Mollie Hunt's Blog, page 87

CAT MYSTERIES AND MORE: Onward

Cats’ Eyes is live on Kindle. Now if I die tomorrow, all will not be lost. I’ve had nightmares about my kids throwing out my manuscripts along with the old newspapers, magazines and junk mail. Flash drives dumped into a bottom drawer. My laptop recycled. Maybe the guy who wipes the hard drive will stop for a moment to wonder what the Word file, Broken Roses or Placid River Runs Deep or Crazy Cat Lady mysteries, might be. Maybe he’ll open one. Maybe his dad will be a publisher who reads it, loves it and publishes it posthumously. Maybe not.

But now at least one of my stories is safe in the public venue. I breathe a sigh of relief and get ready to dive into more.

Did you like Cats’ Eyes? Because the next Crazy Cat Lady mysteries are on their way. Copy Cat first draft is finished, and Cat’s Paw (working title) is being birthed from my catly imagination as we speak. The other titles I mentioned are happening as well. Because I’ve spent my time writing instead of seeking a publisher, I have produced a good amount of work.

Love doing it.

Love that I did it.

Love that I’m ready to do more.

~Meow~

KITTY HOW-TO INSTRUCTION MANUAL: Happy New Year

My New Year’s Resolutions (and maybe yours)

1. Play with my cats for at least 5 minutes a day.

This might seem like a simple task, but in the work-a-day reality of life, finding a moment of quality playtime may be harder than you think. For instance, kitty wants to play at four in the morning: Not going to happen. Or during kitty’s afternoon nap, you dangle a string in front of one slitted eye; she gives you a look that could turn a Gorgon to stone for disturbing her, and that’s that. Somewhere there is a compromise, but it will probably be on your side. A feather dancer or ribbon toy with a long pole works well while watching TV. A string tucked into your pants-waist like a tail will have kitty chasing you around your kitchen. (Be careful: both string and cat can be tripping hazards.) If your cat plays fetch, you’ve got it made. Unfortunately most cats don’t get the part about bringing the toy back to you for another round.

Play with your cat.

 

2. More brushing.

My cats are beautiful! Win-prizes-at-a-cat-show beautiful. Well, at least, to me. But when I do manage to run a comb through the silken fur, I get tines full of fuzz. This definitely means I should do it more often. I have an assortment of grooming implements, and I’ve found the best approach is to line them all up and go for it. First the wire brush, then the Furminator, then the wire brush again to get the loose under-fur that the Furminator dislodged. Then the combs, one large and one small, to get places like underarms and butt fur. I do the butt last because that’s when the cat usually ends the session. No matter how much they like brushing or how asleep they are when you begin, fiddling with their butt fur is an instant wake-up call.

Brush me.

 

 3. Never take them for granted. (Warning: sad alert)

 One of my cats is old and declining. I love him every day, every minute. When I asked our vet if there was anything I could do, he replied, “Give the King whatever he wants.” I will do that. This will not be my first beloved pet to pass into the Rainbow, but he has been with me the longest. I will cry and mourn when it happens, but until then I will live each day with joy and quiet gratitude that I was allowed these moments of love. Cats teach us things, among them that death is a natural result of life. No denial, no bullshit; just live till we die. Period.

~ Harry ~

I never make more than 3 New Year’s resolutions, even though there are probably many other things I should be trying to get right. But 3 in enough for now. Well, maybe one more:

3.5. Have fun. Be grateful. Be kind. Volunteer. Happy New Year, every day.

 

CAT’S EYES – A Crazy Cat Lady Mystery: IT’S A WRAP!

What if a retired cat-lady found a stolen sixty-eight carat chunk of trouble in her back yard pond? Lynley Cannon is the crazy cat lady, but she’s not quite crazy yet, even though a bizarre connection to a bumbled gem heist and two murders has got her wondering. The cops think she’s the killer, but the real killer is still out there targeting Lynley, herself.

