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This cat book of touching cat stories, some humorous, some sad, is a purr-fect gift for cat lovers. cat-egories: cat gifts | cat lover gift | cat lover products for people | touching cat stories | humorous cat gifts | cat short stories | cat behaviour | cat book |
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"How would you like to have your limbs severed that way?" asks the guy on the street in a raspy, gravelly voice akin to a troll under a bridge. Buster Bent-tail Looking down from my ladder perched against the giant mast wood tree in front of the 320 William Street compound, all I see is a shiny baldhead. That is, until a face with mottled gray beard, mustache and bushy black eyebrows looks back up at me. Rather indignantly, I say, "I'm trimming its hair; I'm not killing it." "But why can't you just leave it be; let it grow the way it wants?" demands Shel Silverstein, who is not your basic tree-hugger. He's far more a reclusive artist than an activist saving old growth forests, but occasionally we have these philosophical moments on the street where we both live. "Like diamonds, trees look better after they're shaped up a bit," I say coyly. "Like your perfectly shaped head, it looks so much better when it's shaved." But Shel rejects the compliment, as well as my position on orderliness. With bags of fresh veggies from Waterfront Market in hand, he shuffles on down the street to his house where a giant ficus in his front garden has taken charge of the property, consuming a bicycle in the process. This tree's stringy tendrils have dropped down from the out-of-control canopy covering his garden. Over time, the ficus tendrils have entwined a bike to its trunk, and extended the street-side picket fence upwards, thereby, creating a living privacy fence of sorts. The au-natural effect of Shel's house…its peeling gray paint and not-too-rotten shutters…underscores his “be and let be” approach to life. Like his trees, he just lets the house be.
Choices or instincts: Everyday we learn more about what rules the behavior of mammals. But in some cases, as is that of Ms. Martello, just plain old prissiness, or perhaps, pissy-ness rules the day. Ms. Martello Most of the time M&M doesn't walk; she fast trots her way through life, springing from the tips of her large, tufted white toes. On this particular night, she fast trots from the bedroom to the living room door with long hair swaying, meowing up a storm. So what if it's 4 a.m. Because I don't get up to let her out, she does the screaming-trots back to my bed and springs up onto my belly. Then, using me like Paul Simon’s “human trampoline”, she springs off again. This heiress apparent in the William Street compound is nothing less than inventive when she wants my attention. The real doozy occurs the afternoon M&M jumps onto my desk. I’m paying bills, absent-mindedly stroking her silky black and white fur. This, of course, is not enough for my adolescent feline. M&M steps on the invoice I’m working with, looks straight at me with those huge, golden eyes -- the near-perfect white M on her muzzle twitches ever so slightly -- and she carefully and deliberately pees all over my bills. Now, this is attention getting.
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Other Books
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Cats I’ve Known,
cont.