Fire station cat, Edna, has lived with the firefighters since she was a feral kitten
IN THE MEWS — SAN FRANCISCO by JeffyJeffyBadBoy
Employees and firefighters at a San Francisco Fire Station 49 are devastated after their beloved mental health specialist, firehouse cat Edna, was fired by San Francisco Fire Department administration for simply being a cat. Edna came to the station as a feral kitten and was part of the firehouse family. However, after five years of helping firefighter deal with stress, the department removed Edna from the facility because of an anonymous complaint.
A spokesperson for the department said they banished Edna due to concern about “the animal’s own safety and well-being.” Yeah, right. The statement claimed, that since the facility contains “medical supplies, equipment and pharmaceuticals,”the department stated that “having the cat in the facility compromised the sterility” of the supplies and equipment.
SF Fire Commissioner Joe Alioto Veronese is fighting to return Edna to work at station #40
Despite the #ednastays campaign, Edna was taken away from the station on Monday. One of the firefighters is stepped up to adopt her. SFFD is planning a “pet adoption day specifically for First Responders” so they can adopt a pet to cope with their stress. Wow, amazing compassion.
According to Dion Lim a reporter for ABC7 in San Francisco, SF Fire Commissioner Joe Alioto Veronese is fighting to return Edna to her rightful post. Apparently Commissioner Alioto knows fire station animals provide vital for emotional support to first responder. He will present a new animal policy to the fire commission at their meeting today. Commissioner Alioto says other stations have animal mascots. One station has a rooster. (And we know how sterile bird crap is.)
What would you like to say to the San Francisco Fire Department? Tell me in the comments below.
Check out Edna’s Instagram page fire_cat_edna.
Don’t forget to read important cat news at dustycatwriter.com, and Jeffy’sDailyMews on Instagram and Facebook.
Today is Charles Lindbergh Day. Had he not died in 1974 of lymphoma at the age of 72, he would have been 117. While he’s best know for his groundbreaking solo flight across the Atlantic, Lindbergh and the kitten will be the way I want to remember him.
Lindbergh was conducting a press conference before departing on his transatlantic flight and one of his mechanics handed him a kitten who had been seeking shelter in the hanger and suggested the kitty would be good company during the long flight. He responded that the flight was too cold and the kitten might die.
Contrary to other internet claims, the kitten was not his beloved pet Patsy. Just a stray who had sought warmth in the hanger. Which makes it all the more touching.
The article below, published on May 20, 1927, provides a first-hand account Lindbergh and the kitten.
The Spanish Post Office printed a postal tribute to Lindbergh’s crossing that included an image of the kitten
Here’s the unedited article put on United Press International.
MAY 20 1927
Lindbergh takes off from New York in effort to fly solo to Paris
Aviator Charles Lindbergh, wearing a helmet and goggles, is pictured in the open cockpit of airplane at Lambert Field, in St. Louis, Miss., ca. 1920s. File Photo by Library of Congress/UPI
ROOSEVELT FIELD, N.Y., May 20, 1927 (UP) — Charles E. Lindbergh, alone and without ceremony sailed off into the gray of this foggy morning in his Ryan monoplane, shouting to his friends that tomorrow he will be in Paris.
He started at 6:51 1/2 a.m. eastern standard time. When next seen this daring youngster of 25 years was flying so low over Long Island Sound, near Pt. Jefferson, NY that had he been over land, he hardly would have cleared the tree tops. At 8:40 a.m. he was sighted in Massachusetts, flying north.
His plane was wheeled from the hangar and towed from Curtiss Field to the head of the runway Commander Richard Byrd had built at Roosevelt Field and in the spirit of the Aviators’ Fraternity, had invited Lindberg to use.
Mechanics went over it for the last time and fueled the tanks. Lindbergh sought seclusion from a shower of rain in a nearby auto. He wasn’t the smiling youth of yesterday, happy with a roller coaster at Coney Island or with a toy giraffe for his hat. He was grim, nervous and his friends kept the crowd away from him. This was solemn business.
The mechanics pronounced the machine ready. Lindbergh stepped into the cockpit, looked over his cargo and came out to walk once more around the plane, trying this and that. Someone spoke of the kitten that had been given him as a mascot.
“No, don’t put him in, it will be too cold”, he pronounced. “The kitten might die.” He thus expelled his only possible living companion for the 30 to 40 hours he hoped to be flying alone in terrible monotony.
“I will be in Paris tomorrow,” he assured B.F. Mahoney, the 26-year-old president of the Ryan Airlines of San Diego, Cal, builders of Lindbergh’s plans as they exchanged a final hand shake.
Grover Whalen, Commander Richard E. Byrd and Anthony Fokker in turn wished him luck.
“I will see you in Paris,” said Byrd.
Chief of Police A.W. Skidmore of Garden City, who had become a close friend of the daring Westerner, came up.
