The Queen Rules Quietly

I promised you last week I would allow my girl, the female feline, to speak about how she inspires my writing.  She got a bit off topic in this blog, but, since she feels so strongly about her brother Marley, I let her have her rant. After reading last week's Marley contribution, someone suggested I temporarily give up writing mysteries and pen a work about Marley and me.  I could only do that if it included Squeal too.  It's a thought.

You may have seen the picture above, but she insisted I share it again since she insists it shows off her literary bent, both for reading good literature and inspiring it.  Marley thinks she's just showing off.

Squeak's Turn to Meow

Mom says it’s my turn to talk about life in the home of two writers and one other, totally inadequate cat.  He’s so uncatlike, he might as well be a dog.  Not that I mind dogs.  I just don’t want an ersatz hound masquerading as a feline in my bed!  Oops, Mom reminded me I’m getting off the subject.  I do that a lot where Marley is concerned.  It’s his fault.  I’m walking over to my water bowl for a cool drink, hoping he hasn’t drooled in it or deposited one of his favorite bugs in there, and he jumps on me from behind the chair.  I then spend the rest of the morning plotting my revenge.  It’s exhausting.  What?  Oh.  Mom says I did it again.

So about this muse thing.  Neither one of the parents will admit it, but I know I am the inspiration behind their writing.  Mom babbles on about muses because she thinks it’s cute, and she likes to write cute things.  Dad is the silent type, like most human men-cat males being loudly yowly—but he writes real good, and he loves me to distraction.  He even admits it out loud to others.  I think sometimes Mom wonders if he loves me more than her.  And sometimes when he’s aggravated with her, he does love me more.  I make certain of that by doing my best cute thing.  Ha!

I used to write on the computer, but I found it difficult to get my paws on the right keys.  Everyone in the house said I wrote “5, 5” and “8, 9”, but that just isn’t so.  I began my autobiography and due to the paw placement difficulty, only numbers came out.  The opening went something like, “so what does the most beautiful cat in the world do when she’s adopted by human parents who are illiterate in her language?”  Upon reflection, I thought I was being too impatient with them, so I` decided I should give it some time and try to teach them how to communicate with me.  Things are going as well as can be expected given the raw material.  They prove food on cue and vacate their laps when I give the signal of claw-into-your-thigh.  After many trips of going back and forth to our home in Florida (I’m a Florida native), they seem to understand my requirement of a clean and well appointed motel room.  I like spacious bathrooms and coverlets that I can crawl under without inhaling dust.

The parents thought I wouldn’t like traveling because the first time they took me on the road in my travel carrier, I threw a little fit of sorts.  Mom had covered the bottom of the carrier with newspaper—like she thought I’d do something dirty in there, in my own space for heaven’s sake.  I took the humiliation of having to sit on that paper getting newsprint all over my damp little paws (I was a little nervous at Dad’s driving, I’ll admit), then I decided to let them know how I felt.  I howled and tore that paper into tiny shreds.  At the next rest stop, Mom removed the shreds.  They refer to it as my snit-fit.  The only other time I made a fuss was when they mistakenly put me in Marley’s carrier.  Did I yell about that!  Mom said to Dad, “You put her in the wrong carrier.”  “So what?” Dad replied.  Mom gave him one of her looks, and he stopped so they could switch me.  Sometimes you have to be firm.  Can you imagine how it felt being trapped in that thing with Marley’s smell all over it?  Horrible!  Since that time I don’t think I’ve complained once about the trips.  Marley yells all the time, and he used to throw up until Mom got him pills.  The wimp.

Sure I’m referred to as “the little beauty” and “Queenie Queakie”.  I am gorgeous.  I do not have stripes like Marley.  They are so nineties.  I have dark grey fur that is black at the roots, grey in the middle, and beige at the tips.  It is as soft as bunny fur.  Hence my full name Squeakie Wigglesworth Bunnifurd.  Mom tells me Marley was named after Bob Marley because he was born in the Keyes like me, and we heard a lot of island music there.  But she really missed the cruise ship on that one.  He has no sense of rhythm.  She used to dance around with the wonderful and orange Mickey in her arms and he loved it, purred in time to the music.  Marley doesn’t like to be held except on his terms.  He kneads and nuzzles and it’s so embarrassing.  I think you could play a talk show, and he’d get the same thing out of it as Bach.  I’m a jazz and classical gal myself.  I’m surprised at his lack of musical appreciation.  Mom told me her dad played opera and country when he milked the cows.  They liked it.  All animals appreciate music.  Marley is oblivious.  I don’t know what he thinks, probably doesn’t do much of that anyway.

