Thursday, June 29, 2017

The bountiful freedom of owning Less.

The Freedom Of Letting Go

Judy Howard

Six months ago I let go.  Mom sold off my hippopotamus tunnel, the one I could crawl inside  and peek out his butt…yet  I never did.  She got rid of most all my toys, the rubber mouse, the spider that bounced, and the sock with catnip that didn’t smell like cat nip. She gave away my food and water dishes.

 Freedom is letting go, but I freaked when I saw my treasures on the auction block. I love my stuff. I may not have played with everything but my things comforted me.  I slept contentedly, purring loudly, believing the possessions around me were evidence Mom loved me. When people who came to visit, I impressed them with  my multitude of  belongings, convincing them of my importance.

All of that is gone now. I kept my favorite clothes -- my Harley jacket and skull cap, my Hearst Castle T-shirt that matches Mom's, and my assortment of holiday bandannas, all of which Mom  stowed away, out of sight, in the motor home.

So what do I have now? 

Not much.  My tiger bed, my Harley Davidson mouse and a small puddle of toys.A small,compact food and water dish remains, but  at least it's chrome. 

 Yet, now I have so much more.

These days I enjoy ongoing adventures. For the past six happening months on the road, I've traveled nine cat nippin’ states! I don't want to ever quit prowling!

What I have now stretches out across the black asphalt ahead, promising infinite  experiences yet to come. My tail twitches at the immensity of  the concept. 

I have fallen asleep under  Oregon stars while recalling chasing chipmunks and squirrels as the images of the sea gulls swooping across the beaches  dance in my head.

 I’ve swished my tail with  the excitement of prowling the plains of South Dakota , sniffing exotic scents left behind by the roaming antelope and  buffalo.

In every state I’ve taunted protesting ravens, more   than I can count, who hate my presence. But after a fun filled day of aggravating them,  I’ve  also dozed off, listening to the songs of Montana’s Meadowlarks.

Thunder clouds hypnotize me. They call my name. 

The soft rumble of the motor home's tires lull into a happy contented mood.

The best part of my day?  

The thrill of pulling into a campground, a national park, truck stop or Walmart. It doesn’t matter where. 
Wherever we spend the night  my new home promises surprising adventures, new sights and smells, and new people with  their pets.  I'll study the river rushing past my door ....


.... or watch the rain patter and dance on my new patio.

Tuckered out, I  sleep in Freedom's bed and dream sweet dreams.
Please enjoy 
my Fourth of July  Freedom Video
while the steaks are grilling on the barbie.

And don't forget !!
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Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Fathers and Fond Memories - Roots and Broken Rules

I don’t celebrate Father’s Day.  I don’t know who my father was.  He yelled out a loud caterwaul and leaped back over the fence, leaving my mom with nothing left but  his memory and me. 
I was only a newborn but I remember the story well, as she licked my face clean and nudged me close to her.
  I dreamed of him and I wondered why he left us. I had other siblings. There were four of us. I was young but I could see the hardship of feeding us was taking its toll on mom. Listening to the mews and meows from the others stressed me,
so  I refused my meager share that mom brought home. I was only a burden. I struck out on my own.

It was rough on my own. My hunting prowess lacked experience.  A cheesy wrapper, carried by the night breeze, drifted by me, its aroma tantalizing my empty tummy. I set out on the chase. 
Suddenly from nowhere,  a big tom appeared and planted his paws in my path. His tail straight, his fur spiked. He  roared in my face. His green eyes glowed. 
I crouched. Lowering my nose to my paws, I mewed as the promise of dinner floated past. Then he spat at me. And I ran.

I dove under the trash bin as the blur of a she-cat shot past my retreat.  The yowls and screams gave me pause and I skidded to a stop.  Now it was the big tom who retreated, and the she-cat, twitching her tail and chirping, trotted towards me the wrapper between her teeth and flapping against her face.  She dropped it at my feet, slapping her paw, her beautiful soft paw, on her prize so it wouldn’t blow away.  She waited.

