As you probably know, tales of fairies and the like fill Irish folklore. There are two kinds of fairies, the sociable kind and the solitary kind. Leprechauns are of the solitary variety, avoiding contact with humans, other fairies and even other leprechauns. Leprechauns are, of course, superb shoemakers. Being thrifty by nature, they are charged with the task of guarding the fairy treasures. It is said that you can find a leprechaun either by the sound of his shoemaker’s hammer, or at the end of a rainbow guarding his pot of gold.

Hundreds of years ago, my great, great, great Grandfather, Paddy Mac Cool of the Mac Cool Leprechaun clan came to realize there was an easier way for leprechauns to make their way in life. He observed how house cats, for the most part, enjoyed a life of leisure. Since leprechauns can change their shape, he turned himself into a handsome, ginger cat and set about finding an Irish household that would keep him in the fashion he felt was his due.

His search had taken him on a long journey and he was in need of a meal. As his Irish luck would have it, he came upon a young lad tending his sheep. Seeing that the lad was about to eat his lunch, he approached, and in his most charming voice, said, “Good day, to young sir.”

Of course the youngster was surprised to hear a cat speak. To his credit, he did not panic, but replied, “And what is it I can do for you, Mr. Cat?”

“My name is Paddy Mac Cool,” Paddy replied. “I have been on a long journey seeking a proper home, I couldn’t help noticing you were about to have your mid-day meal and I was wondering if you would be so kind as to share it with a weary traveller.”

“You are welcome to be my guest, Paddy Mac Cool. My meal is but a poor one, at best and probably not up to your standards,” said the boy, “however, I would be glad to share it with you.”

They shared the young lad’s meal. When the time came for Paddy to thank his host and be on his way, the shepherd said, “It will be late soon and not safe to travel. My home is humble, but it is dry and warm and you can rest there for the night in safety.”

Paddy saw the wisdom of this and replied, “I am honoured to be the houseguest of such a kind and generous host.”

Together they herded the sheep back to their enclosure and settled them in for the night. To repay the youngster, Paddy sprinkled fairy dust over the sheep in order that they would rest peacefully for the night.

The shepherd’s home turned out to be a tiny cottage; sparse of furnishings save for a table, chair and a rough, wooden bed. It did have a fireplace in which the lad set about making a fire and cooking them another meal. After eating, they settled before the fire and talked.

“You have not told me your name, young sir.” Paddy remarked.

“I have no identity now,” the lad said sadly. “I was kidnapped by Irish raiders from my homeland, and brought here as a slave.”

“I see,” Paddy replied, “Have you not tried to return to your homeland?”
“I have, but they always find me and bring me back,” the lad said, wistfully, with a faraway look, as though he could see an image of his home and family. Then he sighed as he added, “There is no use in my trying.”

After cleaning up the table and fluffing the lone blanket on the cot, he said, “We best be getting some sleep. I must rise early to tend the sheep. You may take my cot for the night. I shall sleep here on the floor.”

Before the lad went to sleep, Paddy saw him kneel before a cross on the wall made of twigs.

“Our Father in heaven,” the boy prayed, “thank you for this beautiful day; for keeping my flock safe; for my food and my shelter, and for bringing me my new friend, Paddy Mac Cool, with whom I have shared this day. May you keep him safe on his journey and may he find that for which he searches. Bless us this night, Father, and all the days of our lives. Amen.”

Although this was by no means the destiny that he had sought, Paddy was so taken by the kindness and generosity of his new found friend that he devised a plan.

The next day when the youngster woke, they were no longer in the cottage, but on a ship bound for Britain. In payment for the lad”s many kindnesses, Paddy Mac Cool, the Magic Leprechaun Cat, with a wave of his magic paw, had brought about the escape that the boy had been unable to accomplish in the past.

The lad returned home, together with his cat. After a prophetic dream, the boy, now grown to manhood, returned to Ireland, not as slave, but as St. Patrick, who is credited with converting Ireland to Christianity. He became the beloved, patron saint of the Emerald Isle. A little know fact is that accompanying St. Patrick everywhere he went was a handsome ginger cat.