“Well, kid, you are about to go,” he said. “If you come back you will get a good reception right here.”
“When I get into the cockpit,” answered Lindbergh slowly, “it’s like getting into a death chamber. And if I get out in Paris, it will be like a pardon from the governor.”
He climbed back into the machine, speeded his motor and looked out at the crowd that was standing silent or speaking only in whispers, all eyes intent upon this one audacious youth who sat there ready to challenge the Atlantic alone and unaided.
He turned to his controls. He glanced again at his instruments. He speeded his engine. The plane slowly began to move. The crowd cheered. Lindbergh could be seen all nervous intensity and not a sign of the smile which has been so familiar.
Gradually the machine picked up speed and rolled away. Nearly half a mile down the runway it bumped and bounced.
“He can’t make it,” men who ought to know gasped. “He is going too slow. For God’s sake, why don’t he speed up?”
Lindbergh was doing the audacious thing once more. He was moving east on the runway. If he failed to rise, he would crash into the wires and trees and houses. He could as well have gone the other way and had a clear field ahead of him; yet, it seems one of the perversities of this man to challenge fate. But Lindbergh knew what he was doing. The machine bumped heavily twice more, digging great ruts in the water-soaked and slimy mud of the runway. Then it began to rise. The crowd cheered as daylight could be seen beneath the plane. A thousand persons began running, as if they might catch up with him.
By feet, the plane rose, cleared the wires, tree tops and houses.
“God be with him,” murmured Commander Byrd.
“He’s off,” shouted the crowd.
Five planes left the ground in rapid succession and followed this lone man as he sped away.
Lindbergh’s plane grew smaller and smaller. Then its silver gray wings merged into the morning clouds.
Charles Lindbergh called “Slim” and “Lucky” by his friends was away on his supreme adventure alone.
For the next 30 to 40 hours, he hopes to sit there unable to rise, his hands on the controls, his eyes on the instruments, unable to see except thru uncertain periscopes, and with only the monotony of the restless Atlantic beneath him and the hum of his motor to hear.
A few moments later five planes, including Commander Byrd’s Fokker, were off as an escort of honor. The first to return told of Lindbergh’s passing Port Jefferson. A little later Arthur Caperton, a Curtiss flyer came back. He reported:
“He was going fast and every cylinder of his engine was hitting perfectly. He must have been making better than 100 miles an hour.”
His course took him up Long Island sound, toward the end of which the morning fogs were giving way to a bright, clear morning. Then he planned to head for Cape Race, Newfoundland, flying a straight course if weather favored it, but otherwise going out to sea or inland, high or low, wherever conditions were best.
From Cape Race, Lindbergh planned to describe a great circle, leading in a curve into the north where it might be cold and dreary and then down over Ireland, England and then to Paris.
If luck is with him, Paris will welcome the first man to fly from New York to France, sometime late tomorrow.
“I will probably go to sleep,” was Lindbergh’s promise on what he would do when and if he gets there.”
JeffyJeffyBadBoy, acclaimed feline journalist, wants you to support this animal cruelty bill
JEFFY’S DAILY MEWS FLORIDA If two congressmen from Florida have their way, animal cruelty could finally become a federal felony. The two Floridians reintroduced a bipartisan bill making malicious acts of animal cruelty and bestiality a felony under federal law.
The Preventing Animal Cruelty and Torture (PACT) Act, was sponsored by Rep. Vern Buchanan, R-Sarasota and Rep. Ted Deutch, D-West Boca. Humans convicted of the crime could face up to seven years in prison. The bill does contain exceptions for normal veterinary care, hunting and humans protecting their lives.
Decades ago, the FBI recognized the between animal cruelty and escalating violence toward humans, so it’s not just we kitties who have skin in this fight.
In the past, the Senate unanimously passed the PACT Act. That bill earned 284 bipartisan House cosponsors and over 200 law enforcement endorsements in the last congressional session. But former House Judiciary Chairman Bob Goodlatte, R-Va., blocked the measure from coming to the floor. (Who in their right mind would block that? What is wrong with you and who are you taking money from?) Fortunately, Goodlatte is no longer in Congress.
Contact your congresshuman and urge him or her to support this bill.
It’s approaching noon December 21, 2012. In north Texas there’s not a cloud in the sky. No comets or asteroids are looming in the sky. The United States Geological Survey hasn’t seen signs that Yellowstone is going to blow or the crust will shift. We have another 12 hours, but my bet is, it’s not the end of the world for the world.
However, today is the end of the world for at least 10,000 cats and dogs in animal shelters around the U.S. That’s right. Every day animal shelters euthanize approximately that many unwanted pets for lack of space. Just prior to Christmas some shelters put down all remaining pets because they don’t have the manpower to care for them over the holidays.
