Have a happy, everyone!

Ah, yes, it's Christmas! Cat finally hung my stocking on the staircase beside Big Stupid's and I think I saw her sneak something furry in. I'm hoping for a hamster, but it's probably just a toy. Sigh.

Cat also ran an extension cord out the front door for lights on the railing and a tree she has out there. I hope the neighbors appreciate it, because I'm finding it hard to take a snooze anywhere without shimmering lights bothering me. Not, of course, that I mind the Christmas tree inside the house. I can hide behind the pile of packages and scare Big Stupid when I jump out. You think she'd catch on, but ...

My favorite place of all time is The Village. Cat had it long before I came to organize her home and life, and every year she rearranges things to create a city and a farm with lots of people and stuff. I decided early on this season that if my life had to be disrupted by her going all goo-goo over a bunch of fake buildings and trees, I might as well enjoy it.

So what are you doing to celebrate the season?

Tabby recommends Cat Shaffer's new historical suspense novel, Bittersweet, as an excellent addition for all those folks who get e-readers for Christmas (and yes, it's available in print as well.)

What is her problem?

In my not quite four years of having Cat as my servant, we've gotten along relatively well. She knows her place, and keeps my food dish full and has yet to chase me away from the top of her wardrobe, where I sleep at night atop the spare sheets.

So you can understand my surprise and displeasure when she walked into the kitchen the other night and yelled at me. Yes, moi, the most wonderful cat in the world.

I was doing nothing. Honestly. Seeking a big of peace and quiet from the television and Big Stupid's barking, I found a place to relax. More than large enough to accommodate me, it was out of the flow of traffic.

Yet in comes Cat, disturbing my peace and acting as if I'm waaaaay out of line just because I'm sitting on top of the range hood. Yes, I had to use the table and the stove as springboards, but what's so wrong with where I landed?

Sometimes I simply can't understand her. Instead of delicately licking the dripping water from the spout in the bathtub, she immerses herself in the thing when it's full of water -- ooh, even the thought of being that wet gives me chills. And rather than doing the polite thing and licking her paws clean when she eats, she wipes her fingers on paper instead.

Christmas is just around the corner, though, and I do feel that perhaps I should give her a gift in acknowledgment of the generally good job she does as my caretaker. I know many of you are authors and readers. Would you happen to know where I can purchase a manual for her -- perhaps one titled "Care and Feeding of the World's Most Wonderful Creature?''

Tabby

P.S. If you're looking for a book to give for Christmas, don't forget all the books Cat and her good friend Cammie Eicher have out there!

It's about time!

If you've missed me, blame Cat. First she bought a new computer (do you know how hard it is to study the manual without opposable thumbs?) and then she enticed me to lay around and do nothing by putting a wonderfully soft, fluzzy blanket on my favorite chair by the window.

Like solar lights, I do believe I've soaked up enough sunlight that I'm fully charged. Which is good since Cat put up a Christmas tree.

This is NOT one of those four-foot ones she usually has. (She's quite devious and tapes the tree to a table, As if I would even think of toppling it.) This one is taller than she is with bright lights and lovely ornaments hanging just within paw reach. A mountain of boxes with paper on them surround it, summoning up visions of running across the house and diving right into them.

Alas, Big Stupid will not allow such a thing. Just because she's a dog, and just because she lops all over Cat's lap in the recliner, she thinks she rules the house.

As if.

In the interest of pretending to keep peace, I allow Big Stupid to run me off when Cat's around. When Cat's gone .... let's just say that what happens in the living room stays in the living room. But there's nothing quite as fun as bouncing from the pew to the couch and back again, cutting closer and the closer to the tree each time.

I know what you're thinking: Sooner or later, I'm going to fall, the tree will go down and all those packages will be smashed. Cat will come home, see the mess and ...

Yes, amid the destruction she'll see one of Big Stupid's toys I dragged over and maybe even a few dog biscuits crumbs if I can find some on the couch. And then let's see who gets to sit on her lap!

Tabby

P.S. Still Christmas shopping? Why not order copies of "Bittersweet," Cat's historical suspense, for all your friends. The only thing that could make it better is if she'd given those folks a cat.

Really - have some dignity!

No, despite what you may believe, that cat laying under the wheelbarrow full of weeds has not gone to that great mouse hunting ground in the sky. She's sleeping.

