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.

No comments:

Post a Comment