Christmas is a holiday a joy and new life. Hanukkah is a time of promised kept. Please consider contacting your city shelter or a nonprofit rescue group and offer to foster a cat or dog. Don’t worry about falling in love. You will. But when the time comes and your foster goes to another home, you’ll know you saved not just any life, but that baby’s life. What a treasure. And it would have been lost forever without you.
I never name my fosters and that helps me from becoming quite so attached. I have the vet techs come of with a name. I\’ve noticed whenever I name my foster kitties anything beside a descriptive name (Tabby, Sam-short for Siamese, Spot, Tiger-for a tabby), I wind up keeping him. That’s how I wound up with Cosmo, Groucho and George.
Some people simply can’t let their foster pets go. Hey, it\’s not the end of the world. You will just have a new family member and more love to share.There’s no shame in being a foster failure. That’s how I ended up keeping Nixie.
If you can’t foster, but you’re considering adding a cat or dog to your family, please go to the shelter or a rescue group to adopt. Even if you bring home a new pet from a no-kill group, you’re saving a life. With the vacancy created by your new companion, the rescue can take in another homeless cat or dog who would otherwise be put to sleep.
Remember black cats and dogs and older (especially senior) pets stand little chance of adoption. When you see those gorgeous green, golden or brown eyes (who are clad) in black fur, or with whitening muzzles, please open your heart and home to them. Without you, they likely have no chance to live at all.
If it’s after December 21, and you can still read this, we can say happily say for us they Mayans were wrong. But remember, for all those homeless pets alone in shelters who have used up all their days on death row, today is their Armageddon.
Whatever holiday you observe, please celebrate life by saving a life.
Charming, a kitten who survived the Camp Fire, at VCA Valley Oak in Chico, CA on November 21, 2018 where he is receiving treatment by UC Davis veterinarian Jamie Peyton for burns on his paws. (Photo by Karin Higgins. Courtesy of UC Davis.)
Jeffy’s Daily Mews
CHICO, California–We kitties love tilapia. Best dinner ever. But the vets at the University of California at Davis used a feline foodie’s favorite to treat kitties (and dogs) burned in those awful Golden State fires. It may be a waste of good fish, but if the swimmer had to check out of his pond, at least it helped feline brothers (and pups.)
A 4-month-old kitten with singed whiskers spent 13 days roaming the Camp Fire burn-area with second and third degree burns on his paws. He was rescued and brought to the animal hospital on Nov. 20 where vets named him Charming cuz he was. Before long, they came up with fish mittens for a Charming kitten.
Tilipa: It’s Not Just for Breakfast Anymore
Dr. P first tried tilapia sandals for cats on this young mountain lion’s burned paw from an earlier fire. (Photo courtesy of UC Davis)
The tilapia skin (sans the scales) becomes a skin substitute that relieves pain, protects the wound and promotes faster healing, says veterinarian Jamie Peyton, chief of the Integrative Medicine Service at the University of California at Davis Veterinary Medical Teaching Hospital. Dr. P first used tilapia on bears and a mountain lion burned in a wildfire.
Tilapia skin transfers collagen, a healing protein, to theburned skin. Better still, it also reduces the need for frequent bandagechanges, which hurts like a son of a dog.
Dusty Spencer, VCA Valley Oak veterinarian and Jamie Peyton, chief of the Integrative Medicine Service at the UC Davis Veterinary Medical Teaching Hospital treat a kitten that was burned in the Camp Fire that devastated Butte County. (Photo courtesy of UC Davis)
She says there’s no established standard of care in the literature for treating animals with burns. So, the vets are flying by the seat of their undergarments.
Amy Quinton, spoke purrson for the vet school says Charming’s is healed and they expect a full recovery, which means he’ll be begging for fish, not wearing it. Although his humans haven’t turned up, he’s being fostered by one of the veterinary technicians who’s been caring for him. But don’t worry, if no one claims him, the vet tech promises to have and to hold. I’ll keep you posted when he goes to his (new) home.
Do you have any well wishes for Charming? Leave them in the comments below.
LIVERPOOL, UK. Ever noticed that dog owners and their pets look alike? (It’s the stuff of nightmares, isn’t it?) Well a recently study published in the journal Personality and Individual Differences, found a correlation between cats’ personalities and their humans’.
Researchers asked 126 humans to score their own personality traits as well as the questions about Fluffy’s temperament. (I’m somewhat offended that they didn’t quiz the kitties themselves.) The questionnaire asked about three of the human’s Big Five traits (agreeableness, extraversion, neuroticism), dominance, impulsiveness, the Dark Triad (narcissism, Machiavellianism, psychopathy). It also asked about human satisfaction with their feline housemate. The cat section assessed the Feline Five (agreeableness, dominance, extraversion, impulsiveness, neuroticism). Humans who showed to be highly dominant were more likely to live with dominant, impulsive, extroverted, and neurotic cats, while impulsive humans frequently saw their own impulsivity in their Fluffies.
