Mollie Hunt's Blog, page 65

City-State: 101, reblogged from The Dystopian Nation of City-State

I am not usually vocally political, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have an opinion or notice what’s going on around me. The following blog post caught my attention. Here is something to think about:

Reblogged from The Dystopian Nation of City-State
A cruel, futuristic vision created by science fiction authors James Courtney and Kaisy Wilkerson-Mills. ©2013-2016. All Rights Reserved. All writings available through Amazon.

“We already live in City-State. City-State is basically Aldous Huxley’s “Brave New Wold” on meth. Think about it. People don’t need to ban books. We don’t read. We get …

Source: City-State: 101

CAT’S PAW, A PREVIEW AND A DEDICATION TO OUR CATS WHO HAVE PASSED

I’m announcing last call to get your kitty memorialized in the dedication of my new Crazy Cat Lady cozy mystery, Cat’s Paw, launching in November. This is what the dedication looks like so far:

“The grief of losing a pet is acute yet inevitable. This book is dedicated to all those beloved, precious, wonderful kitties (and a dog) who are no longer with us, and to their people who made their world a better place.

Fraulein Fluffs · Attilla · Graywood · Tony · Mufasa · Wrangler · Two · Purr Fur · Peeps · Zoe · Blu · Mia · Shinara · Oshii · Truffles · Frazier · Dutchess · Fiona · Femi · Bernard  · Zorro · Abby · Silver · Sunset · Ebony Rose · Psyche · Ursa · Midnight · Maple · Foxfire · Tigger · Shmoogus · Tutu · Pierre · Bonzaii  · Gracie · Shiloh · Sally · Jelly Belly · Floppsie  · Fiona · Dora · Nafista · Smokey Joe · William · Rex · Scotty · Cindy · Pinkie · Gizmo · Smokey · Chelsea · Siouxsie Mew · Princess Sheba Darling · Tim (aka Uncle Tim) · K.C. · Eddie · Gus · Mo · Wiggie · Lola · Lucy · Sammy · Oliver · Paddy”

All are welcome. Just comment this post to be added to the list.

And since we are growing ever closer to Cat’s Paw’s publication day, here is a preview of what’s to come:

                     

The walls are gray.

Gray like wet cement.

Gray like oblivion.

The floor is tile, the industrial kind.

Toward the edges, dark grime is imbedded

like oily worms.

There are no windows; it is a basement.

I count the holes in the acoustic ceiling tiles,

then I count them again,

waiting.

 

Chapter 1

The British proverb, “Curiosity killed the cat” warns that being inquisitive may bring trouble. The rejoinder, “satisfaction brought it back,” tells the rest of the story. Cats exist in a constant state of tension between caution and curiosity. As long as they don’t know, they will be drawn to discovery. Once knowing is achieved, the game is over and the cat can move on to something else.

I’ve been called a crazy cat lady all my life, but I never knew what crazy was until now. Languishing in this dingy hole, knowing my freedom is in the well-meaning but inept hands of amateurs, I fear I shall lose my mind. The options are simple: I could be released or I could be arrested. If released, I put the debacle behind me; if things go the other way, well, that’s where it gets really crazy. I would need a lawyer; I could go to trial. I could be convicted, sentenced, and sent to prison. You know I didn’t do it. I’m a cat shelter volunteer, for goodness sakes! I’m not a killer.

I have to laugh—the thing I regret the most in this gray limbo of incarceration is not the fear of an uncertain future; not the anger at being judged without proof; not even the horror of what’s going on outside that basement door. It’s the absence of cats. The absence of my cats.

My name is Lynley Cannon, and on any normal day, I would be helping out at my local cat shelter, visiting with my lovely and intelligent granddaughter, researching my labyrinthine Scottish ancestry, or enjoying some other innocuous pursuit. Since I am retired, my time is my own. There is little I cannot do as long as I plan it properly with no heavy lifting and many convenient bathroom stops. I hadn’t realized how accustomed I’d become to that freedom until it was so rudely ripped away from me.

As with the cats I so love, I possess an innate curiosity which makes my life both interesting and adventurous. At sixty, however, adventure poses certain risks. Circumstances that, in past decades, would have been fun and athletic could now land me in the hospital. Yet I persevere. I rush in without considering the consequences. It is my nature.