For the longest time I thought Marley had no personality.  He just ate a lot, slept, annoyed me, and peed over the side of the litter box.  Boy, that got Mom’s attention.  Then his personality emerged about two years ago at age four.  Talk about a later bloomer.  When Mom and Dad bought our cottage and began renovations, he became Dad’s helper, now referred to as “Dad’s little buddy.”  Auggh, makes me want to puke a hairball.  He just sits there and watches.  Now, I ask you, how is that helping?  Gosh, humans are odd.  He’s just sitting there.  His brain probably isn’t even engaged.  I watch.  Am I anyone’s “little buddy?”  Oh well, it’s good to be the queen and to know I rule, albeit quietly from the bed upstairs.

Lesley's note: Do you have an animal inspiring your work?  Or perhaps ghost writing for you?  Share your story.

Cat Speak

Note from Lesley: Since I'm dedicating recent blogs to animals, my two cats complained that animals should be allowed to speak for themselves.  So here goes.  Marley is first.

Who’s Behind the Literary Curtain?

Hi!  My name is Marley.  I was the cat pictured at the end of last week's blog.  But here's another great picture of me in case you forgot how handsome I am. I’m the younger of the two cats in the house.  My older sister’s name is Squeak.  Isn’t that the dumbest name?  Of course, sometimes the parents (our human ones) call her “your highness” or “The diva cat.”  I think of her as the bi... er witch.  We don’t get along well.  We are both grey and distantly related since we were rescue animals from the same campground in Key Largo Florida.  According to Mom, we are a special breed of cats known as Keys Grays.  I am, of course, the cuter of the two of us, being striped grey with gold eyes and large feet Mom calls “thumpers.”  Sister is small and round (fat, in my book) and has funny colored eyes, green you call them.  Mom thinks they are beautiful, and so does Dad.  There’s just no accounting for humans’ tastes.

I came into the family when the most famous cat of all time in this family, the orange and wonderful Mickey died.  The parents thought Squeak could use a companion, that she was lonely.  Humans are quite stupid about cats, a fact pointed out to them by one vet who told them female cats look forward to the day when the kids leave home.  “She doesn’t like Marley because he never got the word he should depart.  He keeps hanging around.”  I think she should be the one to leave.

For much of my young life I knew the parents and probably my older sister secretly compared me to the orange and wonderful Mickey.  I fell short, I know.  I could tell by the looks on their faces, and, yes, cats too can give disgusted looks.  Ask my sister.  But I’ve come into my own.  I can do “cute” as well as and sometimes better than my sister (pronounced in cat tongue as “sisser”.  I have a beat-up toy which was once a bell (now missing its clapper and smashed flat from Dad’s big feet crushing it when he steps on it at night) and a feather tied to a furry blob of something human manufacturers think cats might find interesting.  It got interesting only after the bell was nothing other than a shapeless piece of metal and the furry thing was matted like a dead muskrat, the feathers long gone.  I call it my “bell and feavver”.  Oh, did I tell you I cannot pronounce “th”?  This speech impediment must be a character of the Keys Grey breed since sister is always telling Dad to put his legs “togevver” when she jumps into his lap.  I digress, but cats speaking human language is something humans should study more closely.  It could tell you where your language has gone wrong.  Anyway. 

Late at night I hover over the thing and yowl as if my heart is breaking.  I have perfected this cry over the years so that now it is truly saddening and gets all humans’ sympathetic attention.  Then I pick up the mashed mess and carry it lovingly in my mouth, usually upstairs to the parents’ bedroom and drop it on the floor beside the bed.  By now everyone in the house is awake, and I get attention.  They think I am lonely or hungry.  Either is remedied by petting or food.  I then go to sleep and they, fully conscious, turn on the light and read for an hour or so and complain in the morning of little sleep the night before.  Sister plays her part by yelling at them to feed her breakfast early the next morning.  She foolishly does not do this in a charming fashion and they blame her for their lack of rest.  Works for me.

