Tag: Cats

Past conversations with my cat – 8

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This is Chester.  He gets impatient when it is dinner time.

He also has a ‘thing’ for plastic bags.

I’m not sure what it is, but he has to lick them, and sometimes thinks a bag stuffed with rubbish or clothes is either his bed or the kitty litter.

I tried to tell him that the bag had medicine in it and that he hates getting his flea treatment every month, so there was nothing in there for him.

Another discussion lost.

Sometimes he is either hard of hearing, or, being a male cat, I honestly believe has selective hearing!

Conversations with my cat – 43

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This is Chester, he’s just reminded me that it is International Cat Day.

I ask, are you really an international cat, because you live here, and haven’t travelled anywhere.

A studious glance at me, then at a map of the word, he then tells me I haven’t taken him anywhere, but he’s been with me in spirit.

Yes, and while I’m away, well, you know how it goes…

Again apparently that was my fault, I didn’t leave strict instructions on what he could or could not do.

I thought we’d set those boundaries a long time ago.

I’m old, is the quick retort,  Memory is failing.  I’m lucky if I can remember what I was doing yesterday.  You’ll have to remind me.

Every morning.

And even then I might still have trouble remembering.

Anyway, don’t you humans have a saying, respect your elders?

OK.  Now we’re back on the age thing.  And, by the way, I don’t think my granddaughter gave you permission to sleep on her pillow.

Seems it’s my turn to eave in a huff!

International cat day?????

 

Past conversations with my cat – 7

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This is Chester.  He’s been caught almost red-handed climbing the curtains.

Of course, he is all innocence, because the evidence is circumstantial.  He was sitting on the window ledge looking out, thinking ‘if only I could get out there’.

Now he’s thinking how much trouble he’s in and whether it will be his least favorite cat food for dinner.

No, I’m not that mean.

Not unless I catch him red-handed.

Where did July go?

The trouble with living in Queensland, in Australia, in winter is that invariably there is no winter, well, not winter like most people know it.

If we want winter, we have to go south to Victoria or Tasmania, or over to New Zealand, and the south island.

We were in New Zeland last year for the winter, but that was so that our grandchildren could experience snow for the first time, as it does not snow where we live, and, in fact, at this stage of winter, the end of July, the temperatures have been hovering around 23 degrees centigrade.

That’s not cold.

But, the nights are reasonably cooler and we’ve been getting temperatures from 6 degrees to 12 degrees centigrade.  About the same as the daytime temperatures down south.

Would I prefer to go back?  No.

If I want to experience Winter, I will go to Canada, where we have also been recently, and where it was minus 21 degrees, the coldest I have ever been.

So…

Where has July gone?  I’ve been doing more than just observing the weather and fighting with Chester, the irascible cat.

From the last WIP report, I am still working on four stories, updating the progress in an episodic form on this blog, namely

A war story based around a castle in Italy

A story that started with a helicopter crash, and only got worse for the protagonist

A story about a surveillance gig that has gone wrong

A story about a treasure hunt, but with a few sidebars.

Then there is my private detective novel which is nearing completion, the editing had got as far as episode 101 out of 110.  The end is in sight.

And Chester continually provides me with laughs and at times anguish, some of which ends up in this blog.  I’m not sure how I’m going to cope without him if anything happens.  He is getting on, and at last count, I believe he is about 17 years old and much more in cat years.

But like any other writer, there is always more going on, and I have several other novels and an anthology of stories based on photographs about to be completed, and, hopefully, by September, published.

That is the plan, and as you all know only too well the best-laid plans of mice and men can always go astray.

Let’s hope, for once, they don’t.

 

Conversations with my cat – 42

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This is Chester.  Somedays, like today, he is an accomplice.

In what, you may ask.

I got a DM (a direct mail in Twitter) from someone who wants to ask a few questions and write a little piece about me in their blog.

Why? Chester asks.  He’s been sitting beside me staring at the same screen I have, and it finally got the better of him.

They asked I replied.

But what about the last person who tried to get simple answers to simple questions?

I was in a frivolous mood, I tell him.

That’s most days, isn’t it?  Unless, of course, you’ve dozed off after a long night trying to get words on theoretical paper.

OK, so he’s trying to annoy me.  It’s working.

The first question, tell us a little about yourself.

So, what do I say?  Suave and sophisticated.

A sidelong look from an obviously amused cat.  I can tell by the expression on his face.

And then the words, don’t use words of more than two syllables, and worse, use words you don’t know the meaning of.

That’s why I have a thesaurus and dictionary on the computer.

He lets that pass.

So I have been around long enough to have many experiences, go to many places, see many people, and do stuff.

Do stuff?  What the hell is ‘stuff’?

You know, stuff.  Looking at stuff, eating stuff, sitting on stuff.

Groan.

He gets up, gives me that pitiful look of disdain, and leaves.

I shrug.  Maybe tomorrow, when he’s in a better mood.

 

 

Past conversations with my cat – 6

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This is Chester.  He is giving me the ‘Come back when you’ve rewritten the start’ look.

Yet another ‘disagreement’ over such a small matter!

Here’s the thing.

Like many authors with cats, I like to use Chester as my audience of one, my sounding board.  It is better to be reading to him, rather than reading out loud by yourself.

Reading what you have written often points out tongue tangling or ‘drippy’ dialog, and  unfortunate mix ups in words.  Proof reading sometimes misses these.