Cats’ Eyes, the first in my Lynley Cannon Crazy Cat Lady mystery series, is now published on Kindle, for all the world to read. As the title promises, Cats’ Eyes is a cat mystery, a cozy with a bite. The scene is set in Portland, Oregon, home of Portlandia, Grimm and Voodoo Donuts. The heroine, nearing sixty, wants nothing more after her shift as a cat shelter volunteer than to relax with her own kitties; maybe work on her Scottish ancestry or check out an antique mall, but it is not to be. Coincidences conspire to hijack Lynley in a darker direction. Will she survive to clean the litter box another day?

Cats’ Eyes is my tenth complete full-length novel but the first to be available to the public. As David Gerrold, mentor and well-known sci-fi author says, the first million words are just practice. I feel a deep connection with Lynley and foresee her and her clowder finding themselves in more plights, pickles and predicaments before their story’s done.

So go ahead, check out Cats’ Eyes at the Amazon website:

http://www.amazon.com/Cats-Eyes-Crazy-Lady-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B00HGQFJLG/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1387854033&sr=8-1&keywords=cats%27+eyes+mollie+hunt

Amazon Prime members can borrow Cats’ Eyes free of charge from the Kindle Owners’ Lending Library.

Learn more about Kindle Owners’ Lending Library.

Don’t have a Kindle? Anyone can read Kindle books with the FREE Kindle app for smartphones and tablets.

And even an author page:  https://www.amazon.com/author/molliehunt

Mollie and her muses.

 

LIFE IN AMBER: A memoir of sorts, part two

My Grandmother, Ethel

The second entry in my mother’s diary jumped an entire year. I must face it; she wasn’t really the diary type. Living with her own mother all her life, (even after she married), she had left the historian-ship to her. My grandmother was quite good at it, quoting names and telling stories until they marched through my head like antique tin soldiers. But my mother, not so much.

My mother, Mary Elizabeth

“01/10/2001…”

I notice her handwriting has become shaky since the last year.

“…The cobra candlestick, Ethel bought after the Lewis and Clark World Fair in 1904. It was in the Chinese exhibit, and after the fair, a lot of items were sold or auctioned…

…The French clock was a wedding present to my grandmother, Mary Lucy Gilbert Mackey- married just before the civil war. 186-?”

She is finding the need to catalogue. Has she foreseen her death in a little under two years? Not yet moved into the assisted living facility where she finished her days like a snail pulled from its shell. A stoic and logical snail, knowing it was the best place for her, but a snail all the same.

Or am I projecting? Did she enjoy the catered dinners and laundry service? Was the comradery of the other residents encouraging in some way? I just assume she would have rather remained in the house her grandfather built, even as it crumbled down around her. But I cannot see through her eyes.

Back to the candlestick and the clock. Why those two items? Were they most important to her or just the beginning of a list she never finished?

I still have them.

       

CATS’ EYES, A Crazy Cat Lady Mystery: Special Agent Denny Paris

Here’s a favorite character from my mystery, Cats’Eyes. Rumor has it that the hunky special investigator will be a reoccurring character throughout all the Crazy Cat Lady Mysteries, rescuing cats and saving Lynley from fates unimagined.

Denny Paris, Humane Investigator for the Northwest Humane Society:

         “Animals everywhere are lucky to have you, Special Agent Paris,” I told him.

Denny’s cat-green gaze slipped self-consciously to the floor and a blush crept over his smile. I could almost hear him say, Aw, shucks, ma’am, in his smooth Washingtonian drawl, but modesty is only one notable thing about Denny Paris, Humane Investigator.

Denny was tall and broad, young and strong: everything an officer of the law should be. He had passed his police exams but had aspired to do more than give parking tickets and bust druggies. And Denny had known right from the start exactly what that was: he wanted to help animals. Denny Paris wanted to be one of the three special agents commissioned by the Governor of Oregon through the Northwest Humane Society to investigate and enforce Oregon’s animal cruelty laws.

