Good Guys Don't Wear Bells: Russell's Way

By Gordon M. Folger

Good Guys Dont Wear Bells transports the reader to a realm of human insight punctuated by the
unexpected arrival of a new and very different family member. This member, Russell, a cat, proves to be
an influence for change and understanding.
Spread across three distinctly different venues, Russells life experiences begin with his mistakenly
being locked in a closed rental house on Nantucket Island only to be rescued by the new occupants
who are destined to be his future family. From there his adventures are transferred to the long-since
vacated backyards of downtown Detroit and the urban-renewed courtyards of the townhouses
replacing them. Here he overcame numerous adversities and misadventures. His later life was spent in
the Middle Eastern country of Qatar where he reigned supreme in his last conquest, a small backyard
garden. Here he was united with a recent addition to the family, a Siamese queen named Starlight
who had been added while he was wintering in Nantucket. This union was to blossom into a lasting love
affair.
In the years spent with his new family, he assumed the responsibility of their conversion from dog
people as he molded them into cat lovers. This task he accomplished readily and with little fanfare
as his human family worked and played. Accompanying this conversion his familys feline associations
dramatically increased, the result of the rescue of a multitude of cats rendered homeless by the first
Arabian Gulf War. Even with this and the ever-present Starlight, Russell remained the star.
A moving story of love and pathos, Good Guys Dont Wear Bells will captivate its readers and bring
them to a true understanding of feline-human bonding.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 28, 2010
• ISBN: 9781462818822

Book preview

PROLOGUE

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The big orange cat peered intently from the wet thicket that surrounded the house only a few yards away. The house was all but obscured by the dense fog that had enshrouded Nantucket Island throughout the night, and he strained to see what had been his home for the past month. Water droplets fell from the bayberry, and he was soaked to the skin. The big orange cat detested this feeling, detested being wet at all. Even worse was the hunger he felt rising in the pit of his stomach. That one small mouse, all that he had caught, had done little to sustain him for the entire night.

With the first light of day he had heard stirrings from within the house and now the front door creaked open. The big orange cat now saw his chance of acquiring a dry environment and silently took advantage of the open door. His joy at feeling a dry warm carpet beneath his paws was, however, quickly quelled as he entered the kitchen only to find no food bowls and he really was hungry. He quickly recognized that something was amiss as the house he had known so well was now in disarray with boxes piled near the door being carried out to a waiting car by the human inhabitants. These turns in events called for drastic actions meaning finding a secure and quiet hiding place fast. And this could not be in the house proper. Aha! The small, noisy humans had been assigned the task of bringing those boxes from storage in the garage which connected to the kitchen by a now open door through which he scrambled. The garage had many secret hiding places, and the big orange cat found one and settled down. Peace at last. The hunger could wait, at least for a while.

With the car now having been nearly loaded, the children had turned to other tasks not the least of which was finding the big orange cat. They had been told in no uncertain terms that the family must leave for the ferry, and the cat had to be found or be left behind!

Anxious calls for the kitty reverberated through the house to be clearly heard by the big orange cat who, very cat-like, ignored them. He was stretched out in the dark of the garage commencing a cat nap. After all he had been busy all night! And he had seen the cat carrier of which he was not fond.

Cries of dismay and alarm now came from all corners of the house at the inability to locate the cat along with admonitions that the family must leave for the ferry terminal immediately or face missing the ferry to the mainland. The big orange cat through his sleep heard the doors of the house being closed with the usual slams, but he couldn’t hear the key turning in the lock. He did faintly hear the closing of the car doors as the family departed for the ferry. Ferry tickets to and from Nantucket are premium holdings and one does not fail to appear at the scheduled time for the ferry’s sailing.

The big orange cat had missed the boat.

CHAPTER I

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RUSSELL

What’s wrong with the dog?

Nomadically, once a year, as was our ritual we packed up virtually all of our earthly possessions, including children, pets and the Sunfish and migrated to Nantucket Island, Massachusetts. This, also by ritual, was an August occurrence and this year was no different—except the house.

Being modestly impoverished, at least to the point of not being able to be an island homeowner, each year we rented. Not infrequently the rental was a new one to us, so often the house was unfamiliar. This year was no different.

