Digging Dread

I awoke this morning huddled into my covers, thinking about where to bury her body. This grew into dread as I became more alert. I knew it must be done, else it would draw flies and get gooey and stink the whole house up. I should get up and make some coffee. I’d think more clearly.

I lay abed another hour, picturing different internment spots around the property. About fifty minutes into the study, it had struck me that any burial not covered with a heavy stone would get dug up. The images flashed through my brain of body parts gnawed and dragged up onto the porch; parts I’d have to pick up. Durned dogs.

I have a sluice at the side of the yard for rainwater coming off the ridge behind me that leads to a deep ditch. For appearance sake, there is a smattering of creek rocks all the way down. One each side, however, are large creek stones arranged in long rows to keep erosion at bay. Once I’d pictured how I’d move the rock, decided which spade I’d use and concluded that I would not wrap the body, I got up with a leaden heart.

Weekends, I usually dress exceedingly casual and wear house shoes all day. Today I put on old stuff I wouldn’t mind getting messed up along with a pair of shoes with thick soles…for digging with the spade. I found a wad of packing paper to use to move the body as needed. Not the best plan, granted. She would have hidden in the basement.

I called for her a last, forlorn time and listened carefully to no response at all. Just like yesterday. Get it over with. I looked behind the washer/dryer, under the beer storage and raised the sprawling tarps I’d draped over the kiln that I have yet to assemble. How small a space could she have squeezed into? Not under the stairway. Not behind the 4X8 plywood that leaned against the wall.

As I walked back upstairs I felt renewed dread, now of needing to search behind every stash of boxes, every pile of clothes and all the canvas pallets and plywood I had everywhere. I reached the top of the stairs with the resolve to get a flashlight to see under the beds better. I imagined her meeting me there, at the top of the stairs. I could almost see her.

I did see her! I scooped her up and cradled her in my arms. “You aren’t ready to be buried yet are you, little kitty? I remembered cupping the ticky, wormy, shut-eyed pixy in one hand as she cried piteously on the gravel road where she’d been dumped some eighteen years ago. I let go of the phantom shovel handle I’d felt in my grip all morning as happiness fizzed in my heart like a shaken Coke. I warmed her up a tad of milk.

 

Krink Clawbert Pestercat, A Survivor

Butterfly road 2Driving home from the chicken plant one evening (always too much overtime), I kept a sharp eye out for deer and other wildlife. I’d seen the aftermath of collisions with deer including the damage to all parties – no thanks. I don’t like hitting any other creature, either, I even slow down for butterflies. In the dusky haze, I spotted two lumps smack in the middle of the road.

Kittens, a tiny boy and girl, eyes not even open yet, thrown away like the trash idiots litter along the roadside. They fit in the palm of one hand, covered with ticks (even on their eyelids) and had pale worms crawling out of them. Fleas! They were so weak they made no sounds and barely moved. The girl had the tip of an ear folded backwards, a grayish-brownish tiger stripe. The boy was white with (relatively) big  black spots. Safely cradling the castoffs in an old towel I kept in back, I talked to them to let them know I would care for them as we drove on home. Pictures of them would be awful, so I’ll wait until the story brightens.

Nestled in a cozy old-sock bed, they received eyedropper super-milk and frequent gentle rubbing to mimic mama’s cleaning. They were coddled each morning before I left for work and as soon as I returned. De-ticking and deworming were critical and I did those risky tasks as soon as I though they might stand the strain, carefully as possible. They opened their little blue eyes and started looking around at their world. They outgrew the sock bed and their patchy fur filled in.

Krink and Spot seemed to be recovered from their horrid ordeal, but I came home to find Spot still and cold a couple weeks later. Krink looked up at me a mewed for her milk. From then on, I kept her on my belly whenever I was home so she could feel my warmth, feel me breathing. Her poor bent back ear never straightened. She remains my undersized sweetheart, always begging for me to hold and pet her. She’s old now, many years have passed, but she does not tire of running ahead to look up with unspoken pleading for me to cuddle her close and whisper into her crinkled ear.

My SweetheartKrink Beg 3Cabin Lounge Cat 0413Krink UP

 

Story Problem Disintegrates!

The other night when reviewing my Otto and Socks storylines, I could have sworn I had a Me puzzleddisconnect between the 2nd episode and the 3rd. This weekend, I set time aside to resolve this annoying problem. There was no problem. Why I thought there was is beyond me…I be mystified. Maybe that shows why I shouldn’t attempt to write in town after my job and fixing supper and watching TV with Ma because she wants me to: brain drain.

Saturday I did a more final draft on the second episode, renamed Two Peaceful Maidens after the cult that has Otto experiencing visions. Then I wrote out half of the next one, Hooch. Sure, it required a preface paragraph, but it seemed to flow okay to me.

Sunday my brother came over and STAYED, so no more writing, phooey. Instead I took that stained glass piece of satin I got last week and, seeing no suitable pattern, cut it by intuition and made a fabulous two tiered skirt Ma adores. Success! I know, I should have taken some pictures…Sorry!

 

On a sad note, I did not see sweet Bridgette last weekend nor the Tuesday before. Her food dish in her little cozy Download 090915 072cat-house had plenty left. I fear Bridgette either went away as cats do when they get really old, or she was too slow for a coyote or bobcat. I have not seen the secretive and shy Scaredy Cat either, so maybe that bobcat got them both. Scaredy Cat showed up one day and my brother caught her so we could get her fixed. Apparently she harbors a deep resentment because she runs furtively anytime anyone gets near. I did dream about Scaredy Cat last night; she walked up to me shyly and looked straight at me. That would have been very uncharacteristic. Hmmm.