It was a tough job. Where volunteers like Frannie and myself saw the happy side of shelter business – adoptions, love, healthy sleek cats, people with smiling faces – Special Agents Denny Paris, Connie Lee, and Frank Dawson were on the other side of the kennel. They saw humanity at its worst, those cruel enough to harm the defenseless and neglect the needy. It was their task to bust puppy mills, free chained dogs, seize starving horses, uncover animal fights, rescue maltreated cats and a plethora of other things that I know go on in the world but really don’t want to put down on paper lest I give such horrendous acts credence.

All three of the agents were amazing, but Denny was a real gem. In spite of the things he encountered in his investigations, he was always smiling, always optimistic. I once asked him how he stayed sane in the face of such depravity, and he told me it was because he knew he was making a difference. As long as those animals were still alive, as long as someone cared enough to step in and report neglect and abuse, he could help. Not all the stories had a happy ending, but he believed that with each personal perseverance against cruelty, the world became a better place, day by day, one creature at a time.

Taken from Cats’ Eyes, by Mollie Hunt. Of course, Denny Paris is a fictional character. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

 

KITTY HOW-TO INSTRUCTION MANUAL: TOY BOX

With the Holidays rearing their inevitable heads, it’s good time to talk about toys, and not the Toys-R-Us consumerist free-for-all, but – what else? – toys for cats. I’ll skip the standard “Do you buy your cats presents?” question – if you’re reading this blog, it’s a given. I’ll try to be more practical: What’s good; what’s not; and how to keep the magic.

But first a story.

My cats open their own Christmas presents. It’s as fun to watch them sniff, bite, and finally tear away the wrapping to find the toy hidden within. My old cat, Harry, who is now 16, knows all about it; the other two are a little more hesitant, but with each passing year, get more enthusiastic. My newest addition had her first Christmas two years ago. She didn’t have a clue. Last year was better; I’m looking forward to this one.

There are lots of cat toys for sale this time of year, all of them cute and attractive, all touting their merits. So what to buy? Know your cat. Attraction to catnip is hereditary, so for some cats, the stinkiest catnip on earth won’t get a rise. For those, find something they can chase. For a sedentary fellow, a treat ball is an entertaining, interesting way to get exercise and earn treats, one kibble at a time. Many cats like chasing laser lights but may find it frustrating when there’s nothing to catch; land the light on a chewable toy and let kitty take it from there. There are many fancy – and expensive – interactive toys as well, some better than others. Before you spend your wad on something kitty may or may not shun, think about whether your cat might be just as happy with a cardboard box.

Because of enthusiastic advertising, it’s important to know what’s safe and what’s not. Like children, kitties chew small parts. (Sometimes not so small) That lovely, lifelike tail on your catnip mouse won’t be so cute stuck in kitty’s colon. Ditto the hard plastic googley eye, though that may pass on its own. Ribbon toys, a favorite with my clowder, can cause problems as well. Choose one with heavy ribbon that can’t easily be torn away by sharp kitty teeth. And make sure they are soft; some ribbons have razor edges that can cut kitty’s mouth.

So you’ve spent many hard-earned dollars on just the perfect toy, and after kitty has played with the wrapping, the ribbon, and – yes – even the toy itself, she begins to ignore it as if it were doggie-do. Does she hate it? In your human ineptitude, did you choose the wrong thing? The answer is no. And the solution could be as simple as a time out. (For the toy, not your cat) We have a toy box. It’s on the floor so the cats can get something if they want it, but  usually it’s just a matter of switching out. Put a few toys out at a time, and when you notice them gathering dust in the corner, replace them with something else. Tired of the round mouse? Swap with the catnip body pillow, etc.

And remember the most important ingredient to your cat’s play is you.

Happy happy from Dirty Harry, Big Red, Little, Tinkerbelle and Mollie!

