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.
ENJOY!
LOST AND FOUND LOVES
By
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.