Noel (the People say she was named that because Santa brought her) is bossy, fussy and often crochety. Despite my attempts to correct her, she believes that MY house and MY yard belong to her, simply because it connects to the house and yard of her People next door.

Her red-haired Person calls her the matriarch of the neighborhood, even she's never had kitten one. And her Person expects the rest of us felines to kowtow to Noel.

Yeah, right.  Personally, I think the world belongs to the young  and adventurous, which would be moi.

My person Cat doesn't understand that either. The other week, I decided since the night was much cooler than the day to take advantage and get a little air. I do tire so of being confined behind doors. Sitting in windows lets me feel a little breeze, but on occasion, I appreciate the feel of grass beneath my feet and the wind in my fur.

Cat has trained well. She knows to leave the back door open a little ways so I can get in when I'm ready to eat or it's time to sleep. And yes, I heard her calling my name and threatening to shut the door, but really. You can't always believe People, you know. Like saying "we're going for a little ride" when in reality, you're being hauled to visit the blasted vet.

BUT SHE DID IT!

That's right, she closed the door and trapped me outside. In the night. With Noel and those other cats that descend upon MY yard.

Fortunately, her Person friend staying with her let me in, told me how much she missed me and told Cat I was back. You'd think if Cat had been so concerned, she'd have gotten her lazy self out of bed and come down to feed me. But no, she simply turned over and went back to sleep.

Although I suppose she can be excused. I saw Cat hauling books out to the car and realized that she's been working hard introducing her new book "Bittersweet" to the People who read. It really is a wonderful story, despite it's lack of a cat anywhere in its pages.


I've advised her that the best books in the world have cats in them, but she's been snippy with me since my 36 hours spent outside. And I fear if I push her too hard, she'll put a cat in all right -- one just like Noel.

I'm telling on her

It's Cat here -- Tabby is sleeping, and I wanted to take this opportunity to tell you what she's been up to. I know she won't.

Tabby is a house cat. She joined the family of me and Maggie, my oversized Sheltie, not quite four years ago. She has established a routine that consists in great part of yelling for food and then yelling at Maggie and me at random.

On occasion, she has decided to take a walk on the wild side and escape out the door when I'm fool enough to give her three inches to slide through. I've started leaving the side door open a foot or so, enough to give her room to come in and not enough for Maggie to get out. Her normal time from escape to sauntering back in is somewhere from 15 minutes to an hour, depending on the weather and if there are neighborhood cats out there.

Last Monday, she made one of her famous escapes. I left the door open ... but no Tabby.
I left it open when I went to bed, but she was still missing on Tuesday morning.

I expected her to be at the door scolding me when I got home from work Tuesday, but again, there was no mad meow. I began to worry.

By the time I climbed in bed Tuesday, I figured she was gone. My daughter, attempting to reassure me, insisted Tabby would come home when she got hungry. Still, I had this sinking feeling that poor Tabby had tangled with a car or gotten beaten up by the tom cat that prowls the neighborhood and I'd never see her again.

I was wrong. She showed up this morning, demanding to be let in and chowing down as if she'd never been fed before. She made a circuit of the house, ensuring that her favorite places hadn't been touched. She sat on the newel post for a minute, then jumped into the window overlooking the driveway and checked out my desk, where she likes to sleep by the keyboard. Satisfied that her haunts were intact, she climbed onto a basket of laundry in my bedroom and curled up to sleep.

And she's still sleeping. I suspect that wherever she was and whatever she did, it wore her out. I'm hoping, too, that the animal control officer doesn't show up tonight with a warrant for her arrest for graffiti on the vet clinic's wall or an order to lock her up for disorderly conduct while high on catnip.

Or if he does, I can bribe him with a copy of Bittersweet, my new historical romantic suspense from Turquoise Morning Press.

What was she thinking?