 

 

PLACID RIVER RUNS DEEP, an Ember MacKay Mystery

When Ember MacKay learns she has a life-threatening illness, she flees to the old Placid River cabin, but instead of solace, she finds mayhem, murder and a revenge plot that has waited a generation to unfold.

And now for something completely different from Mollie Hunt…

Well, not completely. Placid River Runs Deep is a full-length murder mystery, as is Cats’ Eyes, but this story revolves around Ember MacKay, thirty-something professional who has recently been diagnosed with hepatitis C, a chronic disease that affects the liver and never ends well.

Ember decides a retreat is in order, so she goes to the cabin in the woods she inherited from her grandmother. It’s a lovely place, right on the bucolic Placid River. There, she will have time and space to process her grim news, and since it happens to be the Independence Day holiday, she’ll have company if she wants it in the form of the River Lane neighbors she’s known since she was a child.

Handsome Grayson Tanner hasn’t seen Ember since they were kids on the river, but they have no trouble starting up where they left off. He knows about hepatitis C and is more than sympathetic to Ember’s plight. When three bizarre murders shred the serenity of

the close-knit community, Ember puts her health concerns aside to collaborate with

Gray on finding out why. What they discover is a scheme so unthinkable they pass it off as pure fancy. By the time Gray realizes Ember is next in line to be killed, it may already be too late.

Why am I telling you all this? Because I’m currently finishing my final edit of Placid River Runs Deep to enter in a contest for publication. I couldn’t enter Cats’ Eyes, because the contest is only for unpublished work, and Cats’ Eyes is due to come out any minute now. Wish me luck, friends.

And a cat….

 

LIFE THROUGH AMBER: a memoir of sorts

For Christmas 1999, I gave my mother a journal with a drawing of a cat on the cover and a nice pen to write with. She was 88 at the time. Her words are pictures in my mind, soft, subtle, compelling. A window into a different time.

What follows is her first entry:

“January 1, 2000.

So – Happy New Year!

I remember my grandmother celebrated by going out on the front porch and beating on the dishpan with one of the big metal spoons. Also in later years, Grover and Leonard, who lived across the street, shot off their gun. One shot in the dark, but we all knew the New Year had arrived.”

I am 61. My mother was 40 at the time of my birth. When she writes about her grandmother, that puts it back at the beginning of the century. (Twentieth, not twenty-first) It’s hard to comprehend how different things are now. Not just the iPhones and the Smart Cars; there was another mind-set. Local thinking centered on home. Advertising has tweaked our perception, as has the tremendous population growth that has led neighborhoods to fracture and families to become “dysfunctional”. He change is huge. Hers was a whole other life.

I’m not speaking from the sepia mist of nostalgia; much good has come from the metamorphosis. Better health; fewer rapes; an era where a sixty-year-old woman could “speak her mind” to strangers all over the world, and some of them will listen.

But back to that lady on the porch banging her wash pan and her granddaughter watching. Can you hear her? Can you be her? Can you see who she is? What did she have for dinner? What did she do with her time? (No TV, remember) Did she have an inner tiger that no one was allowed to see?

And the little girl – what did she think she would be when she grew up? Anything other than a housewife would have been unusual. Yet she probably felt appreciated. She probably felt safe. I know she felt loved.

I also know she grew up to be a tiger in her own right.

 

CATS’ EYES: A Crazy Cat Lady Mystery UPDATE

      

Update:  Things are falling into place. My editor is excited; we are working on the cover art. Acknowledgment page is under way. Here is a preview:

“My name is Lynley Cannon and I am the crazy cat lady, only I’m not crazy yet. I swear. Everything I say is true, though it may seem like the wildest fiction. It does to me, now that I look back, starting when Fluffs discovered the stone. But I’m getting ahead of myself. How are you to know what led up to that unfortunate find or its dire consequences? Hell, at the time I didn’t even know myself and could never have guessed.