I taught them to accept my finer qualities like my playfulness.  I hide around the corner, and, when she least expects it, I jump on my sister who is half my weight, and I knock the wind out of her.  I love it.  She doesn’t seem to get the fun of the move.  Sometimes she gets revenge by sitting in a chair and when I come by, she hits my tail or bites my butt.  I think she doesn’t mean this playfully.  She has a mean streak in her that the parents just don’t see.  They say she has attitude, which in her, means something positive while the same stance in me they label as nasty.  Well, as I was saying, I think I’ve convinced them I was the right choice as a second cat.  Sister says she would have preferred a plain, homely little black cat they considered.  She thought she could whip that little guy into shape.  She’s never forgiven me for being so cute Mom adopted me instead.

After six years in this house, I’m learning things too.  I’m coming around to sitting on laps for five or so minutes, and I kiss.  Mom just loves this.  I try very hard to talk to them in their own language producing pathetic sounds somewhere between meow and “feed me, dammit”.  My favorite game is “feetsis in the air” played under a blanket where I lie on my back with feet straight up in the air.  The parents then rumple me around under the cover, and I grab their hands.  Then I run away.  And meowing of running, I love to do “whacko bananas”.  I dash from room to room, stopping only to lower the front of my body to the floor and throw my butt and tail high up in to the air while twitching my head from side to side.  The parents find this amusing.  I find it a necessary way to get rid of excess energy.  Sister looks at me like I’m crazy.

For a time Mom called me clever and sister smart.  Dad has almost convinced Mom that I’m smart too, but I know she secretly believe sister is brighter than I because sister can use a computer.  At least, she used to use the computer.  Mom thought she might become the first feline writer of espionage novels because sister typed “5, 5” and “8, 9” several times.  At first we thought she was writing poetry, but, since it didn’t rhyme and has no rhythm or any kind, we seized on the possibility it was a short story, kind of a flash fiction thing.  Now Mom thinks it was a code of some kind, the first provocative line in a spy novel.  We are still waiting for her to get on with it.  So far nothing.

Mom and Dad are both writers.  Dad never mentions a muse, but Mom goes on and on about having Fred, the ghost in our house in upstate New York as her muse here and an alligator in Florida as her muse there.  An alligator!  I mean if you have to pick an animal as a muse, why not pick one you can get close to?  Why not me?  Even sister would be somewhat better than a scaly old alligator.  I don’t get too worried about the alligator muse thing, and I’m not at all certain Mom believes in ghosts.  This is all literary folderol.  Given the cat that I am, if Mom needs inspiration, she can always count on me.  I do cute, I am cute, I play cute, I’m better than any old muse, wouldn’t you say?

Mom says sister gets a turn at this next week.  Gotta run before she bites my tail--sister, not Mom.

Cats Rule! (or at least they think so)

Today I continue to feature our pets, the ones who own us, live with us, love us and make our lives better in so many ways. Animal communicator Karen Wrigley has generously allowed me to use one of the stories from her newsletters on my blog.  I hope you enjoy it.   

Karen is a well known animal communicator who has helped countless people and their pets— both nationally and internationally—with the process of communication, healing, and growth.  She has been featured as an expert in her field in numerous newspapers and publications, and  in the USA Today article titled, “Psychics Help Pet Owners Get a New Leash on Life”.  She has also appeared on several radio talk shows across the country including the very popular “Animal Talk” hosted by Dr. Marty Becker, author of Healing Power of Pets.  She is the author of Beyond Woofs and Whinnies.  

You can learn more about Karen's work by going to her website http://www.karenwrigley.com

Karen and Griz, her Lippizaner

Chester Black Cat

In life, some things look certain, yet are they?

He came running across my mother’s yard from the corn field the day after my father’s memorial. The grandkids named him Chester Black after their grandfather, James Chester Page. Originally my father’s name was Chester James, until his grandfather asked his grandson to change his first name to James, after him. Father’s reward was $10. For a young boy, it seems to me, it would take courage to change one’s given first name, yet father did. He bought a new bicycle giving him freedom to travel the country roads.