Like Their Kitties
Cats described by humans as dominant, neurotic, and impulsive were more likely to live with humans who scored higher on the Dark Triad traits. “Dominant cats are greedy, defiant, and aggressive and bullying towards people/other cats, which could be attractive to potential owners who have similar tendencies in their own social interactions,” the study suggested. “Impulsive cats are excitable and erratic, which could be pleasing to impulsive owners.”
The researchers concluded that humans are drawn to cats who reflect their own personalities, or are more likely to keep a kitty who’s similar to them. If this is true, why won’t my human go rat hunting with me? You can read the study, “The purrfect match: The influence of personality on owner satisfaction with their domestic cat (Felis silvestris catus)” at https://www.researchgate.net/publication/328430244_The_purrfect_match_The_influence_of_personality_on_owner_satisfaction_with_their_domestic_cat_Felis_silvestris_catus
About the Author
JeffyJeffy BadBoy is a rescued kitten with a nose for news. His unique talent has qualified him to be the official journalist for Stupid Gravity Press. Follow Jeffy’s Daily Mews on Facebook and Instagram.
COPENHAGEN, Denmark There’s a rule of thumb in the archaeology world. When humans domesticate animals, they shrink (the animals, not the human.) But that’s not true of yours truly (meaning we kitties) and Viking cats.
The average dog has withered down about 25% from its wild ancestor the gray wolf since they teamed up with humans. But between the age of Vikings and today, we kitties have grown in size. Bite me, Fideaux.
Bitz-Thorsen Sifted through dozens of bags filled with dog, horse, cow to find cat bones from archaeological digs all over Denmark. The cat skulls, femurs, tibias, and other bones ranged more than 2000 years, dating from the late Bronze Age (3000 BC – 1200 BC) to the 1600s. Many of the remains came from Viking era mass graves. The bags of bones were a real score since kitty bones don’t show up at archaeological sites very often.
Bitz-Thorsen separated all the cat bones to see how Iron Age, Viking, and medieval cats differed from we modern kitties.
The study found that, unlike other domesticated animals that shrink over time, domestic cats have grown 16% over time. (Maybe in a few thousand years we’ll be elephant size. Woohoo. Look out wildebeests.)
Skulls from ancient and modern Danish house kitties show how cats have grown over 2000 years. (Viking cat skulls in upper right corner, modern cats lower right corner).
This study only looked at Danish cats, so it may not apply to feline brothers in other parts of the world. On the other paw, a similar 1987 study out of Germany also came to the conclusion that medieval domestic cats were smaller than we modern kitties.
Who Knows Why?
No one knows conclusively why we’ve expanded, but finer dining is the best guess. (Humans have gotten taller over the last few centuries for the same reason.)
Our feline ancestors, Near Eastern wildcats, hunted hard to bring home the bacon. So, when human communities appeared, we moved in cuz mice liked your crops and your trash. Sometimes your garbage had some tasty treats for us too. Eventually, we endeared ourselves so much, you humans fed us. Scorrrrrre.
So, better nutrition allows us to get bigger. Genes could contribute to our physical expansion project too.
So, a warning to all the pooches out there, in about 10,000 years, you’re going to be OUR prey. Until then…uh oh. Gotta go. Human’s opening a can.
About the author
JeffyJeffy BadBoy is a rescued kitten with a nose for news. His unique talent has qualified him to be the official journalist for Stupid Gravity Press. Follow Jeffy’s Daily Mews on Facebook and Instagram.
Patron Saint of Veterinarians, Rescuers, People of Color, Television, Hair Dressers & Trekkies
What do veterinarians, people of color, Trekkies and hairdressers have in common? In times of need they can all call upon St. Martin de Porres. He is one of the coolest saints around. The Dominican brother is recognized as the first black saint from the Americas.
Officially, he’s the patron saint of barbers, hair stylists, innkeepers, Mexico, black people, people of mixed race, Peru, poor people, public education, public health, and television (yes, the boob tube). He stands for interracial and social justice and racial harmony. (Certainly use his intercession with today’s racial strife.) People also invoke his name for protection from rats. Unofficially he represents veterinarians, Trekkies, holistic healers and people who are bullied.
Juan Martin de Porres was born 435 years ago today, on Dec. 9, 1579, in Lima, Peru. He was the illegitimate son of a woman of color (a freed Panamanian slave) named Ana Velázquez and the Spanish knight, Don Juan de Porres. Papa never married his baby mamma, and wasn’t proud that little Martin inherited his mother’s dark complexion. The “nobleman” abandoned his family three years later, after the birth of their daughter, Juana. What a guy! After Dad disappeared, poor Ana struggled to feed her kids by taking in laundry. Eventually Don Juan stepped up and sent his son to a primary school for a couple of years, after which 12-year-old Martin apprenticed as a barber.