St. Patrick died on March 17. So, every year on March 17, in honour of St. Patrick and my great, great, great Grandfather Paddy Mac Cool, Magic Leprechaun Cats everywhere become the most social of fairies. I ask you, knowing what you now know, can you be after separating the Magic Leprechaun Cats from St. Patrick’s Day? I be thinking you cannot. Of all the symbols of this festive holiday, the most recognized is the Magic Leprechaun Cat dressed in green finery, guarding his pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

“And why does everyone wear green on St. Patrick’s Day?” you ask. This is the way of it. The Irish believe that Magic Leprechaun Cats remain hidden because they blend so well into the green of the Irish countryside. So, green became associated with all things Irish and especially St. Patrick’s Day.

It was not until after Irish humans, together with Magic Leprechaun Cats, settled in the United States in a city named Boston, and faced serious discrimination, that they decided to be ‘getting their Irish up’, so to speak. Green is the colour of Ireland, so on St. Patrick’s Day everything is green; the beer, the hats, the shamrocks worn in their lapels, their clothes, and in the city of Chicago even the river turns green for the day.

Occasionally, just for the fun of it, Magic Leprechaun Cats like to revert to some of their old, mischievous habits. One favourite St. Patrick’s Day habit is to pinch unsuspecting humans on the behind, when they are not looking. The only remedy for this problem is to wear green. Since wearing green makes Magic Leprechaun Cats invisible, it is believed if you wear green, they cannot see you either.

© Finn McCool, the Magic Leprechaun Cat. All rights reserved.
Illustrations by Cheyenne Booker – All rights reserved

Floyd the Dog has donated Euro – 44.27 (US$ 60.29 UK £39.50) to: “Cause for Paws”, Florida, U.S.A.

First published by www.floydthedog.com

A revered Irish Christmas tradition is the “Candle in the Window”, meant to light the way for the Holy Family and for any poor traveler looking for shelter.

This is the Christmas story of a young Irish girl, named Mary, a tiny Fairy Princess named, Realta, a Magic Leprechaun Kitten named Niall and a very special Candle in the Window.
* * *
Realta hurried through the church yard sheltered in a grove of trees to her home on the Hill of Tara. It was just beginning to snow as she entered the Fairy Underworld through a secret passage at the base of one of the ancient trees. Once through the portal, she was within a beautiful, sunlit glen, full of flowers and a rushing waterfall whose waters filled a deep blue pond. Everywhere, fairies filled the air, only Realta was bound to the earth, for she had no wings.

Soon, she stood before her home, a beautiful crystal palace that sparkled in the sunlight.

“Where have you been, Realta?” her mother, Fairy Queen Oona, asked, as Realta passed the queen’s parlor on her way to her room.

“I have been to the Wishing Steps,” Realta replied. “To wish for wings, so I can fly.”

“It is no use wishing for wings, Realta, they must be earned.”

“Yes, I know, but how shall I earn them?”

“The Fates will provide you a way when you are ready,” Queen Oona replied, lovingly. “It takes a brave heart to earn one’s wings. Perhaps, you should not be so hasty.”

“Do you know what day it is in the Land Above, Mother?” Realta asked.

“It is the day the humans call Christmas Eve. Why do you ask?”

“Fairy Godmother, Solas, has told me that great magic happens at Christmas,” Realta said. “Is it only humans who experience this magic?”

“I’m afraid so, for we do not celebrate the day.”
“I see,” Realta said dejectedly. “May I have your permission to go to the church and watch the Christmas service?”

“Yes, of course.”

In the Land Above, another small child, 5-year-old, Mary McCarty, stood admiring the large white candle on the window ledge. Its base surrounded by a wreath of holly.

“This evening, Mary, you will light the candle,” her Mother, Elisabeth said. “Because your name is Mary, the same as the Mother of the Baby Jesus, it is a special honor for you to light the candle.”

