The holidays are behind us. Christmas came as if it had never come before and wasn’t expected and New Year will bring the same kind of trite resolutions that will revolutionize our lives and make things better—only you and I know that the average lifetime of a New Year’s Resolution is about three minutes past twelve.
My New Year’s Resolution is to ask my readers to help me publicize my books. I’m not ashamed to ask. They’re great books and all I ask is that you pass the word to others who have a love of animals.
Christmas Sales were down partly because we were on a one week trip down the Mississippi and could not market books while on the river.
That did not stop us from selling Unsung Patriot to the candle store in Helena, Arkansas, and if half the people on the American Queen who said they would buy Tears and Tales, actually buy Tears and Tales, well, the year may end better than we expect. Better news ahead.
FREE! PLEASE TAKE ONE!!!!!
Now, why have I inserted a picture of Boots at this particular point?
Boots will be the subject of one of my stories when he approves my manuscripts. He has rejected three stories thus far and is very particular about what I say about him. I will only touch on my relationship with Boots and not the story I intend writing.
In the first place he and I met on a lonely country road one summer evening when he ran in front of my car. He was the last cat in a string of mother and three kittens, perhaps three or four weeks old. I had to swerve in order to avoid him.
Not being a lover of cats, I had some choice words for him as he disappeared into the brush. Virginia and I continued on our way, enjoyed an ice cream sundae at a local store and returned home. As I near the very same spot, there was Boots, sitting in the roadway, watching as my car approached. He darted in front of my car again, and again, I had to jam on the brakes. This time we found him sitting under the bumper, unharmed and very willing to be picked up and petted. I think his mother left him there just to get rid of him. And, after fourteen years with us, I think I know why.
Boots was a very fussy cat. And he took over the place. We gave him some warm milk that night and he drank it as if he expected royal treatment every night. We noted a wound on his neck that was infested with fly larvae so off to the vet to mend this “free” cat that I did NOT—read my lips— did NOT want.
Well, the fly larvae would have eventually matured and eaten its way through his windpipe. I couldn’t let the little bugger go that way so we would keep him until he was healthy— then, he was going back to the wild.
But in the ensuing days, he cut a cute little figure, hopping over obstacles on the floor, playing with imaginary friends, rubbing up against my leg or settling down on our bed at night. He’d chase Virginia’s feet, nipping her on the heels and then come running to me for protection when she started after him with a newspaper. When he wasn’t doing that, he was antagonizing my Doberman, Tribute.
He didn’t adapt to our home. He commandeered it the way a General appropriates a spare jeep. Before I knew it, Boots was an established member of the family. No! Boots was the family and I was the outsider.
Next, of course, came his demands. He would not chase mice, suggesting that his breeding was above that kind of thing. He would not drink water from a water dish. It had to come from a sink faucet set at a certain speed. If we opened a can of tuna fish, he desired only the juice which he lapped out of a saucer. He would not eat the tuna itself. On the other hand, juice from shrimp had to be poured out and he would eat only the shrimp. (No cocktail sauce please).
Boots is a long haired cat. I must admit he is gorgeous, but he is clogging one vacuum after another with his long hair. He flunked out of grooming school when he growled and hissed at the groomer and terrified the poor man.
Virginia cannot groom him without him biting her when he decides he has had enough. He will not do this with me because I have threatened to nail him up by his tail and scalp him with a hair clipper that we use for the horses. He is very amiable when I groom him. He is even more amiable when I tell him that in the forties cats used to make very tasty chow mien.
But there is little doubt Boots is showing his age. He sometimes has that faraway look in his eyes and, often, he seems bewildered. We nearly lost him when he had his last dental work done and thus, we’ve decided not to put him through that ordeal again.
This Christmas he managed to scare the heck out of us. Virginia always sets a spectacular table for Christmas dinners, complete with candles and silverware and special place settings. And, in keeping with Christmas, there are candles, long, colorful, slender candles. Too much of a temptation for Boots with his elongated, curling, hairy tail. For several meals he had swept his tale to and fro, coming dangerously close to the flame. We chucked him off the table and he’d return in a few minutes, determined to have dinner with us.
As I said, he is showing signs of his age and just before Christmas, his tail flicked too near the glowing flame and he set himself on fire.
I heard a shriek from Virginia: “The cat’s on fire.” And there he was, standing mute as if nothing at all had happened and the tip of his tail flaming like a wick.
If Boots sensed our fear, he might dart off into the house, and we’d be celebrating Christmas on the front lawn. But Boots stood bravely, never flinching, never showing any sign that he knew his tail was on fire, as we doused his tail in a water glass. What amazed me is that he just kept looking at us, wondering what all the fuss was about.