That’s how I came to be at the Cloverleaf Animal Sanctuary Annual Art Retreat. I’m not an artist but I have always wanted to visit the celebrated shelter located on its very own island among the beautiful San Juans in Northwest Washington state. When the opportunity arose, thanks to an old school friend who happens to run the program, I jumped on the it like a cat on catnip.

Though most of the other participants were younger, more extroverted, and certainly more creative than I was, we all got along like kittens in a clowder. By the second day, it was as if we’d known each other forever, and I figured we’d stay in touch long after the retreat was over, Facebook friends if nothing more. Only one among them had rubbed me the wrong way, a bitter, spiteful woman who had no business being there in the first place since she seemed neither artistic nor sociable. But now she was dead, and I was locked in the basement until the storm died down and the police could make their way across the heaving waters.

How had this happened? Where had things gone wrong? One moment there was as much camaraderie as at a hippie love-in—‌‌‌and I should know, having been there and done that—‌the next, only fear, hatred, and this howling Northwest thunderstorm. There would be lots of time for contemplation since it didn’t look like I was going anywhere soon.

 

Chapter 2

The feline ability to sense you are going on vacation before you’ve even brought the suitcase out of the closet is well-documented. To minimize your cat’s angst while you’re away, leave a piece of your clothing on the bed. Finding a compassionate and knowledgeable cat sitter is paramount.

“I’m ready,” I called to the man in the vintage maroon Cadillac parked like a limousine in front of my house. “Just give me a moment to say goodbye to the cats.”

“You’ve said goodbye to them three times already, Grandma,” Seleia chimed jovially. The sixteen-year-old knew it was an empty statement, that I would do the rounds at least once more before leaving them in her more than capable hands.

The cats sensed something was up and the group had gathered in furry curiosity to see what the tumult of suitcases and unexpected visitors was all about. Little, the smart black female, headed up the furry assembly with a loud chatter of meows. Tinkerbelle, also black, also female, but as different from Little as different could be, harmonized. Mab, the Siamese kitten I had recently rescued from a nefarious breeder, scampered back and forth across the timeworn Persian carpet with kittenish glee. Dirty Harry, my old sweetheart who was getting on in years, watched my every move from the comfort of his donut bed, golden eyes blinking love. Big Red, seventeen pounds of scaredy-cat, slunk around the edge of the room, mandarin gaze wistful and wondering.

“It’s okay,” I said, giving him a scratch on his flame-orange sideburns as he crept past, and receiving a throaty purr in reply. “Seleia will take good care of you.”

I peeked under the sofa to the spot by the heater vent where Solo pretty much lived out her solitary life. Since it was August, a flow of cool air ruffled her white fur as she hunkered against the back wall like a tiny ghost.

“ ’Bye, sweetheart.” She didn’t move but gave a little prrumph of acknowledgment.

That left Violet, my big girl. I heard kibble crunching in the kitchen and followed the sound. There she was, her beautiful gray and white fur sleek as a seal over her beach ball-shaped body.

“Seleia, make sure to keep Violet on her diet. No in-between-meal snacks, okay?”

Seleia followed me into the kitchen and picked up the food bowl, much to Violet’s disgust. She grabbed a few kibbles and put them on the floor as a compromise. “I’ll take care of it, Lynley. I’ve known these kitties for as long as you have, you know. And I’ll be staying here to watch them day and night so you really don’t have to worry.”

I had my doubts as to whether the outgoing teenager would actually be there day and night. My granddaughter, with her lovely green eyes and long, newly-hennaed hair, had a busy schedule. Besides going to school she was taking extra classes in creative subjects, and following in the footsteps of her grandma, had begun donating a few hours a week at the county animal shelter as a youth aide. Still I trusted her implicitly. Whatever she did while I was gone, be it reading teen magazines, watching television, entertaining friends, or all three at once, the kitties would always come first.

And there was also Frannie DeSoto, my best bud from Friends of Felines, the state-of-the-art cat shelter where we both obsessively volunteered. Frannie had promised to drop by and check up on things from an adult point of view. She knew cats and could tell with a glance, a sniff, and a peek in the litter box if there was a problem. Seleia could call on her if she had questions or needed help—Frannie would be there in a heartbeat.

