1
Aug

Dead Bush Poker - A short cat story

I live in Dead Bush, a small town in the center of Texas. Our town sports three saloons, a general store, the bank, one church without a steeple, a blacksmith shop and another establishment such as nice folks don’t talk about in mixed company. Modern wooden slat sidewalks was added this spring in deference to the request of those specific ladies who live in the aforementioned establishment.

On Founder’s Day, the local farmer’s wives bake pies and hams and sweet potatoes for a giant banquet and sponsor a square dance out behind the Blacksmith’s shop. Bright and early this morning, neighboring families with all the kids trickled into town looking for a good time.

Not long after, several soldiers still wearing raggedy Civil War uniforms rode into Dead Bush on worn out horses. The soldiers commenced to drink and gamble and ordered steak dinners at the Dry Spell Saloon where, among other things, such entertainment and libation is encouraged.

I sleep in the back of the saloon, ever since the town sheriff found me, the lone survivor of a wagon train massacred by wild Indians.
I don’t belong to nobody, but Shorty, the barkeep saves me left-overs from the day’s leavings. That, added to my hunting prowess, fares me well. Since I’m the only cat for miles around, the regulars at the saloon adopted me as a mascot. I’m a fine figure of a cat, though some would say, somewhat on the portly side. It must be so, as to the validation of the roaming tomcat what comes through town every spring. Up until now, I haven’t given him a tumble.

Cats are almighty scarce and considerable valuable in this county. A number of local farmers have offered Shorty big bucks for me, beings as cats can keep a barnyard free of varmints without half trying. There are some folks from the big cities who haul cats in their saddlebags to small farming towns, assured of a quick sale and a $20 gold piece. The farmers soon learn they don't know nothin' about varmint huntin.'

Well, seems these soldiers what came to town sat and drank well past noon. I caused quite a stir when I wandered through the saloon. One soldier took a notion to buy me, having heard about cats being worth big money up the river. Shorty declined, saying I couldn’t be sold since I was a free spirit and didn’t belong to nobody.

As the gambling and drinking progressed, the soldier plied Shorty with enough palaver and drink that he was finally cajoled into a card game with me as the stakes.

I sat near the potbelly, preening my whiskers, somewhat amused by the stupidity of these humans what thought they could buy and sell another living creature. Wasn’t that decided by the Civil War after all?

The poker game progressed and it seemed my future as mascot at the Dry Spell Saloon was dependent on the turn of their cards.

Four players hunched over the poker table, cards fanned in their hands, empty glasses lined up in front of them. Shorty’s chips were going fast. Holding on to the Dry Spell Saloon mascot didn’t look promising.

The size of Shorty’s chips rose and fell as the afternoon wore on. I sat on a nearby table, commiserating with Mr. Casper, an old codger who operated a small gold claim in a nearby river. The old man was a fool, but he didn’t smell quite as bad as the other miners, as being tipsy a good deal, he fell in the river more often than most, washing away some of his natural man-stink.

In the late afternoon, the neighbor ladies announced their Founder’s Day supper was served. The saloon emptied except for the four poker players who found it harder and harder to sit up straight. Heads lolled and cards tumbled from their hands. More whiskey landed on the floor than in their glasses. Never in the history of Dead Bush had such a game gone on for so long or the stakes so roundly coveted. I was, indeed, a prize.

Eventually, Smitty Rosenblatt passed out. George Waddlebaker went broke. Shorty hung in there, though blurry eyed, he continued to fight for his meezer. Poor Shorty’s stack of chips got even smaller.

Seeing the inevitable handwriting on the wall, I slipped out the front door and headed out of town onto the prairie, intending on being absent for a few days. An occasional vacation is always revitalizing to one’s health and seemed particularly attractive today.

Besides, there weren’t no sense being around when Shorty went broke and the soldier attempted to claim his prize. I didn’t plan to spend the next week strung to the back of a saddle in a burlap sack until the old soldier found a farmer with a rat-filled barn and a $20 gold piece.

I’m the only cat worth her salt in Dead Bush, and I intend to keep it that way. At least until next spring, when that tomcat comes back to town.

21
Feb

Meet Thumper - Black Cat's Legacy

Boots-HR
I opened my eyes this morning and found a black and white cat lying on my bed, casually washing first one large white foot and then the other. At first I didn’t think anything of it, and then realized it wasn’t our cat, Boots, but a cat that resembled him so closely as to be easily mistaken. It was Thumper, the cat from my book, Black Cat’s Legacy!

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “Thumper? What are you doing here?”

“I figured since Black Cat’s Legacy was due out next month, you should introduce me to your readers.”

For the past three years, I’ve researched, ate, laughed, cried and slept with this cat while working with three different teachers learning how to improve my craft and fine-tune the novel. Thumper flopped next to my hip. “What shall we talk about?” I scratched his back.

“Why don’t we start with my character and explain why I’m so important to your plot.” He lifted his head and blinked.
“Well, your cat family has lived at Fern Lake for generations. Apparently twenty-five years ago, your ancestor witnessed a murder, but the killer was never found. The Fern Lake cats made a pact, that one day, when the chosen one returned, they would help her solve the crime.

Sure enough, Kimberlee shows up at the lodge with her little girl, and your character realizes it’s his legacy to help her solve her father’s murder and unravel several other dastardly deeds that occurred so long ago.

But someone at the lodge begins to harass and make life miserable for Kimberlee with accidents and threats. If it wasn’t for Brett, the charming author she falls for, she would have hit the road the first day. Brett convinces her to stay and help him solve the case.”

“What about Dorian, the pretty cold case detective who also has the hots for Brett? She and her Search and Rescue dog join the investigation. They influence the story line as well. Should you tell about her? “Thumper licked his left shoulder.
“Dorian creates some angst in the story with her; I can’t get over my gorgeous self.”

“Tell that I help narrate the story and the reader gets to view the situation through my eyes.” Thumper pulled his whiskers back in a cat-grin. “We’re going to give Sneaky Pie and Midnight Louie a run for their money with our cat mystery. Where can the reader get the novel?”

“Black Cat’s Legacy should be available on Amazon before the end of March or folks can pre-order it now, directly from our website and get it autographed with my name and your footprint. www.mindcandymysteries.com The folks can send in questions if they want to know more about you or any of the other characters. Maybe we’ll do another interview. What do you think?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Thumper jumped off the bed. “When are you getting up? I’m hungry.”

Isn’t that just like a cat? Even imaginary ones.

To Purchase Black Cat's Legacy, go to the header BOOKs. Special price and free shipping within the USA

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