Pointing to the manager scene set beneath the Christmas tree that lacked the figures of the Holy Family, she continued, “The light from the candle is meant to show them the way to shelter, so they will have a place to stay when the Baby Jesus is born.”

“Now, Mary” her mother went on, “You must lie down for your nap; otherwise, you will be too tired to show the Baby Jesus to his home. Come, I will tuck you in.”

Mary could not sleep. She slipped from her bedroom. She could hear her mother singing a Christmas Carol as she prepared the evening meal. Mary stood before the manger scene. Proudly, she thought about how lighting the candle would bring the Holy Family safely home.

Suddenly, Mary felt a draft. She turned to the front door and saw that it had been left open a wee bit. She also saw a tiny, white kitten poke its head inside and look around.

“Kitten!” shouted a delighted Mary to her Mother. The call was lost in the din of clanking pots and her Mother’s singing. Mary ran to the door but in doing so scared the kitten. It ran across the yard and into the woods.

“Kitten, come back!” Mary called, and without thinking, ran out the door and into the woods. Soon, Mary was lost.

Realta emerged from the Land Below into a winter wonderland. The snow now covered the ground. Light as a feather, she was able to walk on its surface without leaving a single footprint. As she came around an old tree stump, she was knocked down by a bundle of white fur rushing through the woods. She picked herself up and came face to face with a white kitten with enormous blue eyes.

Frightened, she begged, “Oh, please don’t eat me, kitten!”

Instead of attacking her, the kitten, seeing she wore a crown on her head, replied, “I would never do that Fairy Princess. My deepest apologies, I hope you are not hurt.”
“My name is Realta and I am not hurt, thank you,” Realta replied. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

“My name is Niall, the Magic Leprechaun Kitten. I have done a terrible thing,” Niall said woefully. “I was to go to the McCarty home and endear myself to the young girl, Mary, so she would take me in and give me a home. It’s what we Magic Leprechaun Cats do.”

“What’s so bad about that?” Realta asked.

“When Mary saw me, her cries of delight scared me and I ran off into the woods.” Niall paused, and then added, “Unfortunately, Mary followed me and now she is lost. I fear she will not be found in time.”

“We must hurry and save her, Niall,” Realta declared. “But, as you can see, I have no wings to fly.”

“Hop onto my back and I will carry you,” Niall said.

Realta climbed onto the Niall’s back. Holding onto his furry ruff, she rode him to where he had left Mary. She was nowhere in sight. Now, it was dark. How would they find her?

“Listen,” Niall said. A whimpering cry was coming from just over a small hill. Quickly, he carried them towards the sound. There, huddled under a tree, was Mary. Cautiously, they approached.

Through her tears, Mary thought she saw the white kitten and on its back, a fairy. She’d heard stories of the little people, but they were just stories, she’d been told, not real.

“Please don’t be afraid, Mary” Realta said, softly. “Niall, the Magic Leprechaun Kitten, is sorry he got you lost. We’ve come to help you.”

“I’m so cold,” Mary cried. “I want to go to sleep.”

“No! Mary! You mustn’t go to sleep,” Realta said, urgently, as she jumped from Niall’s back and ran to the stricken child.

Just then, a terrible wailing came from deep in the woods.

“It is the White Lady and the Banshees; they’ve come for the child’s soul.” Realta said the fright evident in her voice. “How can we stop them, we are so small?”

“I will stop them,” Niall said.

As a white mist in the shape of a woman, surrounded by wailing beasts, floated toward them, Niall said, “Realta, stay with Mary.”
Niall is Gaelic for knight, a champion, and so he would be, for a Magic Leprechaun Cat has the power to change his appearance and in the blink of an eye, the kitten became a knight in shining armor with a magic sword powerful enough to send the evil spirits back from where they came. With one swipe of Niall’s magic sword, the evil spirits were gone.

Just then, they could hear people calling Mary’s name. But, they were headed in the wrong direction.

“Oh, if only I could fly,” said Realta, “I could lead them by my fairy light to Mary.”

It was then she heard the voice of her Fairy Godmother, Solas, “You have been brave in the face of great danger, Realta, fly and save the child for I grant you your wings.”