I picked up my purse, bag, and coat—it might be eighty degrees in Portland but our northern destination was another matter. As I headed for the door, my eye caught the empty cat mat atop the back of the couch. Though it was a prime space, right by the window with a view of the front yard and the street beyond, none of the other cats had claimed it since Fluff’s passing. When her time came, the sick and elderly Fraulein Fluffs had been ready to go, but the hole in my heart where her small grey form had so gently slept would never be filled. It would lessen with time, I knew, but would never completely go.

“Goodbye, Fluffs,” I whispered. “Rest in peace.”

I gave Seleia a hug and a list of numbers to call in case of emergency, crossed the threshold of my front door, and headed down the brick-red steps for the Caddie. I looked back once at the old Victorian that had been my home for many decades, at Seleia standing in the doorway, Little in her arms, waving goodbye. Her hair shone like chestnut silk across Little’s black back. The sun sparkled, and the sky was the color of a Siamese’s eyes. The air was soft, and the song of robins drifted down from the trees. In spite of having to leave my cats behind, I felt a great inner peace. I should have known right then that such a feeling could not last.

 

Chapter 3

Some superstitions claim that a black cat crossing one’s path bodes bad luck, but the Scots look upon our black moggies differently. In Scotland, an unfamiliar cat of black coloration suddenly appearing at the front door is a sign of good fortune.

There’s nothing quite like the jet-smooth glide of a Cadillac sedan, especially those older models, or maybe I’m just prejudiced because I’m an older model too. Whatever it was, I felt like a queen cruising up Interstate 5 slouched into the velour seat cushions, elbow crooked out the window, the hot summer air whipping my hair like a young girl. It was a three-hour drive from Portland to Seattle; once there we would head north to Anacortes where we would catch a private ferry to Clover Island, home of the world-renowned Cloverleaf Animal Sanctuary. To attend the annual Art Retreat was a once-in-a-lifetime deal, and I was determined to relish every moment of it, including this quiet prelude to the excitement to come.

I looked over at the handsome man in the driver’s seat. With his rugged good looks and flowing silver hair, Simon Jon Bird could have been an aging movie star. We had known each other since art school though we’d lost touch for a few decades and only recently reunited at the whim of my daughter Lisa and the sixtieth birthday extravaganza she had thrown in my honor.

Lisa was my great enigma. We saw each other only rarely due to a difference in lifestyle and philosophy so huge I sometimes wondered if this were the same girl I’d raised through a childhood of skinned knees, kittens, report cards, and boys. She had grown into her own person, so in essence, she had fulfilled my hopes for her, but sometimes I wished that person and I had a little more in common.

Nonetheless it was she, this conundrum of love and estrangement, who had given me the chance to be where I was right now, on the way to a unique and unanticipated adventure with an old and cherished friend. If she had hoped for a romantic entanglement between the attractive Simon and her long-single mom, she had missed the boat though, since Simon Bird was wholly and irrefutably gay. We had been the best of friends back in school and were thrilled to find it surprisingly easy to pick up where we’d left off.

“How long have you been instructing the art retreat?” I asked as we traveled.

His brow knit, and he glanced at me with those strange silver eyes—no, they were more like mica, that flaky reflective rock that takes on whatever color is around it.

“This will be the fourteenth year. Fourteen! I can hardly believe it,” he added. “The first year we had only five people: two writers, a sculpturist, a noted photographer, and a relatively well-known artist. When I saw the line-up, I was rather intimidated. I mean, what could I possibly teach those famous and creative people about art?”

“What happened?”

Simon laughed. “I quickly discovered that learning was a two-way street. Of course the greatest inspirations were the animals themselves. Spending the week with the dogs, cats, and other of God’s beings who live at the sanctuary brought them to places they had never explored before, at least not in such depth. By the end of the session, we were all a bit more enlightened.”

I rolled up the window against the freeway noise, grit, and stink and let the air conditioning take over. “How many people do you expect this session?”

“There will be ten, including yourself, plus three Cloverleaf volunteers.”

I snickered. “Thirteen? You aren’t superstitious?”

Simon gave me a quick smile. “Do you think it’s unlucky when a black cat crosses your path?”

“Touché.” I considered for a moment, then went on. “But why so few? I would have thought lots of folks would be interested in a workshop like yours. I could probably count ten just from people I know personally.”

