Category: About Writing

Cat Tales, 16

Ever seen a cat with a medi-collar on? That’s what they put on at the vet’s before they put me in the carrier. They thought to stop me scratching, licking and biting the bandage. Huh? I am the Hand-of God, I don’t do that sort of stuff.

The vet cut my toe off. Just hanging by a thread, she said. So I’m a two-toe wonder now. Most cats that happens to, lose their whole foot, she said. That’s all while I’m still caged in the recovery room.

They gave me wet food. I hate wet food. I’d rather eat a spiny gecko tail. I turned up my nose and the vet nurse laughed. I turned my back then.

As soon as I heard my human in the waiting room, I started a racket. Yowling and throwing myself against the wire front of the cage.

“Take her home, for peace’s sake,” said the vet. “Come back later to pay and for the meds.”

That’s what happened. Me in the shed. The pernickety old woman fetching the meds which she now knew how to toss down my throat. The vet nurse had demoed presumably. I saw her apply the method to some other poor creature. One good thing, to get these meds into me, the pernickety old woman had to take the collar off me.

To open my mouth, the pernickety old woman squeezed my jaws apart at the joints. Then, having tossed the goods into the gulch, she clenched my jaws together to stop me spitting them out! Honestly, where do humans learn this tricks?

But, as a treat, I was then allowed to sleep on her bed within the klamboe—that’s the mosquito net—usually a serious no no. On the understanding that I wouldn’t rip the bandage off.

I gave her my best expression of disdain. Why would I rip off the bandages? Did you know cats can do 247 different expressions? Proven fact. A couple of people studying cats in a cat cafe. In Japan. You find out more? Just do that thing humans always do when they want to know something, using the thing you talk into.

Cat Tales, 15


While the pernickety old woman pruned the rosebush in the front yard, a cheeky tom pranced along our back fence. I streaked over there, intending to see him off! I ran up the fence, made to dance along the top, thinking to tip the top crossbar every couple of paces with my right side foot and paw. For balance.

I was stuck! My rear claw too deep in the soft old timber! I wrenched and jerked to get free, tore my toe almost from my foot. Hurt! Hurt!

I miaowed and wailed and screamed for help. “Hurt! Tearing! My foot!”

My human came running. “What are you doing? What are you doing?”

“Oh no!” she said. “I’ll have to cut you loose and there’s blood already!”

“Hang on!” She pulled my leg back at the same time as snipping my claw through with the secateurs.

I screeched, would’ve jumped down and run, but she gripped me by the scruff of my neck. She moved me onto her shoulder and kneeled down to where she’d dropped her gardening apron. Moved me onto that and had me rolled up in it in a flash.

“Phew!” she said. Got to her feet. “I know I can’t trust you not to get free so you’ll have to come.” She took me into the garage. “We’re looking for the cat carrier. Give me a nudge when you see it.”

Me give her a nudge? I hate the cat carrier!

“Found it! Don’t move now!” She lay me on the work bench and slid the cat carrier out from under it. “It’s dusty! Where’s a rag?”

I wrenched and wriggled. Just about got myself free when she grabbed me and fed me into the cat carrier.

Yowling, I hung onto the doorway as usual but my heart wasn’t in the struggle. I smelled my blood. I wanted to be licking my foot. Let myself be pushed in.

She shut the little gate and barred it. “Well, let me think,” she said. “I doubt that I can carry you—carrier and all—all the way to the vet.”

I pressed into the back of the carrier. Really not interested. Found my wound and started licking.

The pernickety old woman went to the garden shed. Got out the wheelbarrow and lifted the carrier onto it. Trundled me down the drive, left turn into the street, across the road. Another left turn and a couple of blocks along. Right turn into the bad place.

I yowled. Felt sick. The turns and trundles dizzy-making. Give me peace and quiet. I don’t like it at the vet’s. They have pointy things they stick into me. They have rules. Dogs on their leashes, cats in their carriers. I wailed as the pernickety old woman carried me into the waiting room.

“Oh dear,” the secretary said while I took a breath. “Bleeding?”

“Yes, quite a bit of the red stuff,” the pernickety old woman said. She explained what she thought had happened.

“Come through,” one of the vet nurses said.

My human picked up the carrier and we went into the scary place.
————
Yes. They stuck me with something. I spent the night. Refused their food. In the morning, I was bandaged up. When we got home, the carrier and the wheelbarrow again, my human locked me in the shed. “Go to sleep,” she said. “They said you would want to. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

Lodestar, Notes for Part III

For the purposes of ordering book covers at the same time for all three parts of Lodestar, I’m continuing with this part of the saga. Viewpoint characters will be Ahni and Srese and the implant by way of both Srese’s and Kes’s life-suits.

(For those following Kestrel–you know who you are–don’t worry.)

Some of the materials I’m rewriting have been ‘on the back-burner’ and ‘under the bed’ for more than ten years and have dated somewhat. This is a definite risk where science fiction is concerned.

Lol ‘under the bed’ is where we writers kept our manuscripts in the pre-computer days, when everything had to be either hand-written or typed or both. We kept our first drafts in grocery boxes under the bed between edits, and we stored our non-viable manuscripts under there for when we’d need to mine them—pick and shovel style—for anything useful.

‘On the back-burner’ was a rotation strategy when we happened to be writing two or three novels at the same time. This was never recommended, but a rule often broken, from what I heard. We’d have a metaphoric stove going, with front and back burners. We’d keep one or two works stewing on the rear hot-plates while the one we were working on was being stirred on a front burner.

‘Burner’ will no doubt be remaindered when we all change over to 100 percent electricity.

My favorite metaphor for the writing process is the composting one. This refers to the idea that all the notes and scraps of paper living on a writer’s desk, her study floor, the front and back pages of printed books, her handbag, my pants pockets, gardening shirt and every other flat surface or container are collected.

The next step is to layer them, perhaps in proposed chapters, and arrange them in strategic places around my chair in the study nook for subsequent inputting. Overnight—because I’d always be called away to deal with this or that household crisis—things melded in a mysterious composting process such as happens on a forest floor, resulting ‘magically’ in meaning and order.

This time, however, I’ll be incorporating new ideas and updating old materials. I’ll be repairing bridges, writing stealthy byways, and designing new camel-ways. No magic other than sere insights.

I see I’ll have to adopt some kind of engineering metaphor to take care of all that road-building.

Hope to have you along.