As a trainee, he learned more than how to coif a mullet and sculpt a soul patch. In those days, barbers’ finely honed blades also opened veins for cozy sessions of bloodletting. Martin learned to perform surgeries, dig out ingrown toenails, lance boils, set bones, dress wounds, treat disease and compound medicine from herbs. The training gave him the ability to care for the sick and destitute without charging a fee.
Just like Mr. Spock, St. Martin de Porres was able to be several places at once.
When he turned 15, Martin entered the Holy Rosary Dominican Priory in his hometown. At that time, Peruvian law prohibited descendants of Africans and Indians from becoming full members of religious orders. So Martin wore the monastery’s habit and performed worked in the infirmary as a barber-surgeon as well working on the farm and performing menial tasks in the kitchen and laundry.
In and outside the convent, Martin became known for his miraculous cures; he treated noblemen and slaves alike without regard for their race or social status.
When he turned 24, Martin took charge of the friary’s infirmary, where he worked until he died. He opened a children’s hospital for kids living in the slums and the Orphanage of the Holy Cross. Eventually the Dominicans ignored the racial restriction and allowed Martin to take vows as a Dominican brother.
A Real Dr. Doolittle
St. Martin’s compassion wasn’t restricted to humans. He was a 16th-century Dr. Doolittle, with the ability to communicate with animals. Like St. Francis, Martin treated animals as if they were brothers and sisters. Only a Hannibal Lecter would chow down on his family, so Martin never ate meat. Centuries ahead of his time, the barber-turned-veterinarian treated sick and injured cats and dogs at his animal hospital set up at his sister’s home in the country. He also founded a shelter for stray pets.
While officially St. James the Greater, St. Eligius and St. Blaise are the patron saints of veterinarians, people with sick kitties and poopy pooches might want to have a conversation with Martin de Porres. After all, this guy was a practicingvet.
Of mice and Martin
Even potentially plague-carrying vermin benefited from St. Martin’s mercy. A mischief of mice set up housekeeping in the priory’s linen wardrobe. (And we know, nothing conveys the concept of “holy” like altar linens covered in mouse poop.) The monks wanted to poison the furry invaders, but St. Martin had other plans. Reminiscent of St. Francis’ negotiations with the killer wolf of Gubio, Martin simply promised not to promote the mice to Glory if they would relocate to a little den at the end of the garden. Martin even offered to cater their meals. Then, in a Peruvian version of the Pied Piper, he led Mickey’s cousins to their new digs. The mice stayed away from the linens, and Martin kept his part of the bargain.
Beam me up, Marty
Martin is the official patron saint of television and (appointed by me) unofficial saint of Trekkies. Stick with me on this.
While Martin wanted to serve as a missionary, this was not to be. But stories persisted describing Martin visiting those in need through bi-location (meaning he could safely fold clothes in the laundry in Peru while treating a patient in Algeria).
Five centuries before Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott was a gleam in Gene Roddenberry’s eye, Martin managed to transport himself around the globe. The word “television” means “vision from afar” in Greek. A man who bi-locates certainly represents that concept.
You might wonder if being in two places at the same time has something to do with those herbs he learned to compound in barber school. Probably not. The claims of his visitations came from the people he helped. Even though Martin never left Lima, people said the saint appeared to them in Algeria, China, France, Japan, Mexico and the Philippines.
Locked doors couldn’t keep Martin from caring for the sick. During an epidemic, sixty novice friars living in a locked section of the convent fell ill. Several of them reported seeing Martin pass through locked doors like Captain Kirk in the “Tholian Web.” These claims were even verified by monastery superiors.
In icons, St. Martin is usually depicted along with a cat, dog, and a mouse eating from the same bowl. He’s also associated with a broom (because of his love of manual labor), a crucifix, a rosary and/or a heart.
Nov. 3, 1639, Martin teleported from his corporeal body for the final time. He died of quatrain fever at his beloved Rosary Convent at the age of 59. The man who was rejected by society, and even his own father, was carried to his resting place by church prelates and noblemen. He was canonized by Pope John XXIII in 1962.
So next time you go to the vet, feel bullied, or watch a rerun of Star Trek, you might have a conversation with St. Martin de Porres. After all, he communicated with animals and bilocated to exotic places. He’s not likely to let a little thing like a grave come between him and someone in need.
JeffyJeffy Bad Boy here. The cat writing human has been up to her nose in other projects, so I thought I’d help her with a recent assignment. Today is National Cat Day, so it’s a perfect time to talk about Cat Café. Not kind where you get coffee and cat hair. Cat Café is’s a cozy mystery by cat writer, Mollie Hunt, and the fifth book in the Crazy Cat Lady Mystery series.