“We tried taking more for a couple of years. If I remember, twenty was the tops. But it didn’t feel the same.”

“Too much work for you?”

“It wasn’t that; they gave me an assistant.” He cocked his head in reflection. “It just didn’t have the correct dynamics. Dynamics are important in a workshop like ours.”

We were coming up on a turnoff with its cluster of gas stations and trucker restaurants. A mile-high sign read Good Eats Here and another proclaimed Cheapest Gas This Side of Centralia. I guess we didn’t need eats or gas because Simon zipped right by.

“I wish we could take more,” said Simon. “We turn away at least ten times as many as we admit.”

“How do you decide who gets in? Do they take a test? Give references? Know someone who knows someone? Or is it first come, first served?”

“Actually the majority of the spaces are auctioned and sold to the highest bidder. One hundred percent of the proceeds go to the sanctuary, of course,” he went on to say.

“Wow!” I gasped. “That would cut out most of my friends. Myself included.”

“Three spaces are given as a scholarship at no charge,” he defended. “So you see, it’s not as elitist as it may seem. And I always get one space to use at my discretion.” He looked over and smiled.

“That would be me?”

He nodded and turned his eyes back to the road, the smile lingering.

“Well, I’m very grateful, Simon. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to this.”

“I’m glad you took me up on the offer. For a while, you weren’t sure it was something you wanted to do.”

“Oh, I always wanted to do it. I just couldn’t figure out how to pull it off. The house, the cats, my volunteering responsibilities. But in the end, I just said to heck with everything and took a leap of faith. It wasn’t nearly as difficult as I’d imagined. Things just sort of fell into place. The cats are my biggest concern. With my granddaughter staying at the house, I know they’ll be fine.”

“Seleia seems like a smart girl. You aren’t afraid she’ll go all teenager on you and have wild parties behind your back?”

“Not a chance. She’s not that kind of person. Not that she doesn’t like parties—I’m sure she does—but she’s way too self-assured to bother lying about it. Besides, Carol will be checking up from time to time. You remember my mother, Carol, from the old days?”

“Ah, the redoubtable Mrs. Mackey of the clan MacKay. Yes, I remember her well, relentlessly researching her Scots heritage.”

“Now she’s into solving television mysteries, the grittier the better. I’ve taken over the interest in the MacKay family tree.”

“I, uh, I’m glad to hear she’s still with us.”

“Oh, she’s very much with us. She and her friend, Candy, have a nice condo in Northwest Portland. Mum doesn’t drive but gets around just fine anyway. Between the two of them, they’re always doing something fun. Earlier this year she bought a gun and was taking shooting lessons.”

Simon raised an eyebrow. “Then we needn’t worry about Seleia, need we?”

I shook my head. “And it’s only a week,” I added. “What can happen in a week?”

I knew the moment it came out of my mouth that I had tempted fate but I was in too good a mood to care. The amorphous shadow of foreboding receded as quickly as it had come.

SEPTEMBER SPLENDOR, photographs

 

 

       

       

These photographs were taken on Willamette River houseboats. The temperature was perfect; the sky, clear and blue. The last days of summer are always the sweetest.

 

 

LIFE STAGES: WHEN KITTY IS GONE

A home is never so empty as when one has lost a beloved cat. Even if there are other pets still present, chances are they feel the loss as well. If kitty went peacefully, there will be empty beds, forsaken toys, and an overwhelming absence in all the places he liked to be. If his last days required medical assistance, there are probably a different sort of remembrance in the form of leftover medications purchased in hopes of recovery, maybe a half-used fluid bag, a geriatric litter box, or cans of special foods. All these things are reminders that he is absent and things will never be the same.

No one gets through life without grief. Breathe deeply and let it happen, because denying it will only cause more pain. But what else can we do besides lie on the couch and hurt? Here are a few ideas that have worked for me.

Attend a Pet Loss Support Group. Help heal in a supportive environment with others going through the same thing.
Create a project in kitty’s memory. Whether a drawing, collage, or  afghan crocheted in kitty’s colors, the act of doing can bring a sense of peace.
Put together a photo album. Don’t be afraid to show it to your friends. They understand.
Write a journal. It can be just for you or to share with others. If you have a blog, share it there. If not, this may be a good time to start one.
Share on social media. Whether a simple statement about kitty’s passing or an elaborate eulogy with photos and video, you may be surprised how far-reaching your post will be.
Go to PetLoss.com, “a gentle and compassionate website for pet lovers who are grieving over the death of a pet or an ill pet.”  Note: be prepared to cry, but that’s a good thing.

