Tag Archives: Cat

Inktober – On Time comic, p2 (14) and Thank you card (13)

I’ve skipped some days of Inktober but I don’t care. Type B here. They say the type A plants the roses, the type B stops to smell them. In the same vein, it’s not about what you accomplish with the ink… it’s about sniffing it. *falls over*

Page 2 of On Time. See page 1 here.

IMG_20181014_230735291 (1)

 

 

Also, here’s a little thank you card I drew for a friend who gave us such a nice dinner I felt like we should be nice back.

 

 

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We both have cats that eat our houseplants, so it seemed appropriate.

HAPPY MONDAY! ❤

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

On the Death of a Mouse

 

Molly caught a mouse in the garage.

Don and I watch her poke at it.

She is proud.

She sprawls happily on her side

The picture of feline contentment

Stretches one sharp little paw and give it a lazy push.

It twitches a little.

How do you think she killed it, Don asks.

It doesn’t have any visible wounds.

And although she is a fine mouser

She never learned to eat them.

Maybe she scared it to death, I say.

Maybe it had a heart attack.

Prey can sometimes panic themselves to death.

They are so close to panic already

Their nervous systems strung tight as harp wire.

How could he not break under the weight

Of the persistent cat’s killing intent?

 

I go into the garage and get the shovel

Scoop the mouse up

And take it outside.

It still twitches.

So I drop it onto a shady spot beneath the maple

And bash its brains out with the shovel.

 

I remember when killing was hard.

My first mouse in a mouse trap haunted me for three days

And intermittently again

For two more years.

My first roadkill made me nauseous with empathy

For about five minutes.

 

After a while

Killing didn’t bother me anymore.

What bothered me more than anything

Was the fact that I wasn’t bothered.

 

I butchered a rooster

To see if I really was what I suspected I might be.

It was easy.

My only regret

Was that the knife wasn’t sharp enough.

With this act

Came the dizzying knowledge

That I was capable of worse.

Of much, much worse.

Is it this way for farmer housewives

For butchers

For hunters

For soldiers?

 

How do you come to terms

With your own capacity for good or evil?

I thought a lot about it

(I did a lot of thinking then)

I decided that it was like driving.

At first, when driving, I was afraid

Of the weapon I controlled.

One impulsive wrench of the wheel into oncoming traffic

And how many people would die?

What was stopping me?

I waited for myself to do it

But I never did.

So it is with murder.

Knowing that I am capable

Does not change anything.

I trust myself not to do something awful for no reason.

Coming to terms with one’s own power

Is a test of ethics.

I haven’t hurt anybody.

I don’t plan on it.

But knowing that seed is in me

And embracing it

As part of myself

Means it has no need to grow.

 

I wipe off the shovel and go inside

With only a slight and transient wonder

At my lack of feeling.

I forget all about it

Until recounting my day in my journal.

What feelings did I have today? I write.

And I come up with seven other notable events in my day

Before I remember killing the mouse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Defied

Just an exercise. Trying to get bigger, more interesting words back into my active vocabulary.

Does this sound stodgy to you, or is it nice?

 


 

The cat looks intently at the edge of the table. Her bronze eyes bespeak her intentions: she would try her reign from this elevated place. Coiling springlike energy down into her haunches, an instant of quiet tension and calculation. Then, in one powerful movement, she launches herself three feet into the air, hooks her paws on the edge and forwards herself even higher, a leap of such precision and delicacy that might put any prima donna to shame. By the time gravity catches up with her, it is too late; she has already gained purchase of her goal with all four paws. A wondrous maneuver, brilliantly executed.

Unfortunately, she cannot stay.

You scoop one open hand under her belly, lift her scant weight with hardly an effort, and transport her to an area which is more convenient for you. The instant you pick weight up off of her legs, they become silken fluid. She droops, either extreme of her small form dangling, limp as wet seaweed, from your unyielding support. Her apparent power has been shattered. She knows the futility of struggling in this gargantuan grip. Instinct and training directs her to wait until she is liberated, as struggle will only injure. The cat has been effectively paused.

Once you arrive at an adequately removed location, you deposit her back on her dainty feet with a inconsequential drop of a few inches. She absorbs the concussion with all the grace of a liquid creature.

Her coat is ruffled from your handling of her, and from her discontent. The tip of her tail indignantly flicks. This goddess, a miniature incarnation of noble wilderness, in whose eyes still blaze the sands of ancient Egypt, has had her will defied.

Disoriented, she sniffs, acquainting herself with the alternative locale, and selects for herself a new throne. She will not spare a glance in your direction.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

Better Days

I don’t have any writing to post today. I wrote a short short story, but it stunk. Now I’m rewriting it slightly longer, and it’s taking an actual time investment. You guys should be proud of me, putting in effort. I’m so damn lazy.

This was my only creative effort worth posting. Since this meets my quality standards, you’ll believe me when I tell you the story I wrote was bad.

Oh my gosh, I just spent hours learning how to use apps and enduring all manner of technical difficulties for this video. The truly lazy understand that two hours of tech navigation is easier than taking five minutes to rerecord something. I could have written an enjoyable story or poem in all that time…

…but you’re still stuck with the stupid cat song.

 

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