Crazy cat ladies get a bad rap. Contrary to popular assumption, they aren’t usually certifiable, just eccentric. Just to be honest, I owe my short life to a “crazy cat lady’, so I’m on board. To celebrate National Cat Day, I’m interviewing Cat Café’s heroine, Lynley Cannon’s cat.
JJBB: Let’s start with your name.
DH:Hello, Jeffy Jeffy Bad Boy. (Stretch – yawn) Mrow-wow, now there is a name! I should ask you how you came by that lengthy designation, but oh, that’s right— it’s all about me. I am Dirty Harry, named not after the rough-and-tumble Clint Eastwood character but after my own penchant for dirt (I love rolling in it) and hair (my black and white tuxedo coat is very full and sometimes produces dreadlocks, at which time I am taken to the groomer, much to my humiliation and disgust.)
Dirty Harry Fast Facts
JJBB: Nice to meet you,Dirty Harry. How about some vital statistics.
DH: Color: Black and white with a “petticoat” of white around my hips.
Weight: 15 pounds
Age: Old enough to know better.
Favorite food: Chicken from the human table.
Favorite toy: Catnip pickle.
Favorite pastime: Sitting in my cardboard carton, sculpting the edge with my pointy white fangs.
Favorite cat companion: Little, the all-black female who plays with me and grooms my coat.
The amazing Dirty Harry
JJBB: How did you come to live with Lynley Cannon?
I am Lynley’s original, a stray who came and stayed, since I know a good thing when I find it. I have been with her since I was a strapping young tom, but now I am long in tooth and face, as we cats get in our advanced years.
JJBB: Does she have other cats or do you hang with neighbor cats?
DH: Lynley Cannon, the crazy cat lady, have other cats? Is that a joke? As of Cat Café, our most recent story, she has seven besides my illustrious self! Plus she is always bringing home extras that she calls “fosters.” Thankfully they have a room of their own where they are out of my way. Training a new member into the clowder is a tedious job, and since I am the oldest of the clan, the duty falls to me.
As to neighbor cats, our group is strictly indoors, with the exception of our back yard which is fully cat-fenced, keeping those pesky outsiders out. I had enough of strangers when I was stray.
JJBB: Tell me about yourself.
What can I say? (Rolls on back, exposing fluffy white underbelly) I’m wonderful, but you don’t have to take my word. Here is a scene from Cat Café where Lynley welcomes me on her bed:
(Cat Café, Chapter 12) …Dirty Harry stalked through the door with his thump-thump-thumping gait. He stumped up the set of carpeted pet steps at the end of the bed and arranged himself at my feet with a kitty sigh. The old boy could still jump if he needed to, but his arthritis was making it difficult so I’d bought the steps. At first he shunned them, but then he gave in and claimed them as his own like the true king he was.
I opened my book and started reading the first story. It concerned a ninja cat who rescued his person from certain peril, but I couldn’t concentrate. My mind was scampering from one thing to another like a kitten in a toy box.
Tomorrow was going to be a big day.
She really adores me, but she worries too much, as clearly demonstrated in the following passage:
(Cat Café, Chapter 24)…Harry lay deep in slumber by the steps, his paws twitching as if chasing some phantom prey. As I walked by, I studied the old boy. He had grown thinner lately, had lost much of his tomcat muscle. The black and white fur was a bit more unkempt, his face lengthened into that of a senior cat. He was still healthy, no sign of the dreaded kidney disease—yet. But I knew from my studies of feline geriatrics that if a cat lived long enough and didn’t succumb to something else, kidney disease would eventually take him. Still, cats were living longer than ever due to better food, veterinary care, and a lifestyle that kept them safe from danger. With that reasoning, Harry had many good years in his future. I ruffled the silky ears and received a small grunt in return.
She’s darned right I’ve got many good years left in me!
Mollie Hunt & Tinkerbelle, Registered Pet Partners
Life in Cat Café is More than Just Being Handsome
JJBB: What is your role in the book? How do you help solve the mysteries?
DH: In my capacity of clowder elder, my role is more supervisory than actual. I leave it to others to do the hands-on work. Tinkerbelle, the tiny black therapy cat, has been known to step in and save the day on occasion, as has Little. The new kitten, Mab, a purebred lilac point Siamese who Lynley rescued from a nefarious breeder, is showing signs of mental empathy far beyond the norm for our species. I have a feeling she has great things in her future. But the real mystery solver is Lynley Cannon herself. She may look human, but she is part cat, I am sure.
JJBB: Do you ever get into trouble or introduce a red herring? Personally, I like herring.
DH: Yum, herring. (Smacks lips) That reminds me, I could eat.
JJBB: Do you have a major part or do you keep the home fires burning and guest kitties get all the glory and excitement?
DH: I am the king, you understand, so anything I do is significant and noteworthy, but I can be magnanimous as well. A host of guest kitties join my cohabitor’s stories, and in the café of Cat Café, there are a whole slew of them. One in particular gets to show off his catly prowess, as well as his bodily functions. No… I can’t tell you more, or it would spoil the story, but let me assure you, you will be amused rather than offended by the prank.