      I am fifty-eight years of age, and life in the slow lane has been pretty serene. Quietly happy, or happily quiet, whichever you choose. I’d had a good run in my youth – sex, drugs, rock n’ roll— but I was over it. Too much trouble. Too much drama. Too much bullshit. I have better things to do.

     Which brings me to the cats. I don’t know where I got the reputation of being a crazy cat lady; I only have seven in my care at the moment. And two aren’t even mine but fosters from FOF, Friends of Felines, the shelter where I volunteer. One is named Addison and he’s here to recover from a kitty cold. The other is Fluffs.

     Fluffs’ is a sad tale gone good. Originally she came to me for a few precious weeks of hospice before she passed on. It had been so poignant, bringing home the dying cat, the scrawny gray with chronic kidney failure, to give her some last, best moments of TLC. But it soon became apparent that nobody had bothered to tell Fluffs her time was up. That was months ago and she’s still going strong.

     Fraulein Fluffs isn’t the name I would have chosen for a cat, but it was the name she came with and at twelve-plus, there was no going back. I accepted her as she was, though I admit to calling her Fluffo when no one else was listening. She allowed the silly pet name as long as it was accompanied by affection and food. I treated Fluffs as the treasure she was. And then one day she found a treasure of her own.

     Mondays are always busy. Now that I’m retired, I seem to be busier than ever. I’m finally doing all the things I used to think about when I was at work but never did because I was always too tired when I got off. That Monday was no exception. After yoga and a brisk walk around the park with the senior ladies, I spent some time on the computer compiling my Scottish heritage, the Mackey family tree. Got to get it all down before I pop off in case anyone’s interested. My daughter isn’t – Lisa’s too busy in the here-and-now – but maybe someday my granddaughter will take a break from her texting and her iPod and whatever else might be invented for sedentary self-gratification long enough to wonder where she came from. When that time comes, I want to be ready.

     I was in the midst of a particularly difficult connection between a great-uncle and a third-cousin-once-removed when I heard a clink and then the clackity-clack of a sharp-sided object rolling across the hardwood floor. It stopped, then started up, then stopped again, creating just enough distraction to turn my attention from the quandary of my ancestors to the question of what was making the noise.

     Cat toy, I thought to myself. But which one, and who was playing? Can’t be Red— Big Red was seventeen pounds of muscled tabby dynamite; when he played, he sounded like a dancing elephant. Dirty Harry, the black and white, didn’t play much anymore; he was getting on in years and preferred to sleep in his donut or his cupboard by the TV. And when Harry did sport around, it was with the little female, Little. Though Little, an all-black panther-shadow with daring yellow eyes, was half his size, they boxed and wrangled like tigers. Violet, who got her name from her gray-violet coat, didn’t play at all because she was what veterinarians call morbidly obese, which for us laymen, translates into as wide as she was long. Solo was just that: a singular beauty. White as a ghost, she lived an almost-feral life out of sight of human eyes. Addison, the fourteen-year-old black male I mentioned earlier, was in quarantine. That left only…

     “Fluffo?”

I tracked the enigmatic sound, not raucous enough to be the plastic bell-ball but too irregular to be the walnut. Down the stairs, through the hallway, and there she was, batting something small and glittery into a corner.

     “What have you got?” I said softly as I crossed the room. When she heard me, she stopped dead in the middle of a serve and looked up with big guilty eyes. Her paw covered the item, pressing it down with the gentle firmness she might have used on a baby mouse.

     I bent over and scooped the object out from under her. Fluffs gave me a look that could have frozen fire and stalked off in the opposite direction.

     “Fluffs,” I called apologetically but I knew it was no use. She was miffed, and then she was gone.

     Shaking the thing in my hand, I felt the smooth, oily heaviness of stone. Opening my palm, I glimpsed it for the first time.

     I’d like to say I had a premonition of fate at that historic moment, a frisson of expectancy, a sense of Things to Come, but I didn’t. My only thoughts on the brown agate with the dark slash through the center were How pretty!”