|
Good Morning, Ripplemakers,
and Happy Saturday.
Remember this month is our tenth anniversary celebration!!
I'm asking Starfish subscribers from around the
world to submit stories to help us celebrate. Tell us how Starfish has
made a difference to you, or tell about a story you read that caused you
to take some action to benefit another.
You don' t have to be a writer, just tell us in your own words of an
experience you had. We also welcome stories about something special that
you did, you a special event in your life, whether it was related to
Starfish or not. You can send your stories in any format, but it's easiest
for us to work with documents
prepared in any version of Microsoft Word and sent as attachments to an
email. When you send them, please remember to include the state and/or
country you're in.
Depending upon how things go, we can run them in alphabetical order or
something. The important thing is to publish something from every state in
the union and as may other countries as possible. We have readers in
nearly every state and in about 50 other countries. It will be interesting
to see where
they come from, and interesting to see what's happening around the world.
No matter where you are in the world, a smile has the same effect on
others, but we smile for different reasons. What makes you smile?
Remember, you don't have to be a pro, you just have to put some thoughts
on paper. We'll take care of
the rest.
When you send you stories, it will be helpful if you include something
like "Submission from Iowa" in the subject line. Mail them to me at my
Starfish address: Starfish@Ripplemaker.com Lets have some fun with this,
as you help us celebrate ten years of making ripples. We'll begin
publishing them on June 1st.
We've received several submissions already - both from the U.S. and from
around the world. Keep 'em coming, ok?
Bob
|
|
While I fold laundry, his ringed tail flicks as he
leans in hard, encircling and caressing my ankles He curls up close,
watching me sleep in our big bed until I wake, tears blanketing my eyes.
"Poor kitty, my poor sweet old guy," I sigh.
One of the poor old kitty's nine lives began years ago when some
heartless person tossed the yellow cat out into our forest, far from his
city home. I've seen dozens of the frightened things, mostly kittens
standing bewildered at the edge of the dusty road, defenseless
dump-offs. They rush into the woods to hide, innocent victims of someone
who dislikes cats. My neighbors and I had spotted him often throughout
his harrowing journey, but now suspicion ruled and no amount of enticing
could corral him.
The kitty may well have been a sweet guy, good with kids, used his kitty
box faithfully, and purred sweet love songs on every lap. But the
wilderness echoed unfamiliar sounds, thrusting cat at tree trunks,
clambering high until only the sound of the babbling creek. Sprawling
over a large limb or hunkered in the crotch of a fir, he waited for
dawn's pink glow and safe flight. But safe flights were rare in this
unfamiliar neighborhood. Coyotes, badgers, foxes, weasels, even owls and
raptors had him on their short list.
Winter came blustery and white, and the cat was eternally deep down
frozen and shivery. Gimping along on cracked and sore paws, he made his
way through thick underbrush where the ground laid bare. Sometimes
gigantic fir boughs loosed their great snow loads in the wind, plunging
heavily atop cat's hiding places, burying him alive.
His coat had lost it's luster and thick mantle, his only belongings
tangled masses of rangy clothing protruding down his back. Tree saps
fused his old carcass together into stiff, hairy spurs, pulling and
stretching him with every move. Listening to his mewl and purr must have
been his only comfort, but the freeze cruelly shattered his song.
After months of wandering and rustling up his own pitiful grub, houses
loomed high in our mountain valley. Cat had made it through the winter
on his own - scrawny, but intact, seemingly fair and less despondent
about life. Dump-offs usually pose an edgy, woeful kitty presence at
places they encounter, and this kitty was no exception.
Still guarded and looking the worse for wear, the sorry old cat moved
from one barn to another. Despite unwanted intrusions into the local
feline establishment, his grit became the subject of rural gossip. A
kitty should be fit for productive hunting, so folks began tossing
scraps from behind small cracks in their doorways. Cat gobbled up
anything, competing with dogs and raccoons, for his mousing days had
become few and he was near starved.
Like clockwork, I retreated from my log dwelling to feed my donkey herd
every morning. The cat watched, clearly in need of a kind word, but
leery of the dog that romped at my side. I bent low for him to eat from
my hand, but he was terrified to venture close. Quieting his fears, I
left an old woolen army blanket and daily bowl of chow and milk atop the
tallest bale in my hay-room. Cat seemed almost content in the place if
his matted coat hadn't finally overwhelmed his tongue, even in the
warmth of summer.
If Mother Nature was an actress, autumn would be her finest performance.
But orangey leaves and cooler nights warned cat he wouldn't survive
another winter as he peeked over the lower bales with his hackles up,
just in case. Murmuring soft kitty sounds at daily chores, I reached up
to touch his head just once before he panicked and fled. Then one
afternoon, with all the courage he could muster, he thrust out his claws
and climbed down into my lap to let me stroke his chin. Pent-up emotions
finally gave way, releasing his burden and my tears. "It's okay fella,
it's okay. I've got you now. I won't rush you, take your time, dear old
thing," as my crippled fingers nuzzled cat's neck. He was home.
I called him General Sterling Price, after the big yellow cat in the
movie, "True Grit," and he was welcomed by the Keeshond he had feared.
My dog followed the General around for days, watching him roll in
delicious green grass, obviously fascinated by his gamy and bizarre
self.
Now, after the loss of many of his nine lives, I wonder how old the
General is? Surely twenty-some, looking grizzled after losing an eye and
various teeth. Winter finds him indoors mostly, lest an occasional
stroll into the barn where the mice have his number. But mostly the old
boy curls up atop the cozy black bear in front of the fireplace. After a
couple rugged years he's old and thin and tired again, ofttimes carried
to his bowl of milk and special supper that puts a dent in my monthly
check. I don't complain, for I too have been in the fight.
So we happily endure our antiquity together while the General longingly
eyes the fur-covered cedar chest at the foot of our bed. After awhile he
works his way up, where at long last a wee purr thrums it's sweet song
in my ear. Where I remind him...."We're not so peculiar, my sweet
General. You have one eye and only a few teeth; I have one arm and a few
teeth. We're survivors, and that makes us a pair of stupendous cool
cats."
************
Gen. Sterling Price
1986 - 2008 |
