 The
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| Issue 6, vol 5 | The Cat Has Fun | August 1, 2006 |
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Feline Stealing Gardening Gloves of Pelham INSERT PIC A pink and white gardening glove was missing from Jeannine Goche's front porch. But there was absolutely no mystery about who had taken it. Willy, the cat who loves gloves, had struck again. "It has to be him," Goche said. "I've heard about him." As if the gardeners of Pelham don't have enough to worry about, with the rocky soil and the slugs and the big trees that cast too much shade, a feline felon has been sneaking into their backyards and carrying off at least two dozen gardening gloves. Goche's flower-patterned glove may soon take its place on the clothesline that's strung across the front fence at Willy's home in this village just northeast of New York City, which he shares with Jennifer and Dan Pifer, their 19-month-old son, Hudson, and a mutt named Peanut Chew. Above the line is a sign that says: "Our cat is a glove snatcher. Please take these if yours." Nine pairs of gardening gloves and five singles were strung up Thursday morning. Willy, looking innocent, was playing with a beetle in the driveway and occasionally dashing after Hudson. "This all started about the time people began working in their gardens, I guess March or April," Jennifer Pifer said. "Willy would just show up with a glove, or we'd see them on the front steps. I guess it's better than if he was bringing home dead birds." She doesn't know how far Willy goes to find a glove, but she has learned it takes him two trips to bring home a matched pair. John Cassone, who lives and gardens across the street, said he isn't missing any gloves. He uses "the big, heavy leather kind" and figures Willy isn't strong enough to drag them away. Guess again: There's a pair of the big, heavy leather kind among Willy's trophies. Despite his criminal nature, neighbors get a kick out of Willy. Cassone said the cat likes to accompany the mailman up and down the block, all the way to each front door Reprinted from Yahoo News |
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Part One: Clayton’s Story (continued from previous issue) My name’s Clayton Goode. I live in the southwest part of the Mojave Desert, in a little tiny town called Barbwire, California. Barbwire was potentially, pound for pound, perhaps the best place in the country for an honest person to live, raise their family, retire, and finish out their days … But then, in 1941 The Great Attack came. Nope, not the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor (that wouldn’t happen until December 7th). This attack was right here in Barbwire, and it began at 8am on March the first. It was a boundless ocean of rats. Installment 2 So immense was the onslaught that resistance was useless. It was an army of rats so dense that it appeared to flow like water. In wave after wave they came, thousands, then hundreds of thousands, then millions and millions of rats. Within forty-eight hours, Barbwire was thoroughly overrun and blanketed by rats. It was really and truly an event of Biblical proportions. Like nature’s revenge for the crimes of other men. You can find the story of the “Barbwire Rat Invasion” in the 1941 archives of “The Vincentville Voice.” With no warning at all, and no time to pack, the entire population of Barbwire (3,766 people), was forced to cut and run. They escaped by driving south, down to Vincentville. And there they stayed, while they tried to figure out how to take their beloved town back from the millions of "ruthless outlaws." Meanwhile, back in Barbwire the rats were devouring everything in sight. You see, rats don’t just eat food, no wait, let me re-phrase that. Rats consider EVERYTHING food. Rats figure, if they can bite through it, its food. Emboldened by their sheer force of numbers, they were eating the whole town. They ate the wood on the buildings, the cloth in the clothing stores, the insulation from every wire, the tarred shingles on the rooftops, all the paper, and the cardboard, the putty from the windows, they even ate big chunks of the tires on the few cars that had been left in town. And of course, they also ate all the stuff that you and I consider food. The only good news was that rats don’t eat copper ore. Biologists, animal behaviorists, small-mammal specialists, veterinarians, zoologists, and even a few theologians hurried to Barbwire. They came from all over the world to study what they all agreed was, “The single most massive confluence of Rattus Norvegicus (the biggest bunch of rats) in recorded history.” So while the experts argued about what had caused the rat-flood, the refugees from Barbwire argued about how to get rid of them. Someone suggested spraying them with poison from airplanes. That idea was dismissed because, wisely, nobody wanted to go back to a town which was covered by an inch-thick layer of rat poison. The World War One veterans insisted that the rats, along with town of Barbwire, be bombed to Kingdom Come. Someone else said they should leave a lot of poisoned food around for them to eat (the rats, not the veterans). An expert was called in to discuss this idea. He said it would never work, because the rats would quickly get wise to the fact that their comrades, who ate the poisoned food, were dying excruciatingly painful deaths, and they’d simply stop eating it. After all, rats haven’t survived for 700 zillion-trillion years by being complete fools. There were a lot of ideas how to kill the rats from a distance, neat and clean, with victory as certain as the sunrise, but the experts shot them all down. Finally, with every other conceivable option ruled out, the exiles were forced to confront the nightmarish truth; the rats weren’t going to leave without a fight. Getting them out would require a real blood and guts, fixed bayonets, face to ugly rat-face, murder-fest. They would have to be killed, one stinking rat at a time, in gory, hand to hand combat. It would be a dirty, bloody, and merciless fight to the death. And it was going to take expert rat fighters; ruthless, cold-blooded, highly-skilled specialists, who didn’t know the meaning of the word fear (nor, as it turned out, the meaning of a lot of other words.) The die was cast. There remained just one final chance, one single slim thread of hope. Barbwire was going to need ... EVERY SINGLE KITTY-CAT IT COULD GET ITS HANDS ON! (Continued in the next issue of The Cat's Meow) David Perry lives in the High Desert of southern California with his two cats, Psycho and Lupe. His first novel "WHISPERING CATS" is due out mid-year 2007. |
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