I recently lost 2 loving cats so I feel the pain very acutely right now. I am not alone. Friends, both personal and on social media, have stepped up to support me, to empathize with me, to make me feel safe in my grief. Some may not understand the depth of sorrow we feel over our animals, but that is their deficiency; not ours.

Have faith that the grief will lessen and the wonderful memories of your time with kitty will float to the surface. And when the time is right, another cat – a different cat – will call for you to bring joy into each other’s lives again.

 

THE FACE OF ICARUS: A STAR TREK SHORT FICTION TRIBUTE

“Do you have eyes on him, Mr. Sulu?”

“Yes, Captain. Status unchanged. He’s still out there.”

“Just like an Russian pugolovka,” Chekov mused. “I can’t see how he’s doing it.”

The three Star Fleet Officers, along with everyone else on the bridge of the USS Enterprise, stared at the viewscreen where, much as Mr. Chekov had described, an angular Vulcan form floated fish-like in the dense blue atmosphere of the uncharted planet. Spock was unencumbered by space suit or breathing apparatus, and by all rights, should be dead from the rarity of the atmosphere and the below-zero temperature. The fact that he lived was a miracle; the fact that he sailed free as a bird was nothing less than impossible.

“Anything, Lt. Uhura?” Captain Kirk threw over his shoulder to the brilliant and beautiful woman at the con.

“No, Sir,” she replied in dulcet tones. “Hailing frequencies are open, but there is no response.”

Kirk fisted the glowing amber button on his console.

“Scott here,” came the heavily accented voice of the engineer.

“Have you finished configuring the transporter?”

“Not yet, Sir. It’s no easy task to realign the pattern buffers to conform with yon alien aerospace.”

“Do what you can, Scotty. But do it fast. We’re running out of time.”

“I canna change the laws of physics, Captain!”

Clicking off the intercom, Kirk turned pleading eyes on Dr. McCoy. “Bones, what’s happening to him out there?”

The doctor shook his head. “Darned if I know. His insides should be turning to jelly and his eyes popping out of his head, but something’s keeping that from happening.”

“Speculation?”

“Dammit, Jim. I’m a doctor, not a parapsychologist,” McCoy scoffed.

A whisper of breeze brushed Kirk’s sweating face and he caught the scent of alstroemeria. “Yeoman.” Kirk smiled, in spite of the dire situation.

“I brought you some coffee, Captain,” said the flaxen-haired Rand.

With a nod of thanks, Kirk took the cup. Swigging down a burning gulp, he grimaced and passed it back into her waiting hands.

The turbolift doors wooshed open and a tall blue-uniformed woman came onto the bridge. Nurse Christine Chapel, with her fragile beauty and perpetual air of sweet sadness, stared at the viewscreen, at the languid figure of Mr. Spock. Her affections for the Vulcan were one-sided and she knew it, but that didn’t – couldn’t – change the way she felt.

“Is he… alive?” she gasped.

“Oh, yes, he’s alive, though I don’t for the life of me see how,” groaned the doctor. “Is everything ready?”

“Sick bay is prepared to receive him, once he…  If he…” Her voice broke.

“Instructions?” asked Mr. Sulu.

“We wait,” Kirk said softly.

* * *

Spock was aware of his surroundings: the blue on blue of the atmosphere, the tiny flickers of photonic action that silently sparked all around his body. That was what kept him alive, he surmised. He understood the tenuousness of his situation, how unviable it was for him to be where he was, how he was. His logical mind railed against the absurdity, yet another part of him rejoiced. This was freedom as he had never known it before. And not just the freedom of his unfettered body but freedom of his mind as well. For the first time in his long life, the relentless war between his logic and his baser self, his Vulcan ancestry with its emotional overload that nearly annihilated his entire race, was silenced. He was at peace.

