~:~ ~:~ C ~:~ A ~:~ T ~:~ ~:~ T ~:~ A ~:~ I ~:~ L ~:~ S ~:~ ~:~

                            CAT TAILS

       "Tails" about kitties, facts, helpful information,
                and FUN for people who LOVE cats 

                               ~:~
 
                         ISSN 1552-938X

                    Sunday, December 18, 2005

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          International Council of Online Professionals
                      http://www.i-Cop.org

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Welcome to CAT TAILS Newsletter!

Special greetings to our new subscribers.  Thanks so much for
subscribing.  I hope these mailings each week will bring you a
smile or chuckle about my favorite subject . . . cats!

Some of the topics vary from week to week, drawing from facts,
articles about health and behavior issues, or tips on a wide
variety of kitty-related subjects, but we always have a cat
"tail" or two, sprinkled with a bit of humor and fun.

We appreciate and thank you for spreading the word about Cat
Tails and encouraging other cat lovers to subscribe!  But, we
ask you to forward the issues in their entirety, always with a
personal note so they will know it came from you. 

    -^-------------------------------------------------------
      This newsletter is best viewed in a fixed-width font.
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MERRY CHRISTMAS!!  I wish for each one of you who celebrates
Christmas a special, blessed Christmas this year and every
year.  During the hustle and bustle of getting ready for a
wonderful celebration, I hope we take time to remember the real
meaning of Christmas and say a prayer of thanks for Christ's
birth, sacrifice, and plan of salvation. 

This week's Mewsings is a sweet Christmas poem sent to me by one
of our subscribers, Sharon.  I fear I inadvertently omitted
responding to her email, so please let me take this opportunity
to publicly thank Sharon for sharing it with us.

CHILD WARNING:  Our "tail" about cats is quite long.  But it is
a wonderful story--more than worth your time in reading every
word, whether you are a Christian or prescribe to another
belief system.  I published it initially on December 21, 2003. 
"The Fourth Magi" is a fabulous story by Jim Willis, poignant at
one moment and hilarious the next, so I know if you read it with
me then, you will laugh and cry all over again. 

The child warning is for those of you who read Cat Tails to
children because Elmer is prone to considerable "cussing" and
speaking his mind in no uncertain terms, political correctness
be "darned."  I usually edit pieces that have cursing because we
are a family-friendly newsletter, but believe it is an integral
part of this story. 

"The Fourth Magi" is a special story that reveals the magical,
mystical powers of cats . . . and Christmas.

A funny story about a Christmas play, also first published in
Cat Tails in December 2003, is our witty about kitties.  I still
don't know the author, so if you happen to have information on
that please let me know.

Believe it or not, I have not succumbed to repeating previous
stories because I have run out of good material.  It is just
that I like them very much, and for some reason this is what I
was led to do this year. 

Finally, all the way at The Tail End are a couple more cats'
Christmas letters to Santa.

Hope you enjoy!

Take care, have a great week, and kiss your kitties for me. 
Please have a very safe holiday season.  I am taking a couple of
weeks off for the holidays, so will see you again in 2006.


Annette Fincher
Publisher


        Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to one and all!


=^===============================================================
                             MEWSINGS
=^..^============================================================


                 The Legend of the Christmas Cat


                      At midnight's stroke,
          On the first Christmas, half the world awoke.
                    Then out of nest and lair
          Came thronging to Bethlehem the wordless folk;
     Hurried the beasts of the forest, the birds of the air,
            To pay the Lord their homage and His due.

                        And Cat came, too,
            Mincing on delicate feet to see the Child.
                      But being shy and wild,
          Approached no nearer than the hearth; lay down
                        And distant there.
                 While the rest knelt in praise,
                The Cat by too much glory overcome
                    Could not withdraw her gaze
                From the Nativity; could only stare
         Through silted eyes as things of fur and feather
        (The deer beside the lion, the pheasant, the hare
           Safe in the fox's paws) bent down together.
            Although their anthems lifted all around,
         She, in her throat, made only a trembling sound
                   And could not bow her head.                

                    Yet as the morning dawned
             And one by one the other creatures fled
                    Each to his habitat . . .
         The eagle to his crag and to his pond the otter
                           Only the Cat
              Remained beside the dying fire, unable
         To quit the place that was both Crib and Stable.

