Cats of Nine Tales

By June J McInerney

The author has known, loved, and been owned by many cats of all shapes and sizes. Here are the tails, er, tales of nine of them. This delightful collection humorously, joyously, and often poignantly tells their fictional as well as non-fictional stories. Come meet these kittens. toms, and queens, each with their own unique personality traits: Sebastian, who walked out of the woods to select his new owner; Clare, the aloof feline; Sammy Cat, a kitten who grew up to emulate a fox; Queenie, who reigned in the fictitious land of Faboolini; Trevor, the house cat; Misty, Joe's best friend (a heartwarmingly true story); Wally, the caring hunter; wandering Wendy; and Gingerbread, the older shelter cat.
Who says dogs and hounds are (wo)man's best friend? These tales are evidence that felix domestica can be just as faithful, loving, and true—if not more so than their canine counterparts —to those humans whom they choose to own. Meow!

• Language: English
• Publisher: June J McInerney
• Release date: Mar 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476022840

June J McInerney

June is a published author, poet, and playright. Her works include "Meditations for New Members", "Adventures of Oreigh Ogglefont", "The Basset Chronicles", "Spinach Water", "Exodus Ending", and a variety of children's musicals, inlcuding "We Three Kings", "Noah's Rainbow", and "Peter, the Wolf, and Red Riding Hood". Orginally from the New York Metropolictan area, June current resides near Valley Forge Park, PA, with her cherished companions, "FrankieBernard" and "Sebastian".

Book preview

Cats of Nine Tales

by

June J. McInerney

Copyright June J. McInerney 2012. All rights reserved

Published by B’Seti Pup Publishing at Smashwords

ISBN: 978-1-4760-2284-0

First eBook Edition

Smashwords License Statement:

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AUTHOR’S NOTE: These stories, both fictional and non-fictional, are about nine of the many cats that I have known and loved throughout my life. While I am basically partial to Basset Hounds, that most beloved of all canine breeds, I knew, since I am also a cat aficionado, that someday I would get around to telling these tails, er, tales.

I’ve tried to keep each cat’s original name, circumstances, and individual traits because to do otherwise would denigrate their unique dignities and personalities, and the loving memories that I have of each of them; although I have fictionalized some of the events in the lives we’ve share. Any similarities to any other felines or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

DEDICATED TO:

Betty and Joe, who love Misty the best of all.

Peg and Dan, who constantly encourage me.

Maria Lucretia, who first thought of the idea for these tales.

And, of course, to Sebastian, who ferociously mewled and scurried about the house the entire time I was writing about eight other cats besides himself.

CONTENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

DEDICATED TO

SEBASTIAN

TREVOR

MISTY

QUEENIE

WELLINGTON

SAMMY CAT

CLARE

GINGERBREAD

CAT FACTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

SEBASTIAN

My first name, before I was dubbed Sebastian, was Neno-nanna-mo-moma, a combination of the Spanish word Neno for baby boy and human baby gibberish. I was whelped in a run-down tool shed behind a derelict ranch house whose front yard was littered with bicycles, car fenders, tires, and a rusting red truck. I was kept in the shed with my species-birth mother until I was old enough to sire kittens of my own. By the age of two, I was the father of more than thirty mewling baby strays.

Most of my offspring, unlike myself, had free reign of the yard and often wandered across the heavily trafficked road to the stand of trees and bushes on the opposite side. Many of them, sadly, didn’t make it. Toward to end of my second summer, I managed to escape the shed in which I was confined by skirting out the door when one human child came to feed me. He had carelessly left the shed door open as he tossed stale kibble into my filthy bowl.

Spotting my chance, I darted between his legs and scooted out the open door, across the back lawn, overgrown with weeds and tangled vines—a flash of orange and light brown streaking my way to freedom. My plan was to corral the last batch of wayward kittens—my sons and daughters, barely four weeks of age, left unattended by our human owners—and find suitable homes for them. And, perhaps, a new one for me.

The boy screamed for his mother, alerting her to my escape. I made it to the front yard just in time as she slammed open the kitchen screen door. I hid under the truck, watching through my slanted yellow eyes as she limped with arthritic knees toward the road, calling my name, brushing her long, coal black oily hair from her rheumy eyes.