The house this year was a rather large island-style summer dwelling owned by a woman known only to us, via the rental agent, as Mrs. Russell, and it immediately became the Russell house and all in it was the Russell’s. Among its many attributes was the luxury of a room for everyone, an upstairs and downstairs for adult-children separation, a sprawling yard for all sorts of games and a garage. The garage, however, was to be off limits because that was where Mrs. Russell kept most of which was sacrosanct to her such as tools, lawn equipment, partly used cans of paint, crusty paint brushes and various and sundry other items. The garage was attached to the house through the kitchen, its outer door was, by rental agreement, to remain always shut and locked. It had but one quite dusty window which allowed little light to penetrate the dank interior. For illumination it had only a single light fixture dangling precariously from the garretted ceiling and which was complete with a 25 watt bulb. Cobwebs were rampant. To enter the kitchen from the garage one had to ascend 3 wooden steps and, on first examination, with the exception of opening into the kitchen, the garage seemed quite well separated from the house. The only problem with off-limits places is that they tend to become sought-after explorations and the several days since our arrival had seen just this.

What’s wrong with the dog?

The dog in question was a large, over friendly, yellow Labrador retriever who had been born on Nantucket and was the color of beach sand—hence his registered name, Nantucket Sand, AKA Sandy. He was continuously everywhere; under foot, on furniture, often in someone else’s yard and occasionally garbage. On this day and the three previously since our arrival at the Russell house, he seemed to prefer the garage, constantly snuffling about, occasionally whining and yipping in a high-pitched tone that was completely uncharacteristic of his usual deep-toned woof.

The same question, What’s wrong with the dog? And the same answer from wife Jill who was putting dinner together, I don’t know, but he’s going to drive me nuts!

Days were not spent in the Russell house. They were spent on the beach, or sailing, or doing things that had been left undone the year before or finding new places and things that had not even been there before. So it was only natural that all of us were together in the house just in the early mornings or later in the afternoons and evenings. It was during these times that household problems would be noticed, and Sandy’s incessant snuffling and snorting and yipping and whining in the garage was fast becoming a household problem.

Well go find out! The annoyance was fast becoming abrasive.

We’ll find out, said the kids in a chorus, excepting, of course, the baby who wasn’t yet saying much. So out trooped four children ranging in age from 6 to 16 years and after several minutes they trooped back in merely to report that Sandy was sniffing at the wooden steps and running around. Then they left. No solution to the problem and apparently not much interest in it!

I’ll look, said I, very decisively and descended into the dark, dank, musty garage where, indeed, Sandy was excitedly pacing around those three little wooden stairs, sniffing all about. There was certainly nothing out of the ordinary to see as to what might be provoking his annoying behavior. Thus again and equally decisively, I announced this finding.

I’ll bring him in. That should put an end to this. And with some pulling and tugging, Sandy was secured in the kitchen where he quieted down as his bowl was filled. Then we all settled down to dinner, Sandy in his usual begging stance, and quiet reigned-well, as much quiet as could be expected with the entourage at the table. Conversation shifted to the affairs of the day just past and dwelled somewhat in repeated descriptions of the bluefish daddy had caught and which were now part of dinner. It is amazing the variations in size and shape perceived by various observers on a minute-to-minute basis.

Morning always comes early when ushered in by excited children anticipating another fun-filled day. Of course, they were always ahead of the adults, and so they were this morning. The cereal boxes had all been opened and the crunching was evident from some distance. Mouth noises were taboo when the adults were present but that taboo was usually forgotten when they were absent. As I entered the kitchen the usual finger pointings and accusations of guilt commenced. More evident than the crunching and slurping of cereal drenched in milk, however, was the snuffling and snorting of Sandy at the door leading to the garage.

Dad, he’s doing it again, said Geff, the oldest. This observation seemed principally intended to shift attention from the ongoing table manners onto the dog. Almost immediately, taking his cue from Geff, Mac, the youngest boy jumped up from the table and opened the door to the garage, releasing Sandy back to the area of interest. Immediately the excited high-pitched barking and the constant snuffling and pacing commenced—and all Labrador owners know what an excited snuffling Labrador sounds like.