                      Then Mary spoke aloud.
         "Dear Cat," she said, "dear, stiff-necked, proud
         And obstinate beast, I bless you.  From this hour
                   Leave wilderness behind you.
       Because you stayed, though none shall have the power
        To call you servant, yet the hearth shall bind you
             Forever to itself.  Both fond and free,
               Wherever Man is, you shall also be.
                        And many a family
        Will smile to hear you singing (where you settle)
            Household hosannas like a pulsing kettle."

                        Some winter night
         Observe Cat n0w.  Her eyes will suddenly gleam
                    Yellow against the light,
               Her body shudder in a jungle dream,
       Her claws unsheathe their sharpness. She remembers
         Old times, old barbarous customs, old Decembers
         Before she called the tribes of Man her friends.
                        But the dream ends.
             Then, reassured, she curls herself along
            The floor and hums her cool, domestic song.


~ Author Unknown

Submitted by Sharon Coles
< http://www.whitedoveministries.net>
<a href="http://www.whitedoveministries.net">AOL_Link</a>

           


~ Picture by dixie177100, at Webshots.com


=^===============================================================
                           A CAT "TAIL"
=^..^============================================================


                        The Fourth Magi

If anyone had bothered to pry, or follow Elmer around town, they
might have learned more about him than anyone knew.  Instead,
they were comfortable with their opinion of him as the
crankiest, stingiest old man around.

Many were relieved that he lived on the outskirts of town and
most avoided running into him during his monthly shopping trip
if they saw his dented and rusty pick-up truck parked in front
of any business establishment.  Elmer only entered the post
office lobby during the postmaster's lunch hour and since he
nev.er put a return address on anything he mailed –- his way of
daring the US Postal Service to lo.se anything –- nobody knew
that the letters addressed in spindly block lettering to US
military addresses were from Elmer.  He wrote dozens of
appreciative letters to service member strangers in far away
places and always enclosed a ten-dollar bill, "for a beer or
something stronger."

Many a military chaplain has been surprised by Elmer's largesse
and his vernacular about the Communists, the liberals, and
whomever happened to be Commander-in-Chief ("and probably nev.er
did a lick of work in his whole life").  Elmer was completely
non-partisan in his hatred of politicians, he hated all of them,
and as for love of his country, it was about all the love that
Elmer had left.

Elmer had been a coal miner until the mine had closed "thanks to
those damn environmentalists."  He occasionally ran into former
coworkers in town and gave them a nod, nev.er asking how they
were and figuring that most, by the look of them, should qualify
for some kind of public assistance if it weren't for "the state
of our damn social security system."  If there had been one
thing he had done well, it had been to save mo.ney and he was
comfortable, but with every passing year, Elmer grew more sour
and intimidating.  It had been years since any children had
walked up the driveway to his well-kept but plain looking home
that always had the curtains and window blinds shut and rung his
doorbell on Halloween, or anyone had called asking for a
donation.  Even the postman dreaded delivering anything to him
that required a signature, although Elmer had enormous respect
for anyone in uniform, even if they worked for the "damn US
Postal Service."

In short, nobody in the world could have been more surprised
than Elmer, one cold evening in late November, when he heard a
strange noise outside, set his beer bottle down hard on the
kitchen table and opened the door to the back porch.  Not only
was the most ugly cat he'd ever seen sitting in front of the
door, and Elmer hated cats as much as liberals and Communists,
but the cat walked directly into the kitchen and then
disappeared down the cellar stairs.  Elmer turned on the porch
light and looked around into the darkness, to make sure it
wasn't some prank or Communist plot, and then he slammed the
door shut.  He decided to have another beer first, "to steady
his legs," before going down to the cellar and evicting the
"damn cat."