I'm a bit miffed today and with good reason.
Once again, my servant Cat Shaffer has allowed a book to be release without my editing -- and once again, her new novel has no cat in it.
Seriously, now. If ever there was a story that called for cats, it's "Bittersweet," her new historical romantic suspense novel. Yes, there's a hero to fall in love with, a heroine to root for and a bad guy who threatens them and their happiness ... but not one cat.
Since "Bittersweet" is set on a farm in northwest Ohio, there were many opportunities to include cats. When Coulter (he's the hero) goes out to the barn, he's never greeted by a cat. There's never a cat on the porch, or in the parlor.
I attempted to tell Cat about this appalling oversight when she was writing the story, but sometimes she's as dumb as a dog. Instead of taking my suggestion to put a cat in the sickroom with the heroine, she said, "Hush now, Tabby, I'm busy."
I'm not saying "Bittersweet" isn't a wonderful story, I'm simply saying it could have been magnificent with a cat or two in it. Especially if that cat was a sleek, intelligent gray tabby such as moi.
Ah, well, what's done is done, I suppose. Now if you'll excuse me, I just saw Big Stupid heading for the water dish and I need to get there first. Trust me, no one wants to drink after a dog.

Oh, before I forget, here's a taste of the new book for you!

Tabby

Bittersweet by Cat Shaffer


Coulter Bancroft returns from battle seeking the peace of his family farm. Instead he finds chaos: his stepmother dead, his father dying and his fiancée married to another man. His pain reaches a new level when he learns his father’s will demands a legitimate heir by Coulter’s 30th birthday to keep his inheritance—and guardianship of his teenage half-sister.


Amelia Strong has her own secrets to keep. When Coulter takes her in after she collapses in front of his horse, bruised, sick and frail, Amelia can’t imagine that within a few weeks, she’ll offer to marry him and give him that heir if he will divorce her and set her up to begin a new life after the child is born.


What neither of them realizes is that Amelia’s beloved, listed among the war’s casualties, is actually alive and going mad. When he spots Coulter and Amelia in Cincinnati on their honeymoon and begins to stalk the Bancroft family, the result is a suspenseful game of cat-and-mouse game that can only end in death.




Chapter One


October 16, 1865

Northwestern Ohio


“Damn that man!”

The wind caught the wooden door, banging it against the side of the farmhouse as Coulter Bancroft stalked into the kitchen and tossed a sheaf of tied papers on the table. The thud of his boots on the wooden floor was as unyielding as the fury in his eyes; the wailing wind echoed his harsh voice as he called for his sister.

His first shout of “Caroline!” brought her running into the room. She came to a dead stop, grabbing a highback kitchen chair for support. Her eyes widened at the fierceness of Coulter’s expression and the tenseness of his stance.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” he demanded.

“About what?” Caroline stammered, knitting her hands together.

“This!” Coulter shook the papers at her. “What our father did to us.”

Her hands tightened on the chair back until her knuckles turned white. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, then, let me tell you.” Coulter spread the papers across the table. “There’s a lot of fancy lawyer language in there, but here’s what it comes down to: We’re about to be out of a home. That apple orchard out there? Gone. The cows and horses in the barn? Gone, too. Trust me, our father’s good friend, William Cahorn, Esquire, explained it to me in great detail.”

Mimicking the elderly attorney’s mincing tone, he said, “Your father’s will is quite specific, Bancroft, and he was of sound mind when he made the changes. If you do not produce a legitimate heir by the time you are thirty, the entire estate reverts to your cousins in Illinois. In the meantime, I am authorized to provide you with the funds to continue operation of the farm and to allow for the needs of you and your sister.”

Coulter’s tirade stopped as abruptly as it had begun. He dropped into a chair, staring for a long moment at the blank wall opposite him. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, calmer.

“What it means, my dear, is that our father has entailed the estate. If I don’t do as his will demands, our inheritance is gone.” His eyes moved to his sister, and he winced as her face turned pale with his next words. “You, dear Caroline, will become our cousin’s ward until you reach twenty-one years of age or he finds someone for you to marry.”

Her soft gasp wounded Coulter as bitter words could not. His anger eased into compassion. He had never felt so helpless, not even on the battlefields he’d come to know too intimately over the last three years. He wanted to console his sister and tell her everything would be fine, as he had when she was a little girl. He longed to make things right for her again. But it couldn’t be done. Not this time.

Red-hot anger began to well again. He struggled to contain it before it spiraled out of control. He’d scared Caroline enough.



He swung into the saddle and slapped the reins. Man and horse flew down the long path behind the barn and along the fence line that separated this farm from the next. Low-hanging clouds dimmed the sun, and in the far distance, he could hear the rumble of thunder, driven by the howling wind. He rode hard, mindlessly, losing himself to the smashing of Midnight’s hooves against the ground and the wildness of the oncoming night.