My surprise glued my feet in place. Hope that the hunger I had known for so long might end with this simple act from this silky, soft,warm ball of fur. 
The scent of her pulled me back to reality. She chirped again.   I devoured the cheese and chunks of fish, which clung to the waxed paper dinner plate.

Petunia changed my life.

  I no longer beat myself up. Petunia’s kindness warmed me deep inside. I didn’t have to put myself down anymore. Sure, my dad didn’t care about me, and I was a burden to my mom and my siblings, but at that moment ,when I looked into Petunia’s golden eyes, I knew she thought I was worth  something and I felt safe from the outside world. 

  I accepted my roots. I didn’t have a dad in my life but I heard stories. He was mean and brazen and he ruled the neighborhood. From the outside he was an outlaw. Yet I am not ashamed to admit, if Petunia had not appeared that night, I probably would have followed in his prowling, gigolo paw prints. We all are capable of desperate  actions during trying times.   And my mom? She loved me and did the best she could.   
I broke the rules that night. I followed Petunia home.  I decided to trust my instincts –– to trust her. Even when  all society’s rules –– the ones which labeled me as a bastard and a no-good loser ––the warnings that reminded everyone  not to trust anyone , to  be afraid, and  be practical,  rang in my ears –– I spat in the world’s face.
 I grabbed  onto my  indescribable, makes-no-sense,  feelings and I  followed her home.
I quit doubting myself. I accepted my past. And against all odds, I came to have faith that the events, the people  and she-cats or tom-cats who came into my life  were necessary and like scented trails for me to follow..

Events occur in  life….we must accept, adapt, and overcome.
After watching my adorable book trailer, 
And don't forget the reviews you post on Amazon buy my cat treats!!
videoJust saying!

Friday, May 26, 2017

Live The Good Life _ Thank A Veteran!!

I cannot let this day go by without a word to all the men and women who have made it possible for a cat like me to live the good life. Not a day goes by that I don't send a message out to the universe,  stating my pride for my country  and my humble gratitude for all that I enjoy.

My life is charmed. I am a lucky cat that I don't live in a country who would not hesitate to list me as an ingredient in their dinner recipe.  Or, in a country who who would use my pelt to warm them on cold winter nights, never mind that I live in California. Or, in a country where my teeth  would be harvested for a king's necklace.

I am grateful I live in a country where I have freedom to express myself.
I have the freedom worship the cat Gods, if I so choose.

I can  dance in the street.
Our children are free to imagine.

I have the right to hunt and bear arms.

Please give thanks for the life we live and  to those men and  women who sacrificed their lives to protect our freedom to live ours..

God Bless the United States   Military.
Please check out Judy's ,The Masada Series  on Judy 's Author Page on Amazon
Please help the message in these books go  viral  and bring attention and  support to our veterans who are suffering. 

The Story Of A Service Dog And Her Wounded Marine Warrior

Every hour a veteran commits suicide.

Please tell a friend and carry the message

The Making Of A Service Dog

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Scratching Out Startling New Ideas, Pouncing On Amazing Beginnings, and Chasing Remarkable New Adventures.

Judy Howard  
Sportster The Cat

 This time of year represents new beginnings. A time to chase new ideas, sniff fresh catnip, and prowl for new adventures. Spring is when the world blooms with promise. 

I need a bigger basket!

I'm tired of squeezing into the same box, batting around the same toy, and sleeping in the same place. It’s time to hit the road, stretch my legs, and leap to new heights.

 Judy and I are climbing up the new proverbial  tree. We have decided to live full-time in our motor home. like the decision , the tree is high , the trunk might be slippery and  the climb may not  be an easy leap  over the fence. Others have gone before us, We will glean knowledge from their experiences. 
I have made a  promise to myself not to compare my possessions and accomplishments to those of my friends. Many of my cat friends, who live in monster, diesel pushing homes and sleep in three tiered kitty condos never dare to come outside.
They never smell the grass or roll around scratching their back on the  fresh clean dirt. Those cats never prowl or  catch the river’s wet scent or drink from the cool, fresh-flowing water. They’ve never felt the thrill of challenging a frog until it escaped, plopping into the deep, dark waters. And I’ll bet they’ve never watched, in wonder as   the fish dance their pirouettes in the stream’s secluded alcoves. For me, it is not been a good day until I finish it off, dozing to the wood pecker’s tapping, echoing rhythm.
From now on, I will measure my success against my own standards because success is not all of those things those plush-living cats own.
For me, success is about  experiencing  places and things that will make me grow and become more "Royal."