The cat was nowhere to be seen at first, and then Elmer found
him curled up in a laundry basket of dirty laundry on top of the
washer.  He pulled the cord from the light above the laundry
tubs and glared at the cat.  The cat blinked and stared at Elmer
with an unconcerned air.  Elmer bent down a little closer to the
cat, inspected him, and agreed with himself that this was indeed
the ugliest cat on the face of the Earth.  The cat had a fresh
scar down his nose that was still pink, the tip of one ear was
missing, and the edge of the other ear was notched.  One eye was
gray-blue and clouded.  It was difficult to tell from all the
scars and patches of missing gray and white fur if the cat had
won or lost his fights.  That may have been the first inkling
that Elmer had that he and the cat had something in common, but
mostly he was sure he hated cats.

"Get out of my damn laundry you damn ugly cat!" Elmer said.

The cat showed no fear and instead yawned and snuggled deeper
into the pungent tangle of soiled clothes.

Elmer stood there and crossed his arms.  He uncrossed his arms.
He put his hands on his hips.  He removed one hand from his hip
and scratched his head. If this had been a liberal, a Communist,
or even a postal worker, he would have known what to say to get
them out of his laundry basket, his cellar, his house –- but he
didn't know what one did about a trespassing cat.  He didn't
know anything at all about cats.

Elmer leaned over the laundry tub and forced the rusted window
latch open, then opened the window a few inches.

"You finish your nap, then you go back where you came from," he
said to the cat in the laundry basket and then he made his way
unsteadily back up the cellar stairs, grabbed another bottle of
beer from the refrigerator, and sat back down at the kitchen
table.  He swished the first swig of beer around in his mouth
and thought for a while.  He rubbed his unshaven chin.  He
drummed his fingers on the tabletop.  He thought about eating
something, maybe a can of soup, and then decided he wasn't
hungry.  He was too upset to eat.  The whole order of his day
and his comfortable existence had been upset by a trespassing,
most likely Communist cat asleep in his cellar.  He finished his
beer, turned out the kitchen light and headed toward his
bedroom.  He looked in the direction of the cellar door and
yelled, "Don't think I'm giving you anything to eat, 'cause I
ain't!"

The cat was still there in the morning and he announced that he
was hungry by high-tailing it up the cellar stairs into the
middle of the kitchen and yowling –- which caused Elmer to drop
his English muffin on the floor, because he had forgotten all
about the cat.  The cat licked the butter off the muffin and
then howled some more.  Elmer stood there with his mouth open
while the radio announcer finished both the traf.fic and weather
reports.  The cat licked his muzzle, saw that nothing more was
being offered, and went back down the cellar stairs.  Elmer
grabbed his truck keys off the hook next to the kitchen door and
slammed the door on his way out.

As Elmer's truck pulled in at Fields Farm Supply, Fred Fields
looked up from loading a fresh roll of paper into the ca.sh
register and thought "Oh no!  It's Elmer and it isn't even
December yet."

Elmer nodded curtly and headed toward the back of the store. 
Fred thought that was odd, because Elmer normally walked
directly up to the front counter with a complaint and receipt in
hand for some previous purchase.  The last had been about a
galvanized bucket that rusted after putting water in it,
"because it says 'Made in Mexico,' and maybe next time you'll
think twice about selling buckets that ain't made in the good
ol' US of A!"
 
Instead, Elmer marched past the hardware and plumbing section,
past the cattle and equine supplies, and all the way back to the
pet section.  He stood there with his arms crossed, not moving,
until Fred finally went back to see what he needed.

"This a good cat food?" Elmer asked and pointed to the top
shelf.

"Well, yeah, I guess –- we sell a lot of it," Fred replied.

"Ain't made in Mexico is it?" Elmer asked, picking up a can and
turning it over to read the label.

"Nope, made in America," Fred said.  "And that's all Miss
Bridgewater buys."

"Who the hell is Miss Bridgewater?" Fred asked with suspicion.

"That's the retired schoolteacher over by Shadygrove, who
rescues all the cats and finds them homes.  Got dozens of them. 
Had a write-up in the paper recently.  Nice lady –- probably
spends her whole pension on those animals.  Anyway, that's all
she buys, the canned and the dry chow, too.

"Cats need two kinds of food?" Elmer asked, even more
suspiciously, anticipating some sort of a sal.es ploy.

"Well, most cats like both.  The dry is good for their teeth.
What kind of a cat do you have, Elmer?"

"Ain't got a cat," Elmer said emphatically.  "Was just asking.
You can go back to whatever you was doing, I'm just lookin'
around."