****

The fierce October wind slashed through the thin cotton of the woman’s dress as she stumbled across the rough ground, her swollen and bloody feet too numb to feel the cold mud between her toes. Each inhalation of the frosty air tore at her tortured lungs; each exhalation brought new pain from a broken rib.

It seemed hours since she’d jumped from the rattletrap wagon. Thousands of miles since she’d begun her run for freedom. She longed to rest for one tiny moment. Or risk looking back over her shoulder to see how many men followed. If any man followed. Yet she knew even a split-second’s hesitation could mean the difference between safety and capture.

She gasped as an errant root smashed against her ankle, sending her to her knees. With the last of her strength, she forced herself up and onward. She didn’t know where she was headed; she no longer cared. As she struggled toward the brightness that must surely signal a break in this endless forest, the gray clouds above her loosened and rain began to fall. In seconds the drizzle began to sheet, turning the leaf-covered ground beneath her into a morass of mud and dying vegetation.

She heard the thunder of hooves as she finally reached the light at the edge of the woods. Her soul cried out, for this surely was the angel of death stampeding toward her, swooping down to take her away. She fell to her knees in surrender, caring not whether she was transported to heaven or hell, only that she be freed from the torment awaiting her if she was captured.

****

The storm matched his mood. Coulter rode hard until he caught a movement at the edge of the woods. Cursing into the wind, he pulled hard on Midnight’s reins as a woman stumbled out in front of him, falling onto the muddy trail and into unconsciousness. “Whoa, Midnight! Stop, boy!”

Coulter fought to keep from trampling her, his heart in his throat as the big stallion reared up, halting inches from the silent heap collapsed in the middle of the road. Coulter swung down as the horse’s front hooves touched the ground, and ran to what looked like nothing more than a pile of old clothing. He knelt in the mud, oblivious to the cold rain pouring down his worn hat and across his shoulders. His breath caught at the sight of the young woman.

Damn, he could have killed her. Had Midnight been a few steps further along the dirt road, or his pace a little quicker, the horse would have smashed the life out of her. Coulter gathered the fragile body into his arms and set the woman on Midnight’s back. He swung up behind her, shook the reins and raced for home. He rode as if the devil pursued, holding his burden close with one arm. The woman stayed silent except for an occasional moan, her head lolling against his broad chest. Fear traveled alongside as an unseen companion; Coulter’s heart caught in his chest every time her shallow breathing slowed.

The ride home seemed interminable, the way made harder by the unrelenting rain and the slick mud road underfoot. Finally the buildings that made up the Bancroft farmstead came into view. With a thankful heart, he rode up to the house. “Minnie!” Coulter cried as he slid off Midnight’s back, holding tightly to the small burden in his arms. He slapped the horse on the rump, and Midnight headed toward the barn.

“Minnie!” he shouted again, taking the back porch steps two at a time. The housekeeper gasped as he kicked open the door to the warm kitchen.

“Lord, Mr. Bancroft, what have you there?”


Available now from Turquoise Morning Press at e-book retailers; coming soon in print

I'm sorry, you humans, but ...

I am well aware that humans like my Cat have short attention spans. I can easily stare at the same spot on the wall for an hour; Cat begins to bug me after two minutes, insistent on knowing what I'm staring at.
No offense, people, but just watching you wears me out. Life is meant to be enjoyed, you know. And in the interest of helping you make the most of yours, I'm willing to offer tips for a happy one:
There's nothing wrong with a nap, or six. 
To nap properly, you must find the right location. Warm is essential; soft is optional. My favorite places are the top of the thing that shoots paper through it and the sunny spot by the back door. Remember to stretch every hour or two; otherwise parts of you become numb. There's nothing more annoying than a numb paw when the floor is a three-foot jump away.
Refuse to eat anything that displeases you.
Cat, unfortunately, needs retraining. Last week she bought generic dry cat food and poured it into my dish. I took one sniff and trust me, that was enough to convince me not to eat that stuff. Yes, I did get a mite peckish over the next two days, but the result of my hunger strike was a big bag of the good stuff.
Let the people think they're winning.
For some reason, Cat insists that I must stay in the house while every other feline in the neighborhood gets to run free. Quite honestly, I'm very content roaming from room to room, but no way can I let her think she can tell what to do. So I "escape" every few days and take my time coming back in. The best part of all is the way she scolds Big Stupid for letting me get out. I almost feel sorry for the dumb canine -- almost.
Refuse to concede.
At a sleek seven pounds, I lack the mass to muscle anybody out of my way. I do, however, have sharp claws and a healthy hiss when I choose to use it.  Together, they keep me from having to give up my seat and send small children running in fear.
Use affection to get out of trouble.
I am not one of those disgusting cats that curl up on people's laps and purr. I mean, seriously; every heard of dignity. However, when something has happened for which I may be responsible (think overturned vase or shredded couch leg) rubbing up against Cat's leg and offering a friendly meow can do wonders.
I'd be more than happy to give you more advice, but I feel the need for a nap. If you'd like to be as happy, healthy and stress-free as me, I'd suggest you do the same.
After, of course, you've ordered Cat's newest book from Turquoise Morning Press -- yes, that one. Not only is it highly entertaining, but its cover is the perfect consistency to sink your claws into.
 

