Tag Archives: Black cats

An Interview with the Cat Café senior kitty Dirty Harry

 

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

Oct 31: Why Cat Café? Patricia Fry wants to know.
Catscapades
www.MatilijaPress.com/ Catscapades

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

Find out more about Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer:
Website: www.lecatts.wordpress.com
Amazon Page: www.amazon.com/author/molliehunt
Facebook Author Page: www.facebook.com/MollieHuntCatWriter/
@MollieHuntCats

Good Luck is Just a Black Cat Away

black cat luckDoes it suck to be you? Have you received a letter from the IRS? Do you need to ramp it up in the Good Fortune department? Throw away the rabbit’s foot. (After all, it didn’t help that bunny one bit, did it?) The remedy to your misfortune could be as close as your local animal shelter. Adopt a black cat.

Many Americans grew up distrusting black kitties. But the U.S. is out of step with the rest of the world when it comes to their beliefs about them. As Paul Harvey used to say, “This is the rest of the story.”

Whether coal-coated felines are harbingers of good or evil depend on where they live. People the U.S., Spain and Belgium often associate black cats with the devil. American animal shelters struggle to find homes for friendly black strays because of their undeserved reputation for causing havoc. Fortunately, the rest of the world loves lap panthers. In Egypt, Great Britain, Australia and Japan, owning or encountering a black cat assures good fortune.

In 2000 B.C. when cats delivered Egypt from famine by controlling the local Mickey Mouse population, Pharaoh elevated them to deities. Enter Bastet, with the head of a black cat and the body of a woman. She became the goddess of motherhood, fertility, grace, beauty, and not surprisingly, cats. Egyptians courted Bastet’s favor by keeping black cats in their homes and leaving food out to attract them. They believed through their pets, Bastet would bless them with prosperity.

Love black cats smallWhile the Egyptians’ love of black cats is legendary, the Finnish, Celts, Romans, Norse and Latvians also held black cats in high esteem and believed they would be blessed by their presence.

The cat-loving British continue to value their black kitties above all others. An old English charm promises, “Black cat, cross my path–good fortune bring to home and hearth. When I am away from home, bring me luck wherever I roam.” Another British proverb claimed, “Whenever the cat of the house is black, the lasses of lovers will have no lack.” Black kittens on the porch promised the Scottish future riches and happiness. Celtic legend assured wealth and prosperity if a strange black cat shows up on your doorstep as long as you care for him. In most countries chasing a black cat away invites trouble. If the cat abandons a home or ship, disaster will soon follow.

An early 16th century British tradition encouraged visitors to kiss the family’s coal-colored feline. Brides in southern England whose path were crossed by a black cat would have a happy marriage.

England’s King Charles I was so afraid of losing his lucky black cat, he placed a 24-hour guard around him. Eventually the cat fell ill and died. Legend says distraught Charles cried out, “Alas, my luck is gone.” The next day Oliver Cromwell’s troops arrested him for treason. In 1649, Charles was beheaded.

churchill touching black catIf they’d run television commercials in the 18th century, you might have heard: “Black Cats: Don’t leave home without one.” Yorkshire fisherman wouldn’t sail without their most vital crewmember: the ship’s black cat. He offered protection and good luck. Punishment for harming him could be death. After all, without the black cat the ship couldn’t make it home safely.

Even sailors’ wives kept a feline talisman to keep their seafaring husbands safe. The height of the fishing industry spawned a black-cat black-market in Yorkshire. Women had to keep constant watch on their raven-furred felines otherwise racketeers would snatch them and sell them to another fisherman’s wife.

Winston Churchill believed in the power of the black cat. His kitty, Nelson, reputedly had his own chair at the Cabinet, and attended all the meetings. During World War II Churchill made a point of stroking any black cat he found. He even credited his wartime success to this practice.

Black cat good luckThings fell apart during the Middle Ages. Before then, the Catholic Church had no policy on cats. Monasteries often had mousers for companionship. In the 6th Century, Pope Gregory the Great even had a pet cat he was very fond of. However, in 1232 when Pope Gregory IX needed a scapegoat to distract the masses from rampant disease, famine and war, he declared cats the embodiment of the devil. This decree sent domestic cats to the edge of extinction in Europe.

Feline extermination resulted in an invasion of rats and their plague-carrying fleas. The rodents caused famine by gorging themselves on the grain stores and contaminating what they didn’t eat. Figures vary, but with no cats to control vermin, the Black Death claimed between a third and half the population of Europe from 1347 to 1351. The Plague persisted in varying degrees of severity until the 18th century, which also coincides with cats being welcomed again into villages and homes.

However, Pilgrims, filled with old-time fear of cats, brought their black cat prejudice to the New World. Distrust of them persisted throughout the New England witch trials and continues even today.

For prospective pet owners, black cats may be luckier than their fairer-haired counterparts. Besides providing the perfect camouflage for a nighttime predator, researchers at the National Institutes of Health discovered same the gene that gives cats the black coat also makes them more resistant to some disease.

So if you want make up for all those ladders you’ve walked under or the cracks you’ve stepped on, adopt a feline companion with a coal-black coat and a tough constitution. You may not find buried gold under your house, but with a gentle couch panther by your side you’ll always stay in the black.

cateyes1

January 30 is the Anniverary of Charles’s Execution

Charles 1January 30 is the 365th anniversary of the death of England’s King Charles I. Unlike the United States, where people often fear black cats, the English have long held the belief that black cats are sources of good fortune. Winston Churchill even credited his wartime success on his ritual of petting every black cat he saw. His own black cat, Nelson, even attended cabinet meetings.

A few centuries earlier King Charles I had a black kitty ,(whose name has been lost to history) that he also dearly loved. He believed his cat would protect him from those who wanted to kill him. The king so feared losing his pet (and his life) that he placed a 24-hour guard around him. Eventually the cat fell ill and died. In December 1648, legend says the distraught king cried out, “Alas, my luck is gone.” Apparently he was right. The next day Oliver Cromwell’s troops arrested him. He was found guilty of treason. On January 30, 1649, Charles was beheaded.

Learn a lesson from Charles I. Always have a lucky black to cover your back.