01-IMAG1685-001.jpgI will be more successful if get to know myself better. There's always room to grow. I already know what food I like, how high I can jump, and how fast I can run.  I live by my own set of rules. But if there is something I want, I will reach right out and snatch it, even if it means I have to take the dare and venture out further or jump higher than I ever have before.

I am not going to mew and moan about my restricted life, or the handicap of being born with no thumbs. I am already free. Sure I have to beg to go outside when the door is closed, or make it known that I want a treat, but at the end of the day when I scratch the bottom of the litter box, I  remind myself,  I am free to make  the choice  to stay or go. The freedom to choose is mine. I have met many a stray cat who, pushed their fears aside, followed their dream and seized the opportunity to do the impossible.
When I gaze out the window of the motor home and indulge the nature around me, the wide open spaces excite my senses and make my tail twitch. My creative juices flow.  I need enough space around me to allow my ideas, my curiosity and dreams to flourish.
Culinary School?

The road kill along the highways are images which remind me that living free, and climbing the tallest tree could have dangerous consequences. I have learned from my fallen comrades, not all lessons are easy ones.  

I will challenge the norm, tackling the difficult things first, and then the impossible ones. They take a little longer. And I am going to keep on believing in what I do. If I don’t trust myself to go down the right path, or follow the right scent, who will?
I will be scared because I am not going to follow the norm.  I want to be a constant learner. But I don’t have to be frightened if I   focus on the process not the outcome.
 So in the end, facing a new adventure, thrusting forward with a fresh start, and testing myself will allow me to do the impossible, not because it is easy but because it is hard … and scary…and exciting.

Sniffing out ideas, prowling for new adventures, new friends to scratch my belly …
I am on my way!!

Before you go, don't forget to check out my 
book, and Judy's books on Amazon!!

Click Here
Sportster the cat always envied the huge cats who lived the big life in the jungle until opportunity sends the motor home in which he travels veering into a roadside ditch. When strangers whisk away not only his Winnebago, but also his chauffeur, Judy, he is alarmed. However, once the dust settles, he purrs a happy tune as he discovers he is free! I He is in the wild. And he is in the Olympic Forest

ACTIVATE LION MODE is just what Sportster does as he spins this yarn in his own words. Living wild and free brings on encounters that he never imagined. The life he dreamed becomes an adventure full of bears, pit bulls, drugs and more. Sportster weaves this story of his incredible journey as only a coddled cat of leisure can do.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Sportster's Lost and Found Loves

Inspiration comes in all forms. It lies in those empty spaces between the wall and me, or above my reach, on the tree limb where the Cardinal sings his solo song.   Motivation follows only when Judy, my fans and new friends reinforce my belief that I am as special as I thought.  

Inspiration has struck me like the powerful force of a first love. It is sweet, and tender, and riveting. Right here in Tucson, Arizona.

I am introducing a teaser. Chapter One from  my brand new book.






Sportster The Cat

Ghostwriter – Judy Howard


As a young tom I lived on the streets. The thrill and curiosity from that dog eat cat existence still flows in my veins, like a latent drug.

 When I dream, it is of past exploits.  I’ve hissed and growled   at a German Shepherd   ten times my size.  I relive my visions of victory, out-witting a fat, bad cat who wanted to take over my territory. I kicked his butt, sent him high tailing it down the street. Back then when I was a younger cat, nothing scared me. I was King.

Today I want to be warm in the winter, cool in the summer and never see the shiny bottom of my food bowl.  But if I loiter too long  at  home  in the  stick house I share with Judy, my paws  itch and I begin to pace,  anxious to  prowl, eager to travel.  I imagine my rolling home, cruising from campground to campground, from town to town, and from state to state.  My tail quivers thinking of the excitement of the road, the lure of adventures, and it makes me purr.