Not a fiddler on this roof

Greetings to all of you who have been waiting for my feline musings -- and my apologies for making you wait so long to hear from me again. You see, winter has just hung and hung on here in my corner of Kentucky, and I've been in virtual hibernation. But the sun is shining again, and I simply must tell you about the Cat Next Door.
She's young, not quite a year old, and therefore still full of the misguided enthusiasm of youth. She has yet to understand that cats, unlike dogs, are dignified creatures. It aids us all to appear inscrutable and in charge lest the humans around us assume they are in control.
Now, don't get me wrong. I had moments in my younger days when I made a fool of myself in front of the people who are responsible for taking care of me. They still speak with laughter in their voice of me hunting down a plastic grocery bag and carrying through the house, growling at anyone who came near.
As I said, it was in my much younger days. Now I confine my involvement with grocery bags to the brown paper kind. They provide an excellent hiding place from which to jump out and bite ankles.
But back to the Cat Next Door.
If she's outside, the silly thing makes a beeline for Maggie, the dog with whom I'm forced to share a house, whenever Cat takes Maggie out in the morning. I watch in morbid fascination as the Cat Next Door runs up and rubs against the dog, as if they were the best of friends. Really. Does she have no shame?
Now I'm all for tree climbing, which the Cat Next Door does, and for terrorizing small children with a growl and a swish of a paw, which she has yet to master.
But is the Cat Next Door content to simply climb into a tree and remain there? Of course not.
She jumps on the roof, makes her way to the front of the house and – get ready for this – grooms herself in full view of anyone passing by.
I mean, really now. Even at her young age, she should know some things are done best in private.
And in case you think I exaggerate, take a look:

Ah, well, I must retire now and sit on top of the printer in Cat's office. Today, her alter ego, Cammie Eicher, is working on a new book at the computer, and she needs me to offer advice.
Oh, by the way, Cammie's marvelous book, "Out of the Shadows," the first in her vampire Shadow Ancient series, is now out in print! Check it out on Amazon or at Resplendence Publishing's website.

Tabby

And now there are two

As my Faithful Readers know, I share my abode with Cat Shaffer, my favorite writer of all time, and an overgrown mutt I prefer to call Big Stupid (see below). Now Cat, who is so misguided, tells everyone that Big Stupid is actually a great big Sheltie, and her name is Maggie.

Since Big Stupid was here before me, I assume that in a moment of madness, Cat decided to get a dog and, when her senses returned, came for me. Although I prefer she not hold me or spout that "pretty kitty" nonsense at me, I will allow her to pet me since she rescued me from a cage at the animal shelter when I was just a wee kitten.

Side note here: At least the shelter did one thing right. They kept the dogs on one side of the building and us cats on the other. Although, with their brute force, the canines might have helped us with the escape we had planned. Hmmmm ...

Anyway, Cat's People live beside us. Her girl and her girl's girls have three cats, which I think is absolutely marvelous, even if they get to run around outside and I don't. I mean, the more cats, the better, right?

To my shock and horror, I looked out my favorite window and saw something big, black and noisy tied to the porch at her People's house. Although I rarely lower myself to listen to a thing Cat says, I paid attention for a time and discovered the big, black, noisy thing is called a Bella.

And it's a dog.

Yes, another dog. A black lab, I believe.

I suppose I can endure its yaps and barks if it stays over there. But one of Cat's People brought into my house to give it a bath. Personally, I can't see the reason for a bath. If it would just learn to groom itself like decent cats do, it would be far better off.