Yet even in his altered state, he knew the peace could not last. As joyous as the tranquility was, it was still a prison, and a prisoner’s first obligation is to escape. This was no exception. He must throw off that velvet embrace and return to his ship with the information he had gathered about the planet’s strange inhabitants. From what he could tell, they were a race of amorphous empaths. Maybe if he communicated with them, they would set him free.

My mind to your mind, he began. My thoughts to your thoughts…

 * * *

“I’m getting something, Captain,” Uhura exclaimed.

Kirk made it to her side in two long strides. “Put it on speaker,” he commanded.

Uhura adjusted her earpiece and touched the brightly lit panel in front of her. A burst of static whined throughout the bridge.

“There is quite a bit of interference,” Uhura reported.

Kirk strained to hear through the buzz, anything.. a word… a sigh. And finally there it was: a voice, robotic and tinny yet definitely that of Spock.

“What’s he saying?” McCoy mused.

Kirk leaned in closer. “Can you clear it up, Lieutenant?”

“I’m trying.”

A few bursts of earsplitting noise, then the noise tuned out, leaving only the voice. Four words, repeated over and over like code:

“Beam me up Scotty…”

 

 

 

 

9 YEARS SINCE MY LAST DRINK

 

 

Quitting drinking is hard, and doubly so for alcoholics. First off we must detox, a painful, stressful, anxiety-causing process; then we have to change the habit. For those of us whose social persona is built on who we are when we drink, it’s terrifying to try to imagine what we’d be like sober. Changing a drinking habit comes as close to a personal suicide as one can get.

Routine is intrinsic to all of us. It’s what keeps everyday life from descending into chaos. Even if that routine is self-destructive, it is ours. It makes us feel comfortable. It allows us to go on to another day.

When an alcoholic gives up drinking, we throw that routine out the window, and the only way to survive the transition is to trade the drinking life for a better one. You would think that cutting out booze would be enough to achieve that better life – after all, our health is bound to improve and our social life will no longer be fraught with drink-induced arguments and humiliations – but unfortunately it isn’t that simple. Yes, some things will resolve naturally, but what do we do about the persona we have so carefully cultivated over the years? With what do we replace the drinking habit?

I see it as a little like quitting my morning coffee. Each day I wake up, get up, and zombie into the kitchen to make coffee. Over years of repetition, it’s become as natural and necessary as going to the bathroom. But if for some reason, I could no longer drink coffee – say I have anxiety or another medical problem which denies coffee– what then? Waking up, getting up, and zombieing into the kitchen for… nothing? Just to sit at the table and wish I had coffee? Visualize the cup, the brown steaming liquid, the pungent scent? That would be a recipe for crazy, and ignoring all repercussions, I’d be back at the Keurig, hands shaking, counting the seconds until I could feel the hot rush of bitter hit my throat and brain.

So I must replace coffee with a better choice, but here is the clincher – not just “better” but something I can love even more. It may take some experimenting. Maybe it’s a particular tea that when mixed with a spoonful of organic honey makes an enticing drink; not coffee, but potent in its own way. Maybe going for a morning walk or run isn’t the torture I’ve always believed it to be but actually fun and invigorating when done with a friend. There are a million choices, and finding what works is worth the time spent experimenting.

So it is with drinking. Once we’re detoxed, it’s time to begin the search for a life we can love more than drinking. It’s one day at a time at first – one hour – one minute. The urge to drink is insidious. “Cunning, baffling, and powerful…” as it says in the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. But when we consider what has brought us to this place is usually of catastrophic proportions, there’s no place to go but up.

For me (and millions more), AA was the beginning of my answer. In meetings, I could, for one hour, join with others who knew my language. As I honestly shared my story, I gained new insight  into who I really was. It was a safe place where I could test run a new me. AA gave me real tools to help me deal with day to day; it let me find faith and my relationship with a Higher Power. I discovered potential I’d previously discounted because I was too fracked up to carry through. As the symptoms of alcoholism – the lying, cynicism, selfishness, and doubt – peeled away, I began to enjoy life again. (I’m not sure when the fun drinking morphed into merely drinking but it had been a long time.) I began to aspire to, and then accomplish, objectives I had never thought possible.