In life, some things may look certain, yet are they?

The grandkids carried Chester Black around their necks, held him like a baby, and came running when called. He told me he was a good mouser. I responded with a “thumbs up” attitude, and to show proof, would help his cause in staying. The next day a mouse was found by the front porch.

After family left, my mother and I, mostly I, were now attending to Chester Black’s needs. He was de-wormed, given quality cat food, and on a daily basis I worked with him to maintain his gentle nature. My mother thought he was sent to her for a reason. But, as the days went by, mother could not endear herself to Chester Black. She was perplexed why not, until a light bulb went on in her head. Throughout her life she had been a caretaker of elderly people and five children. She did not want more responsibility, including the needs of a cat.

With mother’s found understanding, I told Chester Black we were going to plan B, to find him another home. Chester Black Cat stayed calm and collected with this information. In fact, he helped me when I became concerned about his future, and continued to purr.

A few days later, Tracey, a childhood neighbor friend, spoke of her mother Treva, and how she wanted an animal to love and could use a good mouser. I believe Chester Black knew this, for I found a mouse at the back door on the deck where Treva would be sitting later that day.

When Treva sat in her chair I boasted of Chester Black’s catch. At that moment Chester Black came from the shrubs, walked past my mother and me over to Treva, and jumped into her lap. He purred and kneaded with his shiny black paws without using his claws. Treva petted and cooed. Chester jumped down, walked over to my mother, rubbed against her, licked her foot, and gave her a look of goodbye. He then sauntered back to Treva and jumped back into her lap. He turned his head, our eyes met, and in that second he brought me back to when he told me life works out when you let it.

Treva took Chester Black home that day. He now resides down a lane with barns to explore and mice to catch. Treva is madly in love and Chester Black is one happy cat.

Mother had been saying “yes” to others most of her life. All said to her this is the perfect cat for you, and was brought to her at a time and way that seemed magical. And it was, but not in the way we expected. Chester Black gave Mother an opportunity to say “no” to others, and “yes” to herself. This act took courage. Mother has always been a yes person. My spry mother at 83 years old now has her freedom to travel the road she chooses, and Chester Black found his perfect home.

In life, some things may look certain, yet are they?

Chester Black expresses:  Be true to you, with faith, and life will be better than your own expectations. Mouse anyone?

A while back I was in a communication with a lady who took in a young dog needing a home 17½ years ago.  The dog asked his person why she took him in. The short version―others thought she should. It took six years for them to bond and become friends. He told her at that time in her life she believed life was difficult, and so he fulfilled her belief system.

My mother at one time attracted those that were in need or needing tending to, and enjoyed doing so. But now she realizes she is ready for a change. Are you?

You can read more of Karen's newsletters on her website and order her book there.

And, well, what story about a cat is complete without the picture of a cat.  My cat Marley insisted on standing in for all cats this week. He looks so regal here, just after he has done something bad probably.                         
 

Cats and Dogs and Pets--Oh, My!

I talk a lot about animals in my interviews and on this blog.  I guess that’s only natural since I was raised on a farm.  At one point my husband and I travelled around the country in a tiny motor home with two cats and one dog.  Now we live with two cats (the house is theirs—we lease from them).

I thought it might be fun to include some thoughts about the pets that own us and those that find their way into our writing, so for the next several weeks this blog will be dedicated to all things pet.  This week the writer Jackie Vick shares with us a recipe for dog food.  When she sent it to me I was struck by how similar it was to a recipe I used with my cat.  I’m certain it kept her alive for years and contributed to her svelte body.  Maybe I should have used it on myself!

Jackie makes some important points about how careful as humans we are about what we eat, but are we as concerned about our pets?  Do we know what is good for them?  Jackie gives us an easy way to insure good health for them.

Author Jackie Vick

Chemicals and Corn in Dog Food: Oh, My!

Next time you visit the grocery store, take a look at your fellow shoppers. You’ll see them carefully scanning the labels searching for gluten-free foods, low sugar content, or whatever meets their dietary needs. These same well-informed consumers will move to the pet aisle and pick up whichever dog food is on sale!