We dried him off, groomed out the frazzled hair and incarcerated him in the pantry— for his own safekeeping as well as the safety of the house… and our nerves.
Life with Boots is never simple. I recall once I saw him loose outside the house. It’s something we never do so I thought he had escaped. I chased him all over the front lawn and finally captured him, brought him up stairs, only to confront the real Boots, with that “what the hell are you doing” look in his eye. So how did I know he had a look-alike.
I have never felt Boots adapted to being a cat. He totally intimidated two full grown Dobermen pinchers, deliberately strutting in front of them until one gave chase and then batting them severely in the nose.
Now, he intimidates Spunky, who stands three times taller and four times heavier and who gives him a wide birth.
My little furry friend is rather haughty and over time, we have developed a series of pranks that we inflict on each other. For example, he always loved to take a running leap into our whirlpool. So, on one particular occasion, I left the tub full of water and stood waiting to see if he came up to investigate the noise of the water jets.
With a long, graceful leap, he launched himself through the air and into the tub, landing with a spasm, a sputter and several vociferous meows. It was when he submerged for the third time that I learned that all cats cannot swim. Boots was one of them. He slowly floated down to the bottom and stood glaring at me with his eyes open and absolutely no attempt to rise to the surface. It was weeks before he stopped walking past me with a grumble.
Not to be outdone, he once pushed his water dish from the bathroom to the side of my bed so that when I arose that morning, I was greeted with a cold footbath that shocked me into reality. Not to mention having my foot stuck in a metal water dish.
My little friend is fourteen now. It is difficult to think of a life without him. What joy would there be without the pranks we play upon one another? Where would the intellectual banter between us come from without him? Still, I can recall when his leaps up to the counter were graceful and made with precisions. Now, his hind drags a bit as he makes the jump, he is losing bulk and his hair is often ragged and unkempt. He seems to sleep a lot more, too. I remember when he napped only fifteen or sixteen times a day (normal for a cat) though, now, he seems to sleep most of the time.
I keep my animals alive by writing of them, but it is not always easy. It took me two years before I could write “The Long Shot Dog”in Tears and Tales. I just could not bring myself to let Trib go by writing of him. As it turns out, The Long Shot Dog is a beautiful story, one that makes me cry every time I read it. But now, I must face an awful truth. I write because I cannot let go of my animal friends. As long as I am able to write about them, they are still alive.
Somehow I do not think my story about Boots will be ready until that time when I can face the reality that he, like myself, is aging. A friend of my wife’s once said: “What doesn’t work today that worked yesterday.”
One of the things that doesn’t age is our “spiritual heart”. That is either young or old depending on how we view things. As we prepare to face a new year— one I hope that goes slower than the last two years seem to have gone— let us give thanks for Him who gave us our furry friends.
And, if we must, let us write of them to give them renewed existence, to give them a part of our lives that will never end.
How about a romantic cruise down the Mississippi River on a paddle-wheeler? One of the thing one misses as his marriage begins to age are the moments spent together. Some of them hugging and kissing. Some of them spent talking about each other.
Has anyone noticed how seldom we kiss once we have been married ten or twenty years? There always seems to be some impediment. A cold. Wearing glasses. Can’t breathe. Don’t want to hurt your false teeth.
When you see lovers in the movies they just never tire of kissing. It’s too bad real life isn’t that way. I mean, why wait until the day when your spouse is gone and you wish he or she were there to kiss?
A few things I learned from history that I thought were fascinating. In olden days when a young man came courting, the family put out a device shaped like a corkscrew that harbored a candle within it. Turning a small crank would raise or lower the candle. If the father liked a particular romantic suitor, he raised the candle up higher so the couple would have more time together. When the flame dropped below a certain point, it was understood that the young man’s time was up.
The symbol of welcome was the pineapple. Perhaps it stems from sea travel to the South Pacific where the gift of pineapples is often made to visitors and guests. A pineapple would be placed in the room of the guest as a sign that he or she was welcome. When the pineapple was moved to the foot of the bed, it was a nice way of saying that the host enjoyed the visit, but it was time to go.
We visited Natchez and Vicksburg, MS, as well as Helena, Arkansas. It was in Helena, on a civil war battlefield, that Virginia’s great grandfather found his brother after twenty years of separation.
In Vicksburg, Virginia found her great uncle’s name on a plaque and noted a very different spelling than the one used in her book, Unsung Patriot:How the Stars and Stripes Began.