Anyway, they took the Bella thing upstairs. I heard water run. I heard a Girl shout something about being all wet and then the Bella came running downstairs, shaking water everywhere. Let me tell you, it was almost more than a civilized feline can endure, hearing loud shouts of "No, Bella! Stop, Bella! Get outside, Bella!" echoing through my house.

I find it of great interest that the Girl People did this while Cat was away. As soon as she walked in a short time time, I tried to tell her about the horror I was forced to endure. I used my most cultivated yowl to inform her about the stink of dog shampoo lingering upstairs, the damp towels on the bathroom floor where I like to lay in the sunshine and their audacity in using our facilities to bathe a Bella.

Poor, feeble-minded Cat. She refused to listen to a word I said. And to add insult to injury, she actually petted me on the head and said, "Poor baby. Did you miss Mommy?"

Oops, I hear her coming up the steps, so I must abandon her computer and sneak back on top of the printer, one of my favorite places to sleep.

Oh, and in case you didn't know, you can now buy Cat's most marvelous romantic suspense, "No Safe Place" from Turquoise Morning Press, as an e-book or in print. Be generous and buy one for yourself and one for a friend. Maybe the royalties will enable her to buy me a better band of cat food!

Tabby

Okay, YOU decide

There seems to be some question about whether dogs or cats are the smarter creature. My own servant, Cat, refuses to give her opinion publicly, although I have overheard her bragging about Big Stupid (who Cat calls Maggie) and the dumb dog's ability to follow complex commands and retrieve every toy by name.

Like many humans. she fails to understand that unlike a dog, we cats will never lower ourselves to do silly tricks like sit on command to get a dog biscuit. I mean, really. Talk about undignified.

I've decided to simply present the situation to you and allow you to make up your own mind. You will see pictures of me, the dignified creature sitting on the back of a chair in the warm house, looking out the window, and Big Stupid, stuck on the porch on a chain until Cat remembers to let her in.

So tell me, which are smarter, cats or dogs?

Tabby

P.S. If you're looking for the perfect Valentine's gift, check out "Be Mine, Valentine" from Turquoise Morning Press -- Cat and 11 of her friends have wonderful stores in it!

The price of keeping order

Life is difficult as a Very Important Cat. Most difficult is keeping the exploits of my live-in servant, Cat Shaffer, hidden as well as possible.
That, of course, is not easy. Despite her name, Cat is not fleet-footed nor a good jumper. She is rather clumsy, actually.
Which is why I rush up to see the action when she goes Upstairs. Downstairs is her province, hers and Big Stupid, the dumb dog that occupies space for no good reason. Upstairs is mine. It has a high wardrobe for me to sit on (and attack Big Stupid from), the kitchen sink that occasionally drips lovely fresh water for me, and a tall towel cupboard with no door, the perfect place to hide.
Big Stupid has enough brain cells to stay on Cat's big bed when we're all Upstairs. Oh, she tries to come into MY places, like the bathtub and under the bed. But we all know what one good whoosh of an un-declawed cat can do, don't we?
As she is prone to do, Cat announced to Big Stupid and me last night that she was going to take a bath. I like it when she takes a bath. Big Stupid stays on the bed and I go into the bathroom before the door closes. I walk the edge of the bathtub, play in the foamy bubbles Cat puts into the tub and yell at Big Stupid if she ventures off the bed and to the other side of the door.
The room was cozy and full of nice scented steam as I jumped off the tub and onto the floor. Instead of sitting inside the sink, one of my favorite places, I decided to curl up on the bath mat. I didn't think to tell Cat; I mean, really, is it any of her business where I nap?
Anyway, by the time I heard the water splashing as Cat rose from the tub it was too late. I was in mid-stretch, rather irritated by being awakened, when a big, wet foot came down on me. Naturally, I reacted as one must in such situations -- I bit Cat's big, wet foot.
She yelled as if I'd really hurt her. Her yelling scared me, so I went running for the sink. Cat, unfortunately, moved in the same direction. But she grabbed that towel cupboard and all the towels came falling out, all over her and me.
Well, that just made her yell more, which brought Big Stupid off the bed and into the hall. My ears could hardly stand the combination of Cat's yowling and Big Stupid's barking, so I did what I could to settle things down. I yelled back at Cat and swiped at her foot again.
Alas, she misinterpreted my attempt at peace and the next thing I knew, she had me in both hands and tossed me out to where Big Stupid waited.
We'll not go into the unpleasantness that ensued. What I will tell you is this: The dog may be bigger and louder, but mean and sneaky wins every time. As in dogs with bushy tails really should keep them out of the grip of determined felines.