There appeared on Realta’s back a pair of shimmering, gossamer wings.

“Go, Realta, I will stay with Mary and keep her warm,” Niall said, once more a furry white kitten.

And so, Realta flew swiftly through the darkness.

“They must believe in the power of my fairy light to lead them to Mary,” Realta thought silently

“Look there!” Mary’s mother called to her husband, Michael. “I see a fairy light. We must follow it!”

Realta’s light retreated back into the woods, followed by Mary’s parents. As they crossed over the crest of the hill, they heard a kitten mewing loudly. Then, by the light of their lantern, they saw Mary, the white kitten cuddled close to keep her warm. The fairy light was gone.

Mary’s Father carried her home wrapped in warm blankets, the kitten in Mary’s arms.

Magically, Mary had survived without any ill effects, save for a wild story of a Fairy Princess name Realta and a Magic Leprechaun Kitten named Niall.

Once home and with her Mother’s hand to steady hers, Mary lit the candle. Christmas Day the manger would be home to the Holy Family led to the McCarty house by Mary’s candle in the window.

©Finn McCool, the Magic Leprechaun Cat, 2009
Illustrations by Cheyenne Booker – All rights reserved
First published by www.floydthedog.com

* * *

Kevin Kirkpatrick limped his way up the lane to the farmhouse he called home. Halfway down the lane, his lame leg gave way pitching him to the ground. Hearing voices approaching, he hurried to right himself, but before he could muster the strength to stand his stepbrothers Liam and Peter came around the corner running and laughing.

“Oh,” said Liam, “now look what we have here. If it isn’t our dear stepbrother, Kevin, flat on his face again.”

“He is a clumsy one, is he not, Liam?” Peter said.

“He is indeed,” Liam replied. “Up with you, man, there are chores to be done.”

Without offering to help Kevin, the two ran off laughing as they went.

Fate had dealt Kevin a bit of a raw deal. His mother had died while giving birth to him. A lack of oxygen to his brain at birth had caused Kevin to be born with certain abnormalities; among them was the inability to balance himself correctly resulting in his falling, one such fall resulting in a broken hip, which accounted for his lameness.

Though his physical capabilities were limited, Kevin had a sharp mind and a good heart, especially to others that were looked down on, as he was, intervening at risk to himself when bullies would try to intimidate them and where animals at risk were concerned.

Kevin struggled to right himself. As he rose from the ground, a blast of cold October wind caused him to pull his wool coat tight around him. Soon it would be Shamhna, the Celtic festival that celebrated the end of the months of light, summer, and the beginning of the dark days of winter. It was a time, he had been told, when the line between earth and the spirit world became very thin and spirits walked the earth once more. Evil spirits, which were the reason people dressed in costumes to disguise themselves hoping to chase the evil spirits away. Like all Irishmen, Kevin had a healthy respect for the spirit world and its inhabitants. Though he had never seen them, rumor was the woods around his farm at the edge of the Hill of Tara were full of spirits.

He laughed a bit at this thought and checked around him for any wee folk that might be having a laugh on him. There were none that he could see, so he made his way slowly to the farmhouse, stopping to stroke the nose of Petal, their cow, who always waited for his arrival home.

“Quit your dallying, lad,” his father, Arthur, shouted from the barn door. “Chores need doing.

‘Yes, father, “Kevin replied, “I’ll be out as soon as I put up my books.”

Kevin’s father had remarried soon after his mother’s death. The object of which was not love, but to have someone to take care of his abnormal child. Knowing this was the case, there was no love lost between Kevin and his stepmother, Margaret, who found Kevin’s disabilities shameful, saying they were a curse upon him.

From his earliest years, Kevin suffered her indifference and cruelty. His father, lost in his own world fueled by a love of the drink, paid him little mind and offered no relief from Kevin’s sad, lonely life. While his stepbrothers were treated as princes, Kevin was treated as their servant.

Soon he would graduate. A brilliant student he hoped to become a teacher some day. But, that would require a higher education that he would not be entitled to under the circumstances.