Fred shrugged his shoulders and returned to the front of the
store.  Elmer showed up a few minutes later with two five-pound
bags of dry cat chow, two different flavors, and a dozen cans of
cat food.

"Put 'em on my account," he said, not even waiting for the goods
to be bagged, and Fred hurriedly jotted down the total.  Elmer
might nev.er find out that that was probably how the rumor got
started, that he, the ornery old cuss who was too proud to ask
anyone for help, was n0w so dirt poor that he'd taken to eating
cat food.

Elmer slammed in through his kitchen door, took one look, and
subconsciously decided to drop some of the cans of cat food
rather than the six-pack of beer he was also carrying.  The damn
cat was sitting in the middle of his kitchen table!

"Get your mangy, dirty butt off my table, you damn cat!" he
yelled.

The cat didn't flinch.  Typical Communist behavior, Elmer
decided, and he plunked down his armload on the kitchen counter.
One of the cans of cat food rolled across the kitchen floor and
down the cellar stairs.  The cat chased it.

"Good!" Elmer yelled again.  "'Cause that's where you're eating.
I ain't having that stinky stuff in my kitchen."

Elmer opened a drawer next to the sink and grabbed a plastic
fork, he opened the cabinet above the sink and withdrew a paper
plate from an enormous stack of them, and then he turned and
went down the cellar stairs.  The cat waited on top of the
washer as Elmer popped the lid off the can of cat food and then
pounded the can's contents onto the plate.  The cat sniffed the
food and began to eat ravenously.  Elmer glared at the cat
first, then at the fork in his hand and shoved it into his shirt
pocket.

Elmer was halfway up the cellar stairs when he turned around and
addressed the cat.

"I didn't say you was staying, just remember that."

Elmer learned later that day that the logical conclusion for a
well-fed cat is a litterbox.  He swore all the way to the
Wal-Mart on the other side of Shadygrove, because he wasn't
going to give Fred Fields any more reason to gossip than he
already had.

It had been many years since any living being had dared to test
Elmer's patience.  The cat made up for those years in the first
week.  When Elmer pulled out his chair from the kitchen table to
sit down, the cat was sitting on it.  When Elmer took his paper-
plated dinner and plastic utensils into the living room, to sit
in his recliner and watch the evening news, the cat was nestled
in it and only grudgingly moved to the end table.  When Elmer
twisted the top off a beer bottle, the cat stole the cap and
batted it around the kitchen floor until it eventually rolled
under the refrigerator.  When Elmer wasn't busy writing letters
to soldiers, or paying his utility bills while cursing the oil
barons, he spent most of his free time hating the cat.  When the
cat tired of toying with Elmer's patience, he retreated to his
laundry basket in the cellar.  One week dragged into two, until
the cat's greatest impudence.

Elmer awoke in the middle of the night and felt pressure on his
chest and had difficulty in breathing.  Not even the aspirin per
day he'd been taking after that liberal Peter Jennings had
recommended it on a TV "healthcast" could save him n0w.  He
slowly raised his right hand to place it on his heart and
instead of feeling the pounding in his chest, he felt a warm,
purring cat!  Elmer nearly choked on his own tongue in an
apoplectic, sputtering rage, before he managed to turn on the
bedside reading lamp.

"Get off me, you damn ugly cat!" he screeched.

The cat blinked a few times, stepped down from his perch on
Elmer's chest, and moved to the foot of the bed.  Elmer sat up
in bed for a long time, arms crossed and glowering, before he
let out a disgusted sigh and turned out the light.  He angrily
rolled over and pounded his fist into the mattress.

"I know one thing," he addressed the cat in the dark, "if I do
start to die, you just get your ugly butt back to the cellar
'cause I sure as hell don't want anyone finding me with you in
my bed!"

By the third week of their coexistence, Elmer and the cat had
reached an uneasy peace, the sort of truce that might exist
between two inmates forced to share a cell together.  Even
prisoners have names, although the cat was free to leave and the
sooner the better, and one evening, after several bottles of
beer, Elmer held a "christening" ceremony.  From he.re on out,
in the presence of God and man, the cat would be called "Ugly." 