Today, September 6 2016, is my 9th “birthday”, meaning 9 years ago I took my last drink. Since then I’ve had ups and downs, like everyone. Such is life. But I am no longer unhappy. I have abundant blessings. I do things I am proud of. I have a sense of serenity, meaning I can face whatever comes my way. Sure, I wish I’d win the lottery or write a best-selling novel, but I can live “happy, joyous, and free” without those things.

For anyone who thinks they might have an addiction problem but don’t believe they have the fortitude to deal with it, I encourage you to believe.

I am a miracle.

And so are you.

 

CAT FACE GATE

 

       

     

My husband is a carpenter so, as with the shoemaker whose children had no shoes, we often go with out the repairs and remodels he so artfully does for others. Then one day he built me this cat face gate for our little secret garden.

 

 

CAT’S PAW, THE NEXT CRAZY CAT LADY COZY MYSTERY

     

 

There’s only 2 months and a few days until the launch of my newest Crazy Cat Lady cozy mystery, Cat’s Paw. Yes, I know it took longer than expected, but cat things take time. I think you will be happy with the results, and since the release is in November, I’ll have a boxed set of all 3 Crazy Cat Lady mysteries for the holidays.

Honoring my 2 recent losses, Cat’s Paw will be dedicated simply to all those beloved, precious, wonderful kitties who are no longer with us. I am opening the dedication to anyone whose cat has crossed the Bridge recently, or in the past; to those who are literally lost, and those we will always remember with all our hearts. If you want your kitty included in the book dedication, comment their name to this post by September 15th. All are welcome.

Now to Cat’s Paw, a Crazy Cat Lady cozy mystery :

Lynley Cannon is in trouble again.

It all starts when the sixty-something cat shelter volunteer is invited to the exclusive Cloverleaf Animal Sanctuary art retreat by her college colleague, Simon Bird. The retreat, located on its very own island in the San Juans, is a dream come true for Lynley. The peaceful setting; the precious animals; time spent with Simon who also happens to be heading the sessions: What could possibly go wrong?

Everything!

Things turn from tranquil to terrifying when two women are murdered and Lynley is accused of the crimes. She asserts her innocence, and once cleared, runs home to Portland, but death follows in her wake.

After a third victim is discovered, this time in the city, it comes out that each have had a close link with Simon Bird. Unsure whether her old friend is the target of a heinous plan to rip away everyone he loves or is the killer himself, Lynley must fight through fear, assault, and her own anxiety disorder to survive.

In a twist she never saw coming, it all comes down to cats in this 3rd Crazy Cat Lady mystery.

 

Thanks to everyone who has helped me along the way. Please support my Thunderclap Campaign to promote Cat’s Paw and offering Cats’ Eyes, book 1 of the series, for 0.99 cents through October.

 

Join me in dedicating Cat’s Paw: Beloved kitties who have crossed the Rainbow Bridge

I will be dedicating my new Crazy Cat Lady cozy mystery, Cat’s Paw, (launch November 10th) to all those beloved, precious, wonderful kitties who are no longer with us. I personally have had 2 recent losses and know of several others. I am opening the dedication to anyone whose cat has crossed the Bridge recently, or in the past, to those who are literally lost, and those we will always remember with all our hearts. If you want your kitty’s name included in the dedication, comment their name to this post by September 15th. All are welcome.

 

Cat Poem 

 

They will not go quietly,

 the cats who’ve shared our lives.

 In subtle ways they let us know

 their spirit still survives. 

 

Old habits still make us think

 we hear a meow at the door.

 Or step back when we drop

 a tasty morsel on the floor.

 

Our feet still go around the place

 the food dish used to be,

 And, sometimes, coming home at night,

 we miss them terribly. 

 

And although time may bring new friends

 and a new food dish to fill,

 That one place in our hearts

 belongs to them. . . and always will.

 

By Linda Barnes

Mollie Hunt’s Extremely Informal Newsletter #5

 

Star Trek Cats by Jenny Parks

Mollie Hunt’s Extremely Informal Newsletter

Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer

Cat Tip of the month: It’s common knowledge that a cat’s purr can reduce anxiety and lower high blood pressure in their human companions, but studies show that the low frequency vibration of the purr may also induce bone growth, promote pain relief and help heal tendons and muscles.

Hello friends! I had a wonderful and enlightening time at the Star Trek convention earlier this month. This was a particularly poignant gathering because September 6 is the 50th Anniversary of the premier of the original series. We mourn the loss of those who are no longer with us and celebrate the continuing Star Trek philosophy of hope and diversity.