As Kevin entered the house he heard his stepmother and stepbrothers talking excitedly.

“’Tis exciting, indeed it is,” Margaret said, holding a parchment invitation in her hand. “The king has invited all the young, eligible men of the county to a Halloween Costume Ball held in honor of his daughter, Catherine, who is home from school. It is hoped she will find someone to marry among the eligible bachelors.

“Of course, we know it will be one of you she chooses…” and they all laughed in glee at the prospect of one of them becoming Prince of the Realm.

Kevin sighed, placed his books on his night table and went out the back door to the stable. Given his inability to walk normally, it was for sure a dance was not in his future, nor was being a prince of anything but the stable yard.

“About time you showed up,” his father said. “Two of the sheep got out and I need you to be finding them. Be quick about it.”

Kevin headed into the woods bordering the farm. He called to the sheep, which he had raised from lambs and who knew his voice.

As he approached the stream, he heard a scream and something thrashing in the water. He hurried as best he could to the edge of the water. There stood a horse and from the water came shouts of help from what appeared to be a young woman.

Though he was clumsy on land, Kevin could swim effortlessly. He quickly removed his shoes and heavy jacket, dove into the icy waters and swam to the young women, who was about to pass out and drown. Quickly, he got her to shore, where he wrapped her in his coat.

For just a moment he caught a glimpse of her beautiful face.

Suddenly, out of the woods, the king’s soldiers appeared mounted on their horses.

“What is this?” said the soldier in charge, as he dismounted from his horse and ran to the young girl’s side.

“I am not sure,” Kevin replied. “I heard her cry for help and found her in the stream. Since you are here to care for her, I must go.”

Before, they could say more, Kevin put on his shoes and started to leave.

“Who are you?” the soldier asked as Kevin retreated into the woods.

“I am nobody.” was Kevin’s reply and he was gone.

In spite of the cold, but afraid to go home without the sheep, Kevin searched on calling as he went. He found them a short way up the hill and herded them into their shelter, then finished his chores and snuck into the house, not wanting to have to answer for his wet clothes or his missing coat.

The next couple of weeks the only talk in the house was of the Halloween Ball.

For Kevin nothing changed. Word had gotten round that Princess Catherine had been thrown from her horse trying to cross the stream and been rescued by a young man that no one seemed to know.

So, now, at least, he knew the beautiful girl’s name.

Soon, Shamhna was upon them. Kevin stepbrothers, dressed in the finest attire their father could purchase for them, set off for the castle and the Halloween Ball., their mother at their side.

For Kevin, it would be another evening doing chores and then early to bed.

As he finished his chores, he heard a strange melodious sound coming from the woods. It was already dark, so he took a torch and lit it. Cautiously, he entered the woods.

Once inside the woods, the darkness closed in on him, but the sound persisted, now coming from the direction of the stream. Soon, he was at the spot where he had rescued the princess.

There, sitting on the bank, was a golden, ginger cat playing a flute. He was dressed in a green suit much like the locals described leprechauns as wearing with a hat to match.

“Ah, good sir,” he heard the cat say as he stood at the edge of the woods. “I see you like my music and have come to hear me play my song.”

When Kevin did not come forward, the cat said, “Is it not Shamhna that we celebrate this fine eve?”

When Kevin again did not respond, the cat said with a laugh, “Cat got your tongue, lad?

“Not to worry,” the cat continued. “I am not an evil sprit roaming the night. I am Seamus Mac Cool, Magic Leprechaun Cat, at your service, fine sir.” And the cat rose and bowed to the young man.

“What is it you want, Sir Seamus?” Kevin asked.

“I want for nothing,” Seamus replied. “Tonight is the night for guising (trick or treating). There is someone waiting to give you your guise. Please follow me.”

The cat moved off, but Kevin did not follow, for suddenly there were strange sounds coming from the direction the cat was headed…scary sounds.

“Do not be afraid, though evil spirits lurk, my magic will protect you…come, follow me.

“If you had one wish, my lad, what would it be?” the cat asked as they walked.