It was difficult to judge the cat's opinion of his official
moniker because he had, with great dignity, retired to his
laundry basket in the cellar during the middle of the ceremony.

Elmer had taken to reading the weekly pet column in the news-
paper, but he usually did so when Ugly was not around.  One
column on the benefits of "neutering" put a satisfied grin on
Elmer's face.  He did most of his cat food shopping at the
Wal-Mart, watching to see what other customers put into their
carts and then reaching for the same products and reading the
labels after he made sure nobody was around.  As long as it
wasn't made in Mexico, it was probably good enough for Ugly, who
began to fill out and his fur grew back and had sheen to it.
Elmer credited the improvement to American animal husbandry.

His trips to town became more frequent and Elmer sometimes
stopped by Fields Farm Supply, pretending to browse, but most
often to compare pet food prices.  He was inspecting a tube of
something called "Hairball Remedy," when the bell over the
store's front door jingled and he heard Fred say, "'Morning, Miz
Bridgewater."

Elmer looked up with interest and then scurried around the other
side of the pet food display and absorbed himself with an
aluminum dryer exhaust vent.  It was stamped "Made in Mexico,"
and he set it down in disgust.  He watched her as she walked up
the pet food aisle and she smiled sweetly at him.  Elmer began
to color and mumbled "'Morning," and turned back around toward
the plumbing fixtures.  He thought she looked like a former
school-teacher, tastefully dressed, tall and thin –- elegant –-
and he detected a hint of some feminine fragrance.  He watched
her out of the corner of his eye as she selected a couple of
products, including "Hairball Remedy," and then made her way
back to the front counter.  Fred promised to have her order
delivered the next morning and she wished him a Merry Christmas
as she went out the door.  Elmer noted her street address on the
invoice next to the ca.sh register as he slammed down a tube of
"Hairball Remedy" and averted his eyes as Fred rang it up
without a word.  Elmer also noted the total on the invoice for
her supply of cat food and litter.  He shook his head and
muttered to himself as he got into his truck.

Elmer drove the long way to Shadygrove, past the hospital and a
new subdivision of exclusive homes, probably all owned by
doctors and cut-throat hospital administrators.  He wondered if
the homes were more substantial than the "cardboard" duplexes
his late brother-in-law had built in Florida and then sold to
retired Canadians "with more mo.ney than sense."  He hadn't
talked to his sister in years, had nev.er forgiven her for
marrying that fool in the first place.  At least she lived in a
warm climate, he thought, and shivered as he reached for the
heater control knob and cranked it up to "high."  Probably
spends all her days gabbing and playing cards with the other
widows and going to church.

Miss Bridgewater lived past the fancy homes, past a few family-
owned farms that hadn't been subdivided yet.  Elmer drove slowly
past the house and wondered if it was the right place and then
he saw the hand-painted sign in her front yard:  "Cats for
adoption to qualified, indoor homes," followed by her ph0ne
number.  He slowed almost to a stop and noted the cracks and
ruts in her driveway, several window shutters attached by only
one hinge, and a gutter and downspout hanging down precariously
and ready to fall in the next strong wind.

He shook his head as he stepped on the gas pedal and drove on.
Probably does spend her whole pension on them cats!  'Indoor'
cats.  Wonder how many of them are damn ugly cats that just
moved in on her and took over?

The cat was nowhere to be seen when Elmer came in his kitchen
door.  Good!  Maybe he left, Elmer thought.  He peeked down the
stairwell to the cellar and saw a gray and white lump in his
laundry basket.  He hung his jacket over the back of a kitchen
chair and quietly tiptoed upstairs, intending to take a short
nap alone.  Elmer rarely napped, but he was still recovering
from having his bed invaded by a cat who took liberties.  Having
to sneak around my own house and all because of a damn
trespassing cat!