An Excerpt from Cat Café
JJBB: What’s the most exciting thing you’ve ever done?
DH: (Big sigh) It is my philosophy that excitement, beyond that of catching the odd mouse, is to be avoided at all cost. The nap and dinner plate are supremely preferable. That said, I was quite a wanderer in my youth, and got into many a predicament.
My clowder-mate, Big Red, named thusly for his size and color, could tell you a story of excitement and peril. In Cat Café, there came a great windstorm, and for some reason, Big Red got excited and ran out into it. Here is what Lynley recalls of the cat-astrophe:
(Cat Café, Chapter 21) I opened the screen and took a step out onto the patio. Breathing deeply, I noticed again how the temperature had plummeted since the afternoon. I could almost use that sweater now.
Suddenly a breeze stirred in the fat, summer-dry leaves of the fig tree, making a rattling sound. Another, stronger flurry whipped the rattle into a thrumming tattoo. The next gust sent one of the lawn chairs toppling. The tablecloth from the little bench flew into the kiwi bush where it caught in the branches, flapping like a red-checked flag.
Tinkerbelle tensed, her fur ruffled and blowing.
“You don’t like this, do you?” I soothed. “We’re going back now, into our nice cozy house.”
I turned, just in time to see a large orange shape fly past me into the garden.
“Red!” I cried, kicking myself for leaving the door ajar. I knew better—way better.
At seventeen pounds, Big Red was more of a stalker than a runner, and the last time I’d seen the noise-nervous boy race like that was on the Fourth of July when a neighbor set off a round of fireworks the magnitude of a small bomb. That experience had left him shell-shocked for a week.
Quickly I shut Tinkerbelle inside. Red had made it all the way to the edge of the yard where he now stood transfixed before a massive tangle of honeysuckle that twined up the cedar fence.
“Red kitty,” I called again, starting toward the tabby.
For a moment, he gaped back at me, wide eyes reflecting like mercury in the porch light, then he leapt into the bush and disappeared. The foliage shook violently as he clawed his way upward, reappearing at the top where the vines grew thinner. Now scaling the fence itself, he continued to climb. I looked on helplessly, hoping he would come down on his own, fearing I would have to fetch the ladder.
Finally he arrived at the place where the mesh weave of the cat fence took over from the wood. He tested it, got a claw stuck, and had a mini fit before wrangling loose. He then hunkered down on the thin wooden rail, ears back and wailing in frustration that his plan to ascend to the sky had been thwarted.
The wind was blowing harder now, buffeting like a physical force as I stared up at the unhappy cat, way too high for me to reach.
“Red sweetie,” I intoned. “Come on down now. We’ll go in the house and I’ll give you some of your special treats.”
He didn’t move though I could see his sides heave with frightened breaths. I added a string of kitty-kittys to my plea but to no avail. I reached up, inviting him to swan dive into my arms. I even gave the honeysuckle trunk a little frustrated shake to see if he might be persuaded to jump. None of it worked; the poor, scared guy just cowered atop the rail and yowled.
With a sigh, I admitted defeat and stumbled through the barrage of wind-blown debris for the toolshed. Thankfully the ladder was at the front where I could get to it, a very old, very heavy wooden model I was sure would never pass an OSHA test. I hefted it down from its hanger and lugged it back to the honeysuckle fence. I got it situated, then looked up to find no cat!
“Red?” I exclaimed, my heart pounding. Where had he got off to now? Was it going to require an all-out shakedown of my garden jungle? So many plants and bushes; so many places to hide.
Then I heard a tiny meow and looked over to see Red poised on the patio step. I left the ladder against the fence and joined him. The second I opened the screen door, he zipped in to safety. I tried to follow his movements, but he was already gone.
So all was well in the end. Silly cat!
JJBB: Can you give me a teaser about the plot?
DH: Cat Café’s tagline is “A body is discovered on the floor of the cat café, and all the black cats are missing!” I must first explain that no cats were harmed in the making of this story. That said, our roles are integrally woven throughout. Here is the back cover quote:
Sixty-something cat shelter volunteer Lynley Cannon always finds more trouble than a cat in catnip, but this time it’s not about her. Someone is targeting very senior citizens, and when Bea Landrew, elderly owner of the Blue Cat café turns up dead, Lynley’s mom Carol could be next.
Handsome Detective Devon is looking for a link between the victims when he makes a different sort of connection— with Lynley! It’s been a long time since the cat lady had romance in her life, but while her mom is in danger, the case comes first.
It appears the cat café will go the way of its deceased owner, but Bea’s grandson, a slick Miami businessman, steps in at the last minute. Arthur is not a cat person so why would he bother? Romeo, the big Russian Blue, senses ulterior motives, but who will listen to a cat?