Silence followed.

Then, Kevin replied, “If I had one wish…I would like to know my mother.”

“You would not wish to be cured, or rich, or famous?” the cat asked.

“No, they mean nothing. It is to my mother I owe my life. She gave hers for me. It is she that means everything to me.” Kevin said, curious why the cat would ask.

Soon they came upon a clearing. It was lit by the moon, the heavens full of stars. A shimmering pond sat in its midst. The night air was filled with a flowery fragrance and tiny lights flittered though the air. From out of the woods emerged a white horse. It wore the most beautiful gold saddle and bridle. On its back sat a beautiful woman. Her hair was long and golden like the sun, her skin fair. Her eyes were blue as the summer sky. She wore a gossamer gown and was bathed in light.

“Go to the lady, Kevin, for she is an angel and your mother.”

Kevin voice was filled with anger. “It cannot be! You are fooling me, for she is dead.”

“Tonight, Kevin, the line between earth and heaven is thin. Spirits, not just evil ones, but heavenly ones also, may cross,” said the cat. “I am not in the business of fooling those for whom I am charged with their care. For too long I have watched you live in silent agony, never complaining. But, Fate has seen fit to change your lot in life and it is your mother’s spirit that shall bring it about…go to her, Kevin.

“Come, Kevin, though I am no longer with you in life, I am forever with you in spirit.” the beautiful woman said as she came to him and embraced him. Her love for him flowed through him and he felt something he had never felt in his life…whole again.

When she stepped away he was changed forever. The once awkward body was strong, his legs no longer weak beneath him, his dress that of a prince.

“Tonight, Kevin, you will ride this fine horse to the king’s castle” she said with love in her voice. “You will win the heart of the princess and you will become the kind, benevolent ruler of this land for that is your destiny”.

Kevin mounted the horse and was carried swiftly to the castle’s gate.

“Who is this approaching the castle,” said the guard.

“I do not know, “

But, without hesitation, they let him enter.

There was silence in the ballroom as Kevin made his entrance. The dancing had not yet begun.

Kevin crossed the ballroom floor unimpeded. He stopped before the throne where the king, queen and Catherine sat. At Catherine’s feet sat Seamus Mac Cool, the Magic Leprechaun Cat. He gave Kevin an encouraging smile.

Bowing to the king, Kevin said, “May I have the honor of the first dance with your lovely daughter?”

“And, who might you be, young sir,” the king asked, “that you may be so bold as to ask to dance with my daughter?”

“I am Kevin Kirkpatrick, your majesty, a simple farm boy masquerading as a prince”.

In the king’s heart a voice spoke and the king said, “Then, it is my honor, Sir Kevin, that you should have the first dance with my beloved daughter, Catherine.”

Catherine smiled. Before she rose, she reached to the table next to her throne. From off it she took a worn, woolen coat.

Standing she beckoned him to come to her. Handing him the coat, she said. “I believe this is yours, brave sir. I am forever in your debt for saving my life. For a moment, that day, my eyes opened and I saw your handsome face. I have loved you from that very moment, my prince.

© Finn McCool, the Magic Leprechaun Cat. All rights reserved.
First published by www.floydthedog.com

The tiny tortoiseshell kitten made her way cautiously through the night, staying close to the houses and shrubs, hoping not to be seen. Even though she had no idea where she was going, she felt the need to keep on moving, if only to keep warm. A sudden blast of wind almost blew her over, the cold penetrating her thin kitten coat making her cry out in misery.

Her plight was all the more difficult because one of her eyes had closed tight, covered by mucous from an eye infection. Able to see out of only one good eye, every movement around her, even if only of a leaf or a scrap of paper, was terrifying. The rustling that something large made as it moved through the bushes just behind her, caused her to curl up and cringe, hoping that whatever it was would not see or hurt her. When she thought it was safe, she moved on again, even more cautiously than before, certain that danger lurked everywhere.