Did you know that corn is hard for dogs to digest? Yet it’s a top ingredient in many dry foods. Then there are sinister-sounding chemicals, and words like “meal” and “by-product”. What exactly is the by-product of a chicken??? And the recent pet food recalls are enough to scare any pet parent.

That’s why I decided to make my dog’s food. Internet sites offered varying (and often militant) opinions. One site suggested adding garlic powder as a deterrent to fleas, while another swore this ingredient would kill your dog!  I was lucky enough to find a class offered by a local woman with a degree in animal nutrition.

Her recipes included grains, veggies, and meat, as well as additions like brewer’s yeast, calcium, flax seed, and the highly-debated garlic. I don’t add yeast because Buster’s tummy gurgles so loud I can hear it in the next room. You can clean, dry, and grind your own egg shells for calcium, but I’m lazy and buy bone meal from the health store. I do add the flax seed, but I avoid garlic, just in case.

When I rave about making my own food, most people respond with, “I haven’t got the time!” I’ve found with a few pots and a microwave, it really only takes a half hour. You can find 8 ounce storage containers and lids at Smart-n-Final, and they sell bulk meats, veggies and grains, so the cost isn’t prohibitive. Bone meal and flax seed are kept in stock at health food stores.

Here is a recipe I use for Buster. It’s adjusted for his colitis (lower protein), and I give him a doggie multi-vitamin just to be safe. I’m not a nutritionist or a vet, so keep in mind that your own dog’s needs might be different. Check with your vet. It’s great if you can find a class locally, but make sure to check the person’s credentials. 

Bone Appetite!

Thanksgiving Dinner

5 cups of cooked rice. (Brown or white will work.)

16 oz of green beans. (if canned, buy salt-free or rinse)

12 oz of butternut squash (I use frozen from the grocery store)

3 lbs of ground turkey

A handful of dried, unsweetened cranberries. 

1 TB of Bone Meal. 

2 TB of Flax Seed

Cook the rice according to package directions. If you have a microwave, the rice cooks up easily while you’re doing the other steps.

Brown and crumble the turkey until it’s thoroughly cooked.

Steam or boil the squash and green beans together.

Dump the rice into a large bowl when it’s finished.

Finely grind the turkey, cranberries, and veggies in a food processor (in batches). Add to the rice.

Sprinkle on the flax seed and bone meal.

Mix well.

Once it’s cool, put into containers. Keep a few days worth in the refrigerator and freeze the rest.

I’ve been known to toss everything into one pot and cook it on low until the turkey is done and the rice has absorbed the liquid. Like I said, easy-peasy!

Another new book!

Untreedreads released my new ebook Angel Sleuth on April 10.  Check out the cool cover with a pink pig (yes, it's a girl) balancing pool balls on her nose.  Here's a blurb to tempt you:

Kaitlin Singer needs time off—from a philandering husband, from a writing career stalled on a buzzard as a main character, and from the stash of chocolate in her lingerie drawer.  Her decision to return to her childhood home might seem like the perfect way to get her life back together were it not for her mother foisting two visitors on her, guests who claim to be guardian angels.  Perhaps not all is lost, for the angels might just be the companions she needs to help her solve the murder of a local newspaper columnist.  To uncover clues to the crime, Kaitlin takes over the dead woman’s work, writing the column as well as volunteering in the senior center, moves which put her in the path of the killer.  She and her guests will need assistance from a pot-bellied pig and some pool skills to bring the murderer down.

You can buy it from a variety of sources including Amazon, but I recommend you go to Untreedreads.com.

By the way, the pig's name is Desdemona.

Poisoned Pairings: Second in the Hera Knightsbridge Master Brewer Series

I've changed the blog and included the cover of the second Hera Knightsbridge Master Brewer series. 

The second book is Poisoned Pairings.  Here's a short blurb on it:

A student helping set up for a beer and food pairings event in Hera Knightsbridge’s microbrewery dies there under suspicious circumstances.  At first the death looks like a suicide, but the medical examiner determines it is murder, and Hera and her lover, Deputy Sheriff Jake Ryan again find themselves partners in searching for the killer.  Not only does murder threaten the community, but something more explosive has come to the valley—hydraulic fracturing or fracking, a controversial gas drilling technique whose proponents say can take the poor families of the region out of debt.  Hera and her fellow brewers are convinced it will contaminate the water supply, as it had in other places, and change forever the pristine beauty of the valley.  Connections among the student, the family of a dead brewer, a religious leader and the gas companies lead Hera and Jake into a maze of confusing and conflicting clues.  Before the two can unravel the case’s tangled threads, Jake is called away to another job, leaving Hera alone to uncover the identity of the killer before she becomes the next victim.

