Elaine Faber

People sometimes ask me why I am a writer when my books aren’t best sellers and have limited financial rewards.

If I questioned one hundred random people, at least seventy-five would claim that someday they will write their memoir, sure to be a best seller. The remaining twenty-five would likely claim they may never get around to writing their memoirs and, sadly, the world will be the lesser for it.

Yet an alarming number of books are published on Amazon every year where they are buried as deep as a sticker in a cow plop beneath a zillion other books. Occasionally, one actually sells!

A few years ago, I decided there was a book in me that the world would be deprived of, should they miss the opportunity to read. Black Cat’s Legacy. After thousands of hours of writing, editing, and rewriting, my first cat mystery was available to the millions of folks clamoring to be amused, entertained, charmed, and delighted by my captivating characters. In this sure-to-become-a-New-York-Times-best-seller, the cat, with his ancestors’ memories, helps his inferior persons solve a cold case murder… and it is scintillating. I promise. Trust me. I’m an author.

My next book was a WWII humorous mystery adventure with an eccentric elderly lady, Mrs. Odboddy–Hometown Patriot. Agnes sees black market conspiracies and Nazi spies running amok as she fights the war from the home front, volunteering, knitting argyles for the troops, and planting a Victory Garden. It involves stolen ration books, missing money, the return of an old wartime lover, chickens in the bathroom, and a smattering of downright no-good-niks. When Mrs. Roosevelt comes to town, Agnes’s fears become a reality, and she must prove, indeed, she is a home front warrior. And yes, it’s available on Amazon in e-book for only $3.99.

I’m now up to 13 published novels with two more in the hopper.

So, why do I continue when it involves thousands of hours writing, editing, and rewriting, the glory is nonexistent, and there are less-than-exciting financial rewards? Irrelevant!

I write because the characters in me are screaming to get out. Folks who read my books often return and tell me that for just a little while, they left their troubles behind and experienced my make-believe world where the bad guy gets his due, and the good guy wins. Then my friend says, “I loved your book! When will you publish the next one?” There’s a smile on her faceWriters. And I know that reading my book put it there!

That’s when I know. It’s all worth it. That’s why I write.

This is a short story printed in my anthology of 'cat' stories, All Things Cat. It will also be included in my upcoming anthology, Beyond the Garden Gate. Hope you enjoy.

I live in Dead Bush, a small town in 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 were added this spring in deference to the request of those specific ladies who live in the aforementioned and unmentionable establishment.

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

Several soldiers still wearing ragged 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 was encouraged.

I sleep in the back of the saloon, ever since the town sheriff found me, the lone survivor of a wagon train where every soul was massacred by wild Indians.

I don’t belong to nobody, but Shorty, the barkeep, saves me leftovers from the day’s leavings. That, added to my hunting prowess, fares me well. Since I’m the only cat in town, the regulars at the bar adopted me as a mascot. I’m a fine figure of a feminine feline, though some might say somewhat on the portly side. The compliment is validated by the roaming tomcat that comes through town every spring. Up until now, I haven’t given him a tumble.

These days, cats are almighty scarce and considerably valuable in this neck of the woods. Several local farmers have offered Shorty big bucks for me, beings as cats can keep a barnyard free of varmints by barely lifting a paw. Some unscrupulous fellows are known to have hauled cats in a sack tied to their saddles all the way from the big cities to small farming towns, assured of a quick sale and a $20 gold piece.

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 commenced, the soldier plied Shorty with enough palaver and drink that he was cajoled into a card game with me as the stakes!

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

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 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 height 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 of the time, he fell into the river more often than most, washing away some of his natural man-stink.

In the late afternoon, the ladies announced that their Founder’s Day supper was served. The saloon emptied except for the four poker players, who found it 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. It seemed 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. Unfortunately, poor Shorty’s stack of chips grew smaller.

Seeing the inevitable handwriting on the wall, I slipped out the front door and headed out onto the prairie, intending to be absent for a few days. I have found that an occasional vacation is wise and often essential to one’s health.

Besides, there weren’t no sense being around eventually, when Shorty went broke, and one of the soldiers 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 barn full of rats and a $20 gold piece.

I’m the only cat in Dead Bush, and I intend to keep it that way. At least until next spring, when that ole’ tomcat comes back to town. Maybe we’ll talk.

***

A fiction story written to represent a holiday. I chose Founder’s Day. This is one of my favorite ‘cat’ stories, also found in my other anthology, All Things Cat!