Neno. Neno, baby boy. Come here, kitty, kitty. But, of course, I didn’t answer. I didn’t like the sound of her mawkish voice nor the way they treated me—no decent food, no fresh air, no scratches behind the ears—that’s no way to treat a noble animal such as myself. I deserved better and was determined to find it. She called and called for me, but I did not crawl out from under the truck. I stayed hidden, breathing the fetid, stale fumes of old, decomposing gasoline, waiting for her and her son to finally go back into the house.

That night, when all the lights in the house were turned off and the road traffic had abated, I slinked out from under the metal carcass and edged my way to the roadside.

It was dark except for a faint street light across the way that cast ominous shadows on the lawn from the strewn debris on the lawn. The glint of car headlights flashed in my eyes as they whizzed by. I crouched, ready to run across the road at the first chance I got, hoping to make it safely to the other side.

When I was sure no cars would be coming for a while, I pranced onto the macadam and started to stroll across the road when, suddenly, a lumbering mail truck bolted out of nowhere and nearly clipped my backside. The driver, sitting on the right side instead of the left side of the cab, probably didn’t see me almost in the middle of the double white line. When he passed, I hastily scrambled to the other side, again almost run over; this time by a dark, menacing sedan with music blaring loudly through its open windows, its young occupants shouting and singing along, not paying any attention to their outside surroundings.

Dense woods and bushes lined this side of the road. I scampered under them, hoping to seek shelter and rest for the night.

But, as you know, we cats are not really night sleepers. We’re more like troglodytes, animals that forage and play during the night and sleep during the day. This is our time, when we are out and about, to hunt for food and prowl for adventure. At least that is the nature of most felines. But I am not like most felines, having been kept in the dank, dark, dirty shed for the first two years of my life; my only activities limited to eating, sleeping, siring kittens, and catching the occasional mouse who had the misfortune of wandering into my lair through a hole in a rotting wooden floorboard. I was rather naïve about what a free, cat was supposed to do with his independence. I was almost at a loss about what to do next. Sleep or hunt or look for a new home?

I slept.

The next morning, just as the sun was rising, I uncurled my lithe, thickly furred body from the nest I had nosed together of leaves and pine needles under a yew bush. I stretched and yawned awake into the new day, wondering what my next steps would be.

First steps, indeed.

I slowly meandered towards the large house beyond the hedgerow where I had spent the night. As I skittered diagonally across a patch of lawn, I aroused the small dog behind the glass storm door, who started to bark and yelp. Curious, for I had never seen a dog up close and personal, I stopped in front of him, far enough away out of what I perceived to be danger, yet close enough for him to see the twitch of my tail and the mockery in my eyes. I began to wash my face and the top half of my back, keeping him in sight in the corner of my eye. Much to my amusement, he continued to yelp and turn in circles behind the door until his owner, wiping her hands on a yellow and blue cotton apron, came to the door.

What’s the matter, Fritz? she said. What’s gotten into you? You need to go out?

Fritz frantically scrabbled at the door glass and, when his mistress opened it, torn after me like a hound after a fox. Startled, I ran like the chased fox, across the rest of the lawn, down the driveway, and, without looking both ways, across yet another double-lane highway. Fritz—a fast runner for a dog—was right behind me. I could feel his panting, bone-scented breath on my back.

Fritz! NO! his mistress called just as he was about to cross the road. I didn’t stop to see if he had stopped. although I no longer felt him gasping on my back nor heard the patter of his paws behind me. I ran across the road and stopped on the shoulder of the tarmac to wash again. This time, I concentrated on my lower back and between my back legs.

Fritz! Come! she called again. Fritz dug his heels in for a sudden stop and a complete about face. He slowly walked back to his house, his black and grey furry tail meekly tucked between his legs.

Such a good dog! I mewled, not quite loud enough for him to hear. But I sensed he got the message. Well trained mutt, I snarled and headed towards the tall stone and aluminum-sided buildings in front of me. The buildings were connected together, yet separated by short driveways; each one had a small balcony and a tall chimney that promised a warm heath and a place, indoors, to curl up on. The houses were flanked by more clusters of bushes and trees. Along one cluster was a short row of houses whose driveways and back doors faced the alley.

Back doors often lead into kitchens, I knew. And kitchens mean food.

I started sauntering down the alley, deciding which lucky house I was going to present myself to for treats in exchange for allowing my head to be scratched behind my ears, when the grind of what later turned out to be a gas-powered leaf blower startled me back under the cover of a yew bush. The