Book News:  

Cat’s Eyes and Copy Cats are now on Smashwords, “the world’s largest distributor of indie ebooks.” Smashwords offers several different e-formats besides Amazon Kindle such as iPhone, iPod Touch, Sony Reader or Barnes & Noble Nook, and other e-reading devices. They also allow the reader is a 15% to 20% sample of the book for free. I’m excited to become part of their network.

 

Thunderclap Campaign: In anticipation of my new book, Cat’s Paw, I’ve started a promotion of through Thunderclap*.

How it works: It’s free!! Go to my THUNDERCLAP CAMPAIGN page and sign up to pledge your support by clicking one of the buttons. Then on October 26, you will receive a single tweet or post . This is the message you will see:  “Celebrate Mollie Hunt’s upcoming Crazy Cat Lady mystery #3 by getting 1st book in series, Cat’s Eyes for only $0.99.”

The trick is I need at least 100 backers, or no tweets go out at all. Every single signer has a huge effect. Please join my supporters in sharing my message across Twitter, Facebook, and Tumblr all at the same time on Oct. 26.

*Described as crowdsourcing without cash, Thunderclap works by allowing a single message to be mass-shared, flash mob-style, so it rises above the noise of your social networks, helping a single person like me to be heard. “Supporters” agree to share my message by October 26; on that date, the message is blasted out on Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr, leading to massive social reach and amplification.

 

Cover Reveal and Contest for Cat’s Paw, a Crazy Cat Lady Mystery #3.

Can you guess which wonderful Leslie Cobb cat painting I will be using for the Cat’s Paw cover? Visit Leslie’s website at Cat Art by Leslie Cobb and check out her work, then email me your guess or write it in the comment line of my Cover Reveal Facebook Event page. Correct guesses win 2 signed copies of Cat’s Paw. (Contest ends when I reveal the cover on October 10, 2016)

 

Book Events:

 Conversations with Writers: a Hillsboro, Oregon group that invites writers to read and tell about their work and their writing methods. September 26, 2016  7:00 pm – 9:00 pm. Hillsboro Main Library, 2850 Brookwood Pkwy, Hillsboro

“Changing the World Through Fiction: Introducing altruism without using soapbox rhetoric (or putting your reader to sleep.)” As a fiction writer, I create an engaging and entertaining story; as an animal rescue advocate, I raise awareness of our companion animals and the ways we can help them. By introducing characters and situations involved with animal welfare into my cozy cat mysteries, my readers come away with more than a pleasant read.

 

Cat’s Paw, a Crazy Cat Lady Mystery #3 Champagne Launch Celebration

November 10, 2016: Another Read Through, 7:00pm. Please join me to celebrate the launch of my 3rd Crazy Cat Lady cozy mystery, Cat’s Paw at our favorite independent bookstore, Another Read Through.

When cat shelter volunteer Lynley Cannon attends an exclusive art retreat at the world-famous Cloverleaf Animal Sanctuary, she gets more than a lesson in drawing. Accused by vigilantes of a shocking double homicide, she persuades them of her innocence and heads home to Portland, but murder follows in her wake. It all comes down to cats in this 3rd Crazy Cat Lady cozy mystery.

 

The Power of the Pen Reading and Book Signing Series. Wednesday, December 7 – Refreshments at 1:30pm – Reading begins at 2:00pm. Courtyard Fountains Senior Living, 1545 SE 223rd, Gresham.

I will have boxed sets of Crazy Cat Lady mysteries #1, #2, #3 for a special price.

 

Recent Blogs:

For The Love Of Star Trek, Part 1:  22 Star Trek conventions later, I’m still going.

Summer Zucchetta Blossoms: Photography

When Someone Dies: Reminding myself that others have blazed the trail across the Bridge makes new loss easier to bear.

 

Thanks for playing along. Feel free to forward. I love hearing comments and suggestions.

Be safe,

 

Mollie Hunt’s Amazon Author Page   www.amazon.com/author/molliehunt

Mollie Hunt’s Website  http://www.lecatts.wordpress.com/

Connect with me on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/MollieHuntCatWriter

 

Copyright © *mollie hunt All rights reserved.