The light filtered in through the window at the end of the
upstairs hallway and illuminated only the door to the other
bedroom, the boy's room.  Elmer hadn't opened that door for at
least a year, but the illuminated door seemed to beckon to him.
He stood in front of the door for a full minute before putting a
hand on the doorknob.  He took a deep breath and turned the key.
The door opened easily, to a time long gone.  The room was
filled with personality, unlike any other room in the house.  A
few trophies gleamed on a shelf, paint-by-number paintings were
framed and hung on the walls, a collection of handmade objects
was carefully arranged on the dresser, including a popsicle-
stick birdhouse, and a row of Hardy Boys mystery books lined the
shelf above the bed's headboard.  Elmer looked around the room,
avoiding the photos displayed in frames, and bit his bottom lip.
He backed quietly out of the room and shut the door.

It was partly due to his visit to the room and partly the fault
of Peter Jennings that Elmer drank more than his customary six-
pack of beer that evening.  His reaction to the room was
forgivable.  Jennings' special report on a proposed new trade
agreement between Mexico and the United States was not.

Elmer switched off the television in disgust and went into the
kitchen.  The cat followed.  Elmer was reaching into the
refrigerator for another bottle of beer, too upset to eat
anything, and was about to tell the damn ugly cat that he wasn't
getting another damn thing to eat for the rest of the damn day,
when the front doorbell rang.  Elmer straightened up in
surprise. Nobody ever came to his front door and even the rare
delivery person or meter reader knew to come to the kitchen
door.  He suspected Jehovah Witnesses, or Boy Scouts selling
Christmas trees.  By the time Elmer got the front door deadbolt
unlocked and opened the door, all he saw were taillights turning
onto the road and speeding away.  Then he saw the box sitting on
his front porch.  What in the hell . . .?

The cardboard box was open at the top and wrapped in Christmas
paper, and it was crammed full, with a frozen turkey perched on
top of the pile of contents.  Elmer glared at it.  He walked
around the box looking for a tag or any sort of written
explanation.  He nudged the box with his foot in case it
contained a bomb.  Then he stooped and grunted as he picked up
the box and wrestled it through the front hallway and onto the
kitchen table.  He stepped back and regarded it suspiciously
again.  It was clearly a box meant for "poor people" and Elmer
was livid.  He twisted the cap off another bottle of beer and
began to unpack the box, hoping to find some identifying clue
hidden in the contents.  Ugly sat on a kitchen chair and
supervised the process.


      


~ Picture by Laurel McGovern, at Webshots

"Yams!  Hate 'em.  Asparagus spears –- who in the hell, other
than liberals, eats asparagus?!  Croutons?  What's that -– some
Frenchie word for stale bread?"  Elmer continued rummaging to
the bottom of the box where he found a smashed pumpkin pie and
wondered what "mental midget" had packed the damn box.  Ugly
climbed into the unpacked, empty box and peered at Elmer over
the edge.  Elmer opened another beer and sat down hard on the
kitchen chair after first checking from force of new habit to
see if there was a cat on it.

He took a long gulp of beer and stared at the cat in the box. 
He looked intently at the Christmas wrapping paper of the box,
with a scene of the Three Wise Men on camels following the Star
of Bethlehem.  It reminded him of her, of Christmases past, of
how much she loved the holidays, the cookies she baked, and her
staying up into the wee hours of the morning, knitting presents
for him and the boy.  He remembered the look on the boy's face
on Christmas mornings.  He rubbed his eyes hard with his hand. 
Ugly hung one paw over the edge of the box.

Elmer removed his hand from his face and looked fiercely at the
cat.

"Don't think I'm letting you stay 'cause I need you . . .
because I don't!  I don't need nobody, especially an ugly cat. 
I do just fine by myself.  You hear me?"

Then he recalled his visit to the room.

"I had a boy once," Elmer addressed the cat in the box.  "His
name was John.  He was a good kid . . . quiet.  We didn't get
along that well.  We was just too different.  He took after his
mother . . . kind and sensitive.  He used to go out and sit in
the woods for hours by himself.  He loved animals.  He always
wanted a cat or a dog and I wouldn't let him.  I could barely
keep food on the table and a roof over our heads as it was.  His
mother would've given him the world if she could of.  He was her
life.  He went off to war and came back in a box.  He should
nev.er have joined up in the first place -– think he did it to
spite me, or get away from me.  Should have gone to college and
made something of himself . . . not like me.  He won awards for
schoolwork.  He was bright –- like his mother.  She nev.er got
over it.  Broke her heart.  After he died, she went to her
sister's and nev.er came back.  Couldn't live with me no more.
Can't say I blame her.  I wasn't easy to live with.  She's gone
n0w, too.