She came to a street corner. Which way should she go? As she started to cross the road, she was caught in the beam of headlights from a car that appeared suddenly from around the corner. For a moment she froze in her tracks, the car gaining on her; but the driver had seen a movement in front of him and slammed on his brakes. The sound roused the kitten out of her stupor and sent her scurrying across the road out of harm’s way.

Within the safety of a large bush she huddled, too scared to move. Then she saw two rats working their way along the path she had chosen. It was obvious they were not good friends. They spat angrily at each other. One quickly headed off in another direction. The other continued towards where she lay. The kitten remained motionless, afraid to breath.

Further up the street another cat, named Scooter, had just finished a meal that he had eaten in a heated outdoor feeding area provided by a human for stray cats and other animals that lived in the vicinity. There were other cats that lived there both inside the house and outside. All were well taken care of and even he, an outdoor cat, was the recipient of tasty treats given him by the human.

Scooter felt a little exercise was in order and, having been warmed by the food, was ready for a walk.
Meanwhile, the kitten backed away as the rat approached. The leaves rustled just enough to attract the rat’s attention.

“What have we here?” the rat asked, seeing the kitten huddled under the bush. He bared his teeth and let out a low hiss. “A little late for someone your age to be out, don’t you think?” He added in a menacing voice.

The kitten was too frightened to reply. The rat moved towards her but, before he could take another step, a deep rumbling growl came from behind him. Quickly, the rat turned and came face-to-face with a large dog. The rat barred his teeth and returned the dog’s menacing look with one of his own.

“Get out of my yard!” the dog growled.

“Make me!” The rat challenged, his bare teeth showing.

Not wishing to be caught in the middle of the fight, the kitten seized the opportunity to dart away from under the bush running as fast as her tiny legs would carry her. The dog saw the motion and lost interest in the rat. His new target was the small ball of fur running for all it was worth. He took off after the kitten, barking and growling as he went. A large fence loomed ahead. It was much too high for the tiny kitten to climb. Too tired to run any further, she lay down at the foot of the fence at the mercy of the approaching dog.

“Well, what have we here?” the dog said, showing his teeth and growling low. “Lost, are you?”

“Yes,” the kitten replied. “Please don’t hurt me. I mean you no harm.”

Just as the dog was about to leap on the kitten, a set of claws caught him across the nose. He screamed in pain and jumped back, blood dripping from the scratches.

“You’re a brave dog taking on that tiny kitten.” said Scooter, who had heard the commotion and arrived in time to intervene.

The dog, regaining his composure on seeing that his new adversary was just a cat, growled. “What makes you think you are big enough to keep me from taking you both on?”

“Let’s just say, I have more to lose then you do” Scooter replied, his attitude indicating he was not intimidated by the bully. “That gives me a lot of incentive to make sure you don’t win.”

The dog had never faced a really determined, angry cat before, and he lunged at Scooter. With all his natural agility, Scooter leapt to one side while delivering another, painful clawing to the dog’s muzzle, barely missing its eye. The dog backed off.

“There’s more where that came from,” Scooter said confidently, “If I were you, I’d give up while I was ahead. Be a good doggy and go home!”

The dog growled and snarled then stopped, turned tail and ran. Scooter turned to the tiny kitten. “Hello,” he said kindly. “My name is Scooter. Are you lost?”

When the kitten didn’t reply, Scooter said. “It’s all right. You are safe with me. Are you hungry?”

That got the kitten’s attention. Slowly, she came towards him and rubbed herself against his front legs. ”Thank you, Mr. Scooter, you saved my life.”

Scooter licked her on the top of her head and said, “Follow me, we are not far from my home.” Scooter turned to go, but the kitten was too exhausted to follow. Gently, he took hold of her as her mother would have done and carried her back to the house, setting her down gently before the bowl of food. Once she had eaten her fill, he led her to the heated area. There, he curled up on the soft blanket. “Come on,” he said, “it’s time you got some sleep.”

It was still dark when the human began her morning cat-feeding duties. She had expected to see Scooter curled up in the heated shelter, on his own, but to her surprise, there, snuggling next to him, was a tiny kitten.

