Peevish Pen

Ruminations on reading, writing, rural living, retirement, aging—and sometimes cats. And maybe a border collie or other critters.

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Location: Rural Virginia, United States

I'm an elderly retired teacher who writes. Among my books are Ferradiddledumday (Appalachian version of the Rumpelstiltskin story), Stuck (middle grade paranormal novel), Patches on the Same Quilt (novel set in Franklin County, VA), Them That Go (an Appalachian novel), and several Kindle ebooks.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Dylan Comes of Age

Dylan, former housecat, has been going out for a few hours everyday for the last few weeks. For a while, leaves were an endless fascination to him. They’d fall; he’d run after them and carry a few in his mouth. He’d bring some inside and create leaf art. He’d dip them in his water dish and watch them float.

Dylan brings a leaf to the cat-bowl.


Takes a while to get it just right.


Dylan shows Eddie-Puss his creation.


A work of art!

Back outside, he’d stare up at the pin oak and wait for another leaf to fall.

The other day, though, Dylan found something even more intriguing than a leaf. I saw him circling the house with it in his mouth. Yep, little Dylan caught his first mouse.

I think he was looking for a kitty-sized truck so he could toss the mouse in the back and drive down to one of the country stores where some local cats would be leaning against the building.

“What’s that ya got there, city kitty?” one of the older and paunchier cats might say.

“Mouse,” Dylan would say. “Just bagged it.” He’d hope that these old cats—who’d all been born in barns and spent their whole lives mousing—wouldn’t mention that he was an outsider who’d been purchased at a big city Petland.

The old local cats would wander over to Dylan’s truck for a closer look. They’d nod approval.

“Remember when I got my first,” a grizzled old tom might say. “Waited in the shed for hours before I finally nabbed that sucker. How’d ya git ‘im?”

“Usual way,” Dylan would say. “Teeth. Claws. One good pounce.” Dylan might even flex his claws for effect. “I hid under the boxwoods and nabbed him as he went by.”

“Yep,” another cat might say. “Takes patience if ya wanna git a mouse.”

The other cats would nod. A few might even scratch and spit as they recollected their first mouse kill.

Dylan, now accepted as one of them, would then get back in his little truck and drive off, possibly in search of a taxidermist who mounts little bitty heads.

Or something like that.

I’m just glad he didn’t bring the mouse inside and dip it in his water dish.

~

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1 Comments:

Blogger Debi said...

Yeah, but did they put his picture in the newspaper with the mouse on the gate of his truck with his tongue hanging out?

12:00 AM  

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