There are vast differences in the ergonomics of Natchez and Vicksburg and for good reasons. When the Yanks conquered Vicksburg, the southern ladies would not dance with the Yank soldiers. For obvious reasons the town suffered greatly because of this dogged distaste for the Yankee soldiers. Not only was the town left to languish, but the Mississippi changed course, completely cutting off the town from any river traffic at all. It took twenty-six years before the federal government cut a channel to bring the river back in front of Vicksburg.
Natchez has fared much better. The young women there had no problem dancing with occupying soldiers and the river never changed course. Not only that, but you can wear a Yank cap in the town without being fired upon. In Vicksburg, however, one simply does not wear anything resembling a northern sympathizer.
As I have always believed, the Civil War was not fought over the issue of slavery, but economics. Mr. Lincoln had to repay all those Northern industrialists who financed his campaign and the South was rich in land and agricultural products.
Virginia and I went to Lexington for dinner at Bellini’s. Wonderful meal.
But we decided to eat early and get home before the drunks hit the road. Better safe than sorry. I was not the designated drunk so I drove.
We heard there was a New Year’s Eve Party at the cafeteria of St. Bernard’s church and we decided to go. I will tell you that those people know how to celebrate New Year’s Eve and they do not fool around. There wasn’t a glass in the entire place because everyone was drinking straight from the bottle. Way to go!
We came home around ten, cracked open a bottle of Moet and sat talking while Christmas music played in the background. Funny how married people can forget how to talk to one another. But we remembered and we spent nearly two hours at it.
Not to be selfish, I offered some champagne to Boots. His contempt was clearly obvious. Well, I didn’t know he was a Baptist. Turns out that Spunky is also a Baptist. He sniffed at it and curled up his nose.
Sweet Pea is a Catholic so she at least tasted the champagne.
That is where things really got funny. She slurped a few licks, kept tasting her own tongue, got up and spun around a few times, climbed up on the arm of the couch and climbed on a small coffee table while bowling over most of the decorations. She was totally crocked after only a few sips. I have never seen anything so funny in my life unless it’s a cat with its tail on fire.
Our book sales did well from August through November and then dropped off slightly. Our schedule for next year is really full and we are hoping to move more books as we attend nearly twenty-four events.
I might add that I am hoping to have my new book, Street Wise:Mafia Memoirs in print by July, 2008.
I can tell you that it reads well.
The Horse with the Golden Mane won an award in the Best Book category USABooknews. I didn’t enter it in any other contest so in effect we won an award in the only contest we entered.
I thought one of the stories in Horse would emerge as a clear favorite with my readers, but the reverse has been true. Some like Eric, not because of the suspense but because of the smash ending that raises hair on the back of one’s neck.
Others liked Taj because it ended with a happy reconciliation and a heart-tugging conclusion.
Still others like The Horse with the Golden Mane because it had everything, adventure, mystery, suspense and romance.
Many readers commented that they see me maturing in my writing. Some readers ask if I will do another animal book such as Tears and Tales which is still our number one seller.
The answer is “yes” that I am writing another book of animal stories. I’ve also been honored with people asking if I will accept their stories for publication.
I know that people want to break into print and sometimes, it’s a good idea to write for free. I went that route once when I submitted “The Horse That Cried”which was published in Horse Tales for the Soul, Volume II.
Hey, I admire anyone who can get someone to work for free. But I am not in the business of taking advantage of people. The writing industry is just full of scams. Like the time I submitted a story to a contest and was notified that I had won first prize. Guess what the prize was?
Right! I could buy the book that my winning story appeared in at a forty per cent discount. I was so choked up with emotion I couldn’t get my hand in my pocket.
Check your list of friends you’ve forgotten and buy them one or more of my books. Remember, someday when I am a very famous author you can say that you knew me when…
ORDERING INFORMATION
Amazon.com; book stores nationally; Ephraim Mc Dowell Hospital Gift Shop, Boyle County/Danville Art Association on Main Street, Kentucky Horse Park Gift Shop
Tears & Tales $16.95
Horse $18.00
Unsung Patriot: $21.95
I have been included, as a hero, in a new book by Steve Flairty, Kentucky’s Everyday Heroes.
As you may recall, Steve reviewed my first two books in his magazine, Kentucky Monthly. Streetwise
has already been favorably reviewed by a professional reviewer.It is now being reviewed by Penny Woods of Kentucky Living Magazine.
Streetwise: Mafia Memoirs will NOT be available from Amazon or Baker and Taylor. We’ve decided to reduce the price of the book and pass the savings on to our readers. While we sold a good number of books through these sources, we sold them at a loss. That prevents us from using the funds to care for rescued animals and it forces us to raise the price of the books. Streetwise has photographs as well as text and that would raise the price category into the $27.00 dollar range. So we will forego these sources and keep the price of the book in the low 20s.
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