And a bit more to whet your appetite for beer and murder:

Rafe Oxley, my closest brewing friend, and I sat next to each other in a darkened room in the county office building. My fellow microbrewers in the Butternut Valley and other interested members of the county gathered to watch a video portraying gas exploration using hydraulic fracturing or fracking, a horizontal drilling technique injecting water, sand and chemicals under pressure to shatter underground shale and release the gas trapped inside.


Some individuals in our valley desperate for the income had already signed gas leases. Others worried the drilling would change the valley forever, destroying roads, polluting the air, poisoning our water.

The image on the screen was that of a drilling rig juxtaposed against the verdant background of virgin forest. To its left, a Caterpillar tore a trench through a nearby meadow leaving a gash which ran straight through grass and wildflowers into the scrubby pines behind the site. The camera panned to a fracking pond where the water and chemicals used to force the gas to the surface collected in a landscaping tarp to prevent leakage back into the ground.

The scene shifted to water tumbling over rocks in a small stream. A voice from off-camera said, “Let’s see if we can light this.”

A hand flicked a butane lighter and touched the flame to the water. With a whoosh, the stream caught on fire. The unexpected explosion startled me. I jumped and reached for Rafe’s hand.

“Mrs. Attenby down the road had her well explode on Christmas Eve last year,” said the man who had lit the water.

“The state has stopped the drilling, right?” asked the reporter covering the story.

“Right, but now the water around here is undrinkable. The companies are trucking in safe drinking water to the people who signed drilling leases. ‘Course, since there’s no more gas being taken, the people don’t get their monthly checks.”

Rafe and I glanced at one another, knowing what the other was thinking. Water was the lifeblood of micro brewing. We bought our malt, yeast and hops, shipped them in from other places. Some hops came from as far away as New Zealand. But the main ingredient in our beer, water, came from our wells.

Rafe leaned toward me and whispered what all of us must have been thinking.

“Our wells are connected. We saw that this summer. When one dried up, so did the others. If one well is contaminated, all of them will be. We have to stop this madness.”

Rafe and I turned to look at Teddy Buser, the largest brewer in the valley. He was scowling and shaking his head, the only one of the Butternut brewers who thought making money from natural gas seemed like a good thing. Teddy could afford to buy water, but what of the rest of us? Rafe and I scowled back at him.

The book will be available May 1 from Mainly Murder Press, Amazon, and your favorite indie bookseller.

The Virtues of a Small Publisher: Some Negatives

There you are on a beautiful August day with your hubby to help you, selling books in upstate New York.  What the picture doesn't show is how cold it was in the morning when we set up.  And how hot it got by midafternoon.

Then there was my first beer festival at Hunter Mountain.  In May.  I forgot how cold it can be in upstate NewYork in the spring.  I was dressed for it, but my feet still were frozen by the end of the day.

So there's one of the downsides of selling your own books, a must regardless of what publisher you have.  The weather is rarely your friend.  When it is, you find people are doing something other than buying books!

I promised we would continue our discussion of small publishers.  Not everyone finds advantages in going with a small press.  Hand selling in venues such as beer festivals for me or book events allows writers to meet the reading public, but weather is a consideration and so are the long hours of work with sometimes little return.

What are some of the difficulites you've encountered with a small publisher and how have you handled these?  Some writers find another publisher, others seek out an agent to get them into the larger houses, and there is always the choice of self publishing and/or epublishing.  What has worked for you?

As for me, I dress in layers (wool socks are my friend), I am published with several small publishers, I epublished one of my books, published with an epublisher, and now have an agent.  This girl does not put her eggs in one basket.

Let us know your strategy.  Sharing what you've discovered may help other writers as they try to aovid the potholes in this bumpy road to publishing.