A black cat rescue, an antique photograph, an elaborate payback. Is this killer seeking justice or vengeance? With death as the objective, the results are the same.
JJBB: What else do you want my readers to know?
DH: Mrow-wow, now there’s a good question. I suppose the most significant thing to impart to your readers is that Cat Café lives up to the highest standard of the cozy cat mystery. Since our author is a member of the Cat Writers’ Association, it is imperative for her to feature cats as a major part of the content. Some books purport to be cat mysteries when a cat may merely ramble through the room once or twice; still others have a cat on the cover, then no cat in the story at all! Mollie’s mysteries are all about cats. She even heads each chapter with cat tricks, tips, and facts to help her audience learn a little extra about their feline friends.
One reviewers had this to say about Cats’ Eyes, the first book in the Crazy Cat Lady series: “I knew this novel was about cats, but it’s theme is cats! Cats are as much the main characters as the main character is!”
JJBB: So, if you like cozy mysteries, and most importantly, if you like cats, Cat Café and the Crazy Cat Lady series sounds like a good fit for you.
DH:A huge thank you, Jeffy Jeffy, for hosting us on your blogsite for the first leg of the Cat Café book launch blog hop. I had a great time talking about me.
Where to Get Cat Café
JJBB: Thank you for stopping by and sharing some inside info about Lynley and her escapades. Where can my readers pick up a copy or three of Cat Café?
DH: Your readers can get the paperback at Amazon.com for only $14.00. The Kindle is a deal at only $5.99. It’s also available at Another Read Through and Backstory Books, Portland, Oregon.
Want to keep track of Mollie and her blog tour?
Here is the line-up for the rest of Mollie’s week-long blog hop:
Oct. 30: Melissa Lapierre’s cat Mudpie interviews Lynley’s kitties, all 8 of them! (Little, Lynley’s favorite feline sleuth, is the spokes-cat)
Blogger, Mochas, Mysteries and Meows www.mochasmysteriesmeows.com
Nov. 1: Fun Questions with Amy Shojai, CABC
Amy Shojai, CABC www.SHOJAI.com
Nov. 2: Kathleen S. Mueller reviews Cat Café, and we chat about writing, muses, and old photographs from secret boxes in the attic.
Traveling Dog Lady www.travelingdoglady.blogspot.com
By Jeffy Jeffy Bad Boy Cat Halloween CostumesCat Halloween Costumes
Halloween is a scary time for cats. Yes there are horrible wackos out there who want to do unspeakable things to kitties, but there’s also a threat closer to home—namely, home. It’s time for kitty costumes. All over the country cat (and dog owners) are purr-using the internet looking for “adorable” cat Halloween costumes for their future-formerly dignified pets. In an attempt to combat this, kitties use the computer keyboard as a treadmill hoping to block access to online costume markets. Unfortunately that strategy didn’t work at my house. The human still managed to get a hold of contraband pet clothing from PetKrewe.com and so the embarrassment begins.
I admit, unlike the other members of the household, I was too young and naïve to realize what was happening. The other kitties hid (which run did not save them from humiliation). One minute I was happily hanging out, the next I was shanghaied and inducted into the navy.
Since my dignity is now resides in the bottom of the trashcan beneath yesterday’s litter clumps, I may as well come out of the costume closet.
One final note: No cats were harmed in the taking of these photographs, we were, however, abased and embarrassed. I wasn’t a fan of the hats at first, but after a lot of treats I finally got used to them. The human posted these shots cuz they’re funnier. (All the costumes below came from PetKrewe.com except for the prisoner costume. They cost around $15.95. There’s info about the costumes at PetKrewe.com)
Hello Sailor
As they ask in the military, “With all due respect, are you crazy?” I have to admit, I look hot in Pet Krewe navy dress whites for cats and small dogs. Although officers might gripe that I’m out of uniform, I didn’t mind the Anchors Away look once we lost the hat.
Hopefully I’ll get less time time for good behavior
Somehow this innocent mug of mine wound up with the name Jeffy Jeffy Bad Boy. So the human decided I should model this little ditty because of my propensity to get into things she says I shouldn’t. I look good in stripes, don’t you think? This Lighthouse prison costume for cats and small dogs comes with a hat (which I refused to wear.) It costs under $10.
It’s a pirate’s life for me Cat Halloween Costumes
Yo ho, or is it “yoohoo”? Burt the dog works this striking Pet Krewe pirate ensemble complete with hooked hands and a pirate hat. It comes in small, medium and large sizes. Just add your own eye patch.
I’m not lion; it’s the mane event
Cats are actually related to the King of the Jungle, not dogs, but Burt sports a lion’s mane that could make a canine want to purr. The Velcro™-style strap holds secure. Doesn’t it make you want to kiss his nose…or not. Available in small sizes for kitties and medium and large dogs.