Hitherto, Chester has been patient, lying on the floor, or sitting on the couch.

I guess a few pats doesn’t go astray in the process.

But, this morning, reading him the new start to ‘First Dig Two Graves’ the sequel to ‘The Devil You Don’t’, he just gave me one of his angry ‘meow’s’ and left.

Obviously he didn’t like it.

Of course, after I re-read it again, I could see the problem, so the days writing is not over yet.

Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 12

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Was I working for a ghost?

 

I sat in that room for an hour.

I had no doubt someone was on the other side of the mirrored wall, watching me, analysing my body language.  I hoped I hadn’t given any indication that Nobbin was a name that I recognised, or knew, but I was still new to this game, and as much as I tried to perfect it, I still didn’t think I had a poker face.

More than likely I had a ‘tell’.

There was something else I had to worry about, and that was what approach this Dobbin would take.  For instance, did he know that I had met up with the man in the alley, and stretching that big if, did he know who the man in the alley was, and was he one of ours.

Of course, that was another problem I had, and that was recognising who ‘ours’ were.  It seems the people I knew, were not the same people who were really running the place.

Or, paradoxically, were these people, interlopers, trying to get intel on the group I was supposedly working for.  But they hadn’t disavowed me, so I must be working for someone they approved or knew of.

An hour and a half, and I was beginning to think this might be another game by my previous interrogators.  I was glad not to be on the other side of the mirror, trying to work out what I was ‘telling;’ them.  Once, I’d got up and stared directly into the mirror, thinking I might be able to see who was behind it.  I also thought of tapping it to see if I could get a reaction.

And, in fact, I was about to do that very thing when Nobbin walked through the door and closed it behind him.

I saw him do a quick check of the room, from the floor to the roof, and stopping briefly at the mirror, before sitting down.

“We probably have an audience for this discussion,” I said, inclining my head towards the mirror.

“You might be right, but I did ask for a clean slate, and if anyone is considering recording or viewing this interview, there will be dire consequences.”  Looking at the mirror, he added, “I made that very clear at the highest level.”

He then looked back at me.  “Your name, I believe, is Sam Jackson?”

“Yes.”  My current working name, that is.  Once deployed to the field we started using aliases, and my first and current alias was Sam Jackson.  But how they made the passport look old and used for that legend was interesting, yet not a question anyone would answer.

“You were recently assigned to a surveillance team, for this man.”

He’d brought a folder with him and pulled out a photograph of the man I’d cornered in the alley.

“Is that him?”

Was there a right or wrong answer here?

“Yes.”

“Who was leading this operation?”

“A man named Severin.”

“Describe him.

I did.

It evoked no reaction.  Nobbin had a poker face.  In fact, I was beginning to think it was etched in stone.

“Do you know who he is?” I asked.

“No.  But we will find out.  Thank you for your time.”

He stood, gave me one last look, and left the room.

I waited a minute, and then followed him out, where a security officer was waiting to escort me out of the building.

On the steps outside, security pass returned, I wondered if that was then end of my tenure with that organisation.  Or whether I actually had any tenure in the first place.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Past conversations with my cat – 5

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This is Chester.  He is contemplating the mess on the floor.

I’ve asked him many times to stop unraveling the extension cords, or to play with it as it it was a ball of string.

I’m not sure he understands the implications of playing with electrical wires.

Yet.

He is recovering from the visit by our grand children.

Sometimes, when they’re very quiet, he assumes they have gone.  He comes down to see what’s for dinner, or if there are any ‘snacks’.

Then, suddenly he realizes they have not gone, and panic sets in.

Sometimes he gets away.

Sometimes he is trapped, and forced to take large doses of child affection.

Yesterday, it was very close.

 

Past conversations with my cat – 4

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This is Chester.  Hiding.

He is the proverbial ‘scaredy cat’.

He is in hiding, buried at the back of the shelving in our walk in robe, one of the few places he thinks the grand children don’t know about.

Think again, Chester!

He pays scant regard to the fact he moults hair all over our clothes.

Efforts to fill the hole have been met with stiff resistance, the ‘blockage’ finding its way to the floor.

A bit like the blankets he doesn’t like on his bed.

Chester is 16 years old.  He has had a tumultuous relationship with my grand children, who, at first, wanted to terrorize him, and now, older and wiser, want to make friends with him.

Sorry, no can do.  You had your chance.

But …

He’s warming to the 12 year old.  Perhaps because she is as tall as us, he is confused.

Her efforts to get him to sleep on the end of her bed have failed.

Perhaps we should switch beds, and I might win that battle after all.

 

 

Conversations with my cat – 41

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This is Chester. He had been shocked by my transformation into someone he least likely expected to find in his domain.

After a chastisement, I told him he could expect more shocks in the days to follow.

Why he asks. All I want is a peaceful life lying in the sun by the window, and no pesky mice to chase.

Sorry, I say. I’m playing roles for my next book. Trying to get the feel for the character.

A drunk, a fool, and a man who does household chores. You’re failed in all three, just in case you want to know what I think.

I don’t.

The cat doesn’t have a sense of humour, or if he does, I’m not seeing it.

I think you’ve got it wrong. Not a drunk, a man with physical disabilities, not a fool but a clown who’s lost his will to perform, and yes, I am the one who does the cooking and cleaning,

And who’s in charge of feeding you?  Anything else you care to add?

Looking good, keep up the good work, but how about fresh fish rather than that packet stuff.