"I miss 'em . . . you damn ugly cat!  I miss 'em so bad it
hurts.  But you can't bring them back after they're gone and you
can't take back the things you said, or did . . . or make up for
the things you didn't do, or even tell them you're sorry!  You
just have to go on and hope they forgave you, and hope that
maybe you'll see them again after you die so you can tell them
you loved them."

And then Elmer began to cry.  He began to sob so hard that the
canned goods on the table jiggled, and the beer in the bottle
began to slosh, and the cat jumped out of the box.  Elmer's
shoulders heaved with the sobs and his thin chest pounded
against the table's edge, and the cobwebs and dust in his soul
began to shake loose, and the iron latches of his heart began to
strain and rattle fre.e. 

When the flood was spent, Elmer angrily wiped the flannel sleeve
of his shirt across his tear-stained face and he stared at the
frozen turkey and canned asparagus spears on his table, and it
was a long time before he noticed the cat on his lap.

The next day dawned with blinding sunlight reflected off fresh
snow against a crystal blue backdrop of sky and a cat asleep on
the pillow next to Elmer's head.  Elmer opened most of the
curtains and window blinds in the house, and Ugly was thrilled
to have countless patches of sunlight to nap in and new reasons
to chase reflections and shadows across the floor.  Elmer even
opened the door to the boy's room, which caused the cat to
permanently forsake the laundry basket in the cellar and he
slept instead on the boy's bed all afternoon.  Elmer walked past
the open bedroom doorway and nodded in approval.  The boy would
have liked that. 

That evening, the cat beat the daylights out of a brown paper
grocery sack in the kitchen until he and his paper cocoon rolled
down the cellar stairs.  Elmer first laughed so hard that he
snorted beer out of his nose and then he went down to make sure
Ugly wasn't injured.  The cat marched back up the stairs and
pretended the incident nev.er happened.

If anyone had ever bothered to pry, or follow Elmer around town,
they might have noticed the subtle changes in Elmer, but of
course nobody did.  Elmer started using return address labels on
his letters.  One morning, the postman picked up Elmer's
outgoing mail and found an envelope on top of the stack
addressed to "Mr. Rural Mail Carrier."  Inside was a Christmas
card signed "Your customer, Elmer" and a ten-dollar bill "for a
beer or something stronger."  He nearly drove into a ditch.

Elmer's sister retrieved her mail from her mailbox one balmy
afternoon and didn't recognize the spindly block lettering on
the envelope at first.  The card was signed, "Love, Your Brother
Elmer.  P.S. I'll call you New Year's Day."  She had several
small glasses of creme de menthe, called a couple of lady
friends to tell them about "the miracle," and that afternoon the
entire Silver & Gold Book Club and Prayer Circle at her church
prayed for Elmer.

Ugly benefited from Elmer's new benevolence, too.  Elmer renamed
him –- "Mister Ugly," as a sign of respect, with perhaps a dash
of appreciation thrown in that dangerously approached love.

It was a few days before Christmas when Don Carstens of Carstens
Construction & Home Remodeling showed up unexpectedly at Miss
Bridgewater's home, wearing a bewildered expression that rivaled
her own after he told her why he was there.  An "anonymous
benefactor" had ordered him to repair anything and everything
she needed fixed, including a new professionally painted sign
for her lawn, up to a generous dollar amount that caused her to
gasp. 

She pleaded with Mr. Carstens to reveal who had made such a
gift, but he just shook his head and said he couldn't.  He
remembered all too well the conversation with Elmer of the day
before in which that old coot had described in excruciating
detail what he would do to Carstens and his anatomy if he ever
betrayed the secr.et.  Carstens had nev.er before been
threatened with "neutering."

Fred Fields had his own revelation when Elmer selected a ten-
dollar cat toy from his inventory, made in China, and then asked
to have it gift wrapped "please."