What is wrong with that dog? said Jill as she entered the kitchen for the first time this day. Jill has always considered any time before 9:00 AM as belonging to the day before. Her emphasis on is probably represented early morning intolerance as much as annoyance with Sandy as she had only now entered upon the scene.

I don’t know but I’m going to find out! I went once more down those three little stairs, at which Sandy was nervously bouncing around, and into the garage. But this time, perhaps because of the early morning hour, I cleverly got down on hands and knees and peered behind those three little wooden steps. There, well concealed by the virtual darkness in which Mrs. Russell’s garage was permanently bathed, was a small hole in the foundation which could not under any circumstances have been seen by merely facing the stairs. It was the size of the two absent cinder blocks which had been omitted and quite insufficient to admit an eighty pound dog not to mention a human of any size currently living in the house excepting the baby.

He must have a rabbit or something under here, I said. Is there a flashlight around?

Now a flashlight that works is something that every household should have, but to this day such is a rare occurrence in ours. Jill promptly produced one from amongst the heaped belongings from the recent trip which had not yet found appropriate homes. The green corrosion oozing from the battery compartment boded ill for its effectiveness. One push of the switch confirmed our suspicions. A search of the house merely proved that Mrs. Russell did no better than we in the flashlight department.

Well, I don’t know what he has, but he can’t get at it, so it’s safe for now. Let’s remember to get batteries for this, and I’ll look when we get home. For the time being the search was off and, anyway, a new day of fun and relaxation beckoned. On our way to get sandwiches and meet up with the other beachers for the day, which included cousins and various and significant others, we stopped in town for the batteries. Actually, one doesn’t just stop in the town of Nantucket, and this is most certainly true when children are present. It is a jewel with many facets. Its side streets abound with treasures, like the Kiteman, where hours can be spent looking for new playthings which by no means are only for kids. Today was no different and minutes stretched into more than an hour.

Returning to the car, we inserted the new batteries into the corroded flashlight, and much to our surprise it sprang to life. Then we were off. Further stops included the sandwich shop, and, of course the package store for adult delights. The remainder of the day was spent at Great Point in the shadow of the lighthouse where we partied, swam and fished in the surf. More bluefish for a potential and future dinner!

As the day began to lose its warmth and the sun neared the horizon over the town of Nantucket several miles to the west across the water, we decided to pack up and begin planning the next activity. Dinner was beginning to sound like a good idea, and we had a long ride down the point in the jeeps. We would all meet later over those adult beverages and determine the menu.

Upon our return home and the beginnings of cocktail hour, Sandy once more began his annoying commotion at the door to the garage, snuffling and whining at his inability to achieve access. Now he was interrupting an extremely important daily activity, and this could be tolerated no longer. Jill’s voice was not completely pleasant as she grumbled, Gordon go find out what is wrong with him. Now!

Armed with the now-functioning flashlight I entered the garage, descending those now-too-familiar three little wooden steps, pushing an unwilling dog aside, and on hands and knees positioned myself as near to the small hole in the foundation as appeared possible. It seemed as though more cobwebs had appeared since the morning. Brushing them aside and off my face, I brought the flashlight to bear into the blackness of the totally unlit crawlspace. From far back under the kitchen two orange spots of light glowed back.

Damn, I think it’s a cat. The disdain in my utterance was absolute. After all, we were dog people. Cats were just those things that dogs chased. I had been raised to dislike them. Why, my mother even used to sit on her porch with her B-B gun and ping them, as she called it. And I could recall the many times, when on walks, if we encountered a cat, saying to Sandy, Cat. Sic ’im Sandy. Nonetheless, we had had a cat at the time Sandy was a puppy, but it really wasn’t a household fixture-just around.

Kitty, kitty. No response. I couldn’t possibly reach it way back against the far foundation wall with no way through that little hole through which I now peered. There it was, crouching in the blackness of the crawl space, just those two orange reflectors betraying its presence, never moving, never even blinking.

Is it stuck? came Jill’s query from the kitchen door.

No, I don’t think so, I replied.

At my initial pronouncement of my find, the four oldest children had congregated just inside the kitchen and now were dancing with glee. A cat, a cat, they screeched. Oh, get him for us. A new animal is always better