tears down the window screens, and break all the Christmas ornaments. I didn’t want to let him be an outside cat; we lived too close to the road. But Barney had more energy than our little apartment could hold. So we let him outside where he could run and climb and be his wild self.
For all the trouble he was, he made up for it in love. He was a friendly, sociable cat, with people and other cats as well. Our landlords owned a house up front, by the road. Behind their house was a small yard with lots of huge old pine trees. Then our apartment was at the back end of the yard. Another family lived in an apartment in back of us. Everyone knew Barney, even the other cats.
The people laughed at Barney’s wild antics, but the cats did not find him amusing. The people living behind us had three cats that avoided Barney’s ploys for attention. Our landlords had two cats, Puddles and Duffy. Puddles would have nothing to do with Barney. Duffy was a big, old, cranky orange tom-cat. He was eighteen years old, preferred to be left alone, and was set in his ways. Duffy was the boss, and the other cats knew it.
Of all the cats to accept Barney, it was Duffy.
It was something to watch those two together. Old man Duffy would rest in the pine needles in the sunshine, with skinny, little crazy Barney pouncing on his tail. Not once did Duffy swat at Barney. In fact, the more Barney pounced on his tail, the more Duffy seemed to swing his tail around. Our landlords chuckled. “Barney follows Duffy everywhere!” they’d say. Barney was like the over-active young child, and Duffy was the tolerant, patient grampa.
One weekend in the summer that Barney turned one, my husband and I went camping. Our landlords took care of Barney while we were away. I enjoyed the trip, but was looking forward to seeing my Barney. On the way home I had an uneasy feeling.
When we pulled into the driveway our landlords were waiting in the driveway. I knew something was wrong. I started to go up our stairs to go into the apartment and turned around to look at my husband. The landlords were speaking to him. He walked toward me and I knew. Barney had been killed in the road.
I cried and cried. Everyone was kind, but I wanted to be alone. I went behind the back apartment where there was a picnic table and sat on the top and buried my head in my crossed arms on my knees. Suddenly I felt something soft rub up against me. It was Duffy. “Oh, Duffy,” I said, “You lost a friend, too.” He sat with me for only a minute, then walked away.
My landlords later told me an interesting thing about Duffy. They said he was afraid of the apartment buildings. They said there was a certain point in the yard between their house and our building that he would not cross. They said Duffy must have loved Barney, because in eighteen years they had only seen Duffy go anywhere near the apartments once. And that one time was the day he helped me say goodbye to Barney.
-------
We moved soon after, but not too far away. Every time I drove by, I would look for Duffy, sitting on his porch, all alone. I would whisper as I passed, “Thank you Duffy.”
Duffy has long since passed away, at the old cat-age of twenty two. I can’t think of Barney, or look at a picture of him, without also thinking of his friend. Some animals leave a special mark on your heart, no matter how short of a time you knew them. Goodbye doesn’t mean forgotten.

copyright 2009 Dawn Bonnevie