 Judy loaded the last of the groceries into our motorhome while I paced with familiar anticipation. Another road trip. This time along The Mother Road, Route 66.

Perched on the dash, we pulled out at dawn, heading east, the sun, like a beacon on the horizon. I gazed at the still familiar sights as my home town rolled past the windshield.  Drained by the excitement and promise of adventure and lulled by the rhythm of the wheels, I drifted off to sleep.

A voice echoed in the darkness of my dreams   and her vision   floated like gossamer silk behind my eyelids.   Her voice –– the sound of her cat soul called to me.   “Hello my friend,” she said. I couldn’t move, frozen by the fear she might vanish. “Come home. I’ve been waiting for you for so long,” she said.

 My ears pricked, my eyes sprang open and I shook my head to shake loose her illusive image, but it remained like a siren’s call. I twitched my tail and gazed out at the passing landscape.

The motorhome tires hummed as Judy sang off key, accompanied by Faith Hill’s crystal voice. “Come home, come home ….There’s someone I’ve been missing ….  They could be the better half of me….”  I sniffed the air, catching a light airy scent, which aroused a musky, lustful memory.

The rainy night, kept me hunkered under the porch, watching the shining drops tap-tapping   as they sunk into the saturated ground. My tummy growled like the big black dog that lived on the corner. Earlier, I scrounged through leftover trash which scattered the street courtesy of a coyote who had tipped a trash can and strewn it across the asphalt as if it were a buffet table...  When he had finished a round bellied raw, smelling tabby picked through the scant remains   like the help after a wedding party. I held back, secluded,   too young to confront the fat orange cat.

After eating his fill he ambled down to the corner. He wasn’t afraid of the big black dog. Every trash day the scene played out like a long running play on Broadway. Before the charging, big black made it halfway down the drive, .I watched the seasoned Tabby swirl around with the agility of a dude half his size, fur spiked and spitting as Big Black skidded on his haunches, nails scraping the ground   for traction. Like a switch the dog’s tail tucked between his legs and he scrambled and tripped while Tabby swatted tuffs of fur from his rear and flung them into the air. Tabby was my hero.

I crept out from my hidey hole and moved onto the open street, sniffing through the   leftover pickings – a piece of toast and an empty tuna can.  Since my mom’s death,   I survived on bugs a few mice which I had been lucky enough to corner, so this was a feast.

 Desperation motivated me, not for myself, but for the   she-cat attacked by a dog several days ago. With Tabby’s example spurring me on, I sprung to her defense, clawing and biting her attacker, allowing enough time for her to escape. Her injuries prevented her from hunting, so I took her in.  

We shivered from the chilly dampness and curled up tighter for warmth. She purred herself to sleep, while I kept the vigil, and while her virgin scent intrigued me. She was so young and innocent.  I chirped a laugh to myself, I was just as virginal. I swished my tail back and forth at the memory.

This wasn’t the first time her vision had appeared.  Over the years her gentle chirping pounced   into my head. Like a wraith haunting a dark alley, my thoughts of her stirred up dirty and smelly longings. In my imaginings she moved like a cloud, the visions of her floating, fading in and out, grabbing ahold of me, making me want to spit and bite with desire. I had named her Arlene.


Sportster the cat always envied the huge cats who lived the big life in the jungle until opportunity sends the motorhome in which he travels veering into a roadside ditch. When strangers whisk away not only his Winnebago, but also his chauffer, Judy, he is alarmed. However, once the dust settles, he purrs a happy tune as he discovers he is free! I He is in the wild. And he is in the Olympic Forest

ACTIVATE LION MODE is just what Sportster does as he spins this yarn in his own words. Living wild and free brings on encounters that he never imagined. The life he dreamed becomes an adventure full of bears, pit bulls, drugs and more. Sportster weaves this story of his incredible journey as only a coddled cat of leisure can do.