Elmer sat in his recliner on Christmas Eve, nursing a beer, with
Mister Ugly on his lap.  Both did their best to ignore Peter
Jennings.  Elmer had reduced his beer consumption to one bottle
with dinner, maybe two, depending on the state of the Mexican
trade agreement.  Mister Ugly was allowed to finish whatever
Elmer left on his plate.  Elmer imagined that Miss Bridgewater
probably had to eat her dinner out on her porch, away from all
those "indoor cats."  He chuckled at the thought.

Maybe he'd call her up after the New Year and invite her to stop
by and meet Mister Ugly, and to ask what veterinarian she
recommended for "fixing" a trespassing cat, and to ask what else
a cat needed beside "Hairball Remedy."  Maybe she even had a
nice fixed girl cat that would be good company for a damn ugly
trespassing tomcat who had taken over a "qualified" home.  Maybe
nobody should be alone unless they wanted to be.

Maybe he'd invite her over for dinner -– she looked too thin
anyway –- and serve asparagus spears on china plates with
silverware.  Maybe he'd put a tablecloth on the kitchen table.
Maybe he'd unpack some of the decorative things from boxes in
the attic and make the place look a bit more like it did before,
when the boy and his mother lived there.  He also figured Miss
Bridgewater probably didn't drink beer . . . maybe she drank one
of those herb.al teas that smelled like old socks.  He'd have to
get some of that.

Maybe he'd take advantage of some of the after-Christmas sal.es
and buy himself some new clothes, instead of the jeans and
flannel shirts he usually bought at Fields –- most likely
assembled in Mexico from fabric manufactured in Guatemala, or
some such place.

"Miss Bridgewater of Shadygrove."  It had a pretty ring to it,
like a film title.  Elmer thought that Miss Bridgewater looked
like the sort of woman who liked to dance.  He bet she did.  He
bet her laugh was probably musical.  There was a good chance
that she might be a liberal, but that was okay.  He bet she
wouldn't blabber on about things the way that Peter Jennings
did.  He could tolerate liberal tendencies . . . hell, he'd
already survived over a month with a darn Communist cat.

Maybe he'd start saying "darn" instead of "damn" all the time.
Maybe he'd stop cussing all together, especially in the presence
of Miss Bridgewater.  Maybe he'd quit drinking beer and learn to
like herb.al teas that smelled like old socks.  Maybe he'd cook
that mysterious fre.e turkey tomorrow and give Mister Ugly a
leg, although he wouldn't be surprised if the cat demanded white
meat, with gravy.

Elmer finished his beer and set the empty bottle on the end
table.  He switched off the TV and leaned back in his recliner.
He scratched Mister Ugly behind the ears and smiled slightly
when the cat started to purr.  He closed his eyes and nodded to
himself in satisfaction.  For Elmer and Mister Ugly the
possibilities were endless.


~ Jim Willis
< http://www.crean.com/jimwillis>
<a href=" http://www.crean.com/jimwillis">AOL_Link</a>
Copyright 2001-2003 by TheDailyMews.com.


=^===============================================================
                           A KITTY WITTY
=^..^============================================================


                      At The Christmas Play


The choir director selected the 6-year-old little boy with the
sweetest face for the opening scene of the play.  "N0w, all you
have to do is, when I direct the choir to sing '. . . and the
angel lit the candle', you come on stage and light all the
candles."

"I can do it -- I can do it!" the little boy said, excited to be
the one picked.

Rehearsals came and went, and finally the big night arrived. 
The choir was in grand voice, the stage was beautifully
decorated with dozens of unlit candles all around, awaiting the
moment when the cute littlest angel made his entrance.

The director gave the downbeat, the orchestra began to play, and
the choir swept into the introductory lines, ending with an
expectant ". . . and the angel lit the candle," and everyone
looked stage right for the entrance. 

No little boy. 

The director gave the downbeat again, and gestured for a louder
line, which the choir gave him -- ". . . and the angel lit the
candle," and again, all eyes looked stage right. 

No little boy.

The director, beginning to sweat, motioned with great, sweeping
gestures, and the choir thundered into the line -- the curtains
belled slightly from the sound -- ". . . AND THE ANGEL LIT THE
CANDLE!"

And into the silence which followed came a clear, boy-soprano
voice floating piercingly from stage right . . .

". . . and the cat peed on the matches!"


~ Unknown


=^===============================================================
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