Now you'll have to excuse me. I'm off to remind people to buy Cat's books, "Kentucky Blues" and "No Safe Place," both from Turquoise Morning Press. I do have a standard of living to maintain, you know.

Tabby

Tabby

And she can't even drive ...

I may have mentioned that Maggie, the big Sheltie that occupies space in my house, has occasional flashes of intelligence that nearly equalz mine. Take last night when she was playing cars with Cat.

The treadle sewing machine on the stairway landing is my favorite place to sit. It gives me a perfect vantage point to gaze through the open stairway and watch Big Stupid (my loving nickname for Maggie) suck up to Cat.

Sometimes it works. Not like I'd ever lower myself to look sad-eyed in order to get a handful of popcorn, but it works for her. And she's also trained Cat to trade food she likes for stuff she's not supposed to have.

If only I had the power of speech, I'd tell poor Cat she's being suckered. Like last night's little toy cars.

Cat bought them for the boy that comes sometimes. He comes with Our Mark, the guy that calls her Mom. Anyway she came home one day with a whole package of those cars and the boy played with them and put them somewhere.

Maggie found them. Cat thought it was cute and said, "Trade, Maggie?" and gave her a puppy biscuit.

That was the red one. The dark blue one got her a peanut. The light blue one got her a cracker. The green one got her another biscuit. The yellow got her some puffcorn and Cat yelling, "Where are you finding those things?"

The best moment, the kind we cats live for when forced to share our abode with a dog, came when she found the white one.

"Give it up, dog, you cannot eat a Mustang!" Cat yelled as she threw yet another one of those hard biscuits at the dog and grabbed the car. Before Maggie could find the hidden cache of cars, Cat had her out the door and on her doggie cable on the front yard, out in the frozen snow.

Me, I enjoyed the show immensely. Enough so that tonight, when Big Stupid and Cat go to bed, I may knock all those confiscated cars off the dining room table and put them back under the sofa, right where I told Maggie  she could find them.

Ah, yes, life can be sweet.

Tabby Cat

P.S. Remember, I can only get the good cat food if you buy Cat's books. Check them out at turquoisemorningpress.com

What a feline wants ...

Greetings in this new year from Tabby, Cat's cat.
Since Cat seems inclined to write books, muttering about deadlines, instead of Important Things, I have volunteered to become her blogger. I will, of course, tell her about this eventually. In the meantime, mum's the word, okay?
What qualifies me to serve as her voice to you, her adoring fans?
I am a cat. Nuff said.
What, you want more. Fine then.
While modesty forces me to stop just short of declaring myself her muse, consider this: When she is at the keyboard, I am perched on her printer, only feet away. When she pauses, I glare at her. On occasion, when minutes go by without the sound of keys being hit, I actually lower myself to speak to her.
You'd be amazed by what a well-placed "Meow!" can do.
I hope by now you've purchased and read her fabulous "Kentucky Blues." I've read the reviews of the book, and while critics praise it, I am disturbed by one glaring omission:
No one mentions the cat!

Unfortunately, her newest novel, "No Safe Place," doesn't have a cat in it. I've read some blah-blah about it in reviews, about how wonderful the characters are and how the suspense is exciting, but here's the real scoop:
Cat's heroine works at a diner!
I must say, every time I sneaks to the computer after she foes to bed to proof-read her work, I look to see if she mentions food. It's thrilling to read about meatloaf and chocolate cake and all those wonderful things she makes for herself and selfishly refuses to share with me.
(An aside here -- the dog gets bites, while I'm forced to survive on dry food because I refuse to sit like a fool at her feet and beg. That's the price I pay, I suppose, for keeping my dignity.)
Now that I've made your acquaintance, I hope you'll come back from time to time for a cat's eye view of Cat's life. And do be sure to drop by www.turquoisesmorningpress.com to see what's happening at her publisher's, and remember, you can buy her books in e-book or print wherever such things are sold.
Which is NOT where you can also buy toy mice -- I've already checked.

Tabby