“What have we here!” the human exclaimed. “Who’s your friend, Scooter? What a sweet kitten!” The human went back into the house, returning with a small cat carrier. The kitten had been too frightened to move. When the human reached for her, the kitten wanted to run away; but Scooter blocked the way saying “Go with the human, kitten, you are safe now.”

The human picked up the kitten and took her inside. There the kitten had her eyes cleaned and medicated and for the first time could see out of both of them. Then she was placed in a large crate with a soft bed, lots of food, toys and a litter box.

“Don’t be afraid, kitten,” the human said, “You will only have to stay in there a day or two until you get to know the other kitties and they get to know you. Then, the house is yours to roam about in. This is your home now, too.”

The human went back to where Scooter was sitting. “I know I will never find out how you came upon this kitten, but it was a very kind and courageous thing you did, bringing her here to safety. Please come inside and live with me. I would be privileged to have you as my friend.”

Though this story has been embellished, it is nonetheless true. It will forever be a mystery where the small kitten came from, but Fate saw fit to have her cross paths with a kindred spirit, who, in saving her, changed both their lives for the better.

© Copyright 2011 Karen Lynch
Floyd the Dog has donated €48.09 (equivalent to £42.41 or $68.33) On behalf of Karen Lynch to Florida Cause for Paws, Tampa, Florida, U.S.A.
First published by www.floydthedog.com

* * *

The minute we saw the farm, we knew it would be just perfect. Located about five miles out of the city, on a country road not yet marred by tract-home developers, it had the kind of rural beauty we were looking for, and the peace that the suburban neighborhood where we lived could not provide. We were ready to breathe again in the presence of pure Nature, and find purpose in connecting with the land.

The farmhouse was a modest size, mellowed by its years. Having embraced its occupants, it seemed reluctant to see them move on, though it might have known they had reached a time when the farm work had become too much for them.

Over the years, they had cultivated and cared for several acres of filbert, walnut, and fruit trees. Dozens of flowering shrubs, a lovely rose garden, and massive oak trees for shade clearly showed the love these people had for this land. We were to be the benefactors of this love.

There was another gift that would be ours, though no experience we’d had previously would prepare us for it.

Moving day arrived. As we were having our final meeting with the sellers on the deck, we were surprised to see a friendly gray tabby cat sidle-up to us.

“Oh, by the way,” spoke the farmer, “This is George. He’s an old fella, and has always been here with us. We didn’t have the heart to transplant him to our new town place. He’d never be happy there.

“One time,” the farmer continued, “we tried to take George to another home along the highway here, but he quickly found his way back home. It was a long trek for him, but with that need and determination, there was nothing we could do but welcome him back. Now he’s yours, just part of the deal. Hope you don’t mind.”

Of course we didn’t mind! We loved animals, and our hearts embraced him on the spot.

Then the farmer spoke again. He said, “Oh, and there’s another kitty. A barn cat, that won’t let people near her.

“She’s spooky and fearful,” he said, “because the day we chose to spay her, she knew, and did all she could to elude us. Finally, we caught and caged her. Her resignation was painful to watch. It was then her resentment was born. We could never get near her again.

“She’s a pretty girl,” he added, “yellow and white, healthy and aloof. She’s also yours now, but at least she won’t be another mouth to feed.”

That’s how we became ‘adoptive cat parents.’ It was going to be a pleasure to share this lovely place with these two indigenous residents. It just felt right to allow them to live out their lives in the comfort of the only home they’d known.

One day, after settling in, I felt curious about the kitty in the barn. I wanted to see whether I could meet her, and maybe coax her to come to me.

She was bedded in the hayloft, so I had to climb a ladder to reach her. I knew it was best to keep enough distance, that way I wouldn’t startle or displace her.

When I reached her, she was sleeping in the hay. I spoke very softly to her in the way to which kitties usually respond. But much as I tried, there was no movement toward me. I could see her reluctance, even her distain for my intrusion. I quietly moved down the ladder, but first told her I’d be back to see her another time. I don’t think she cared one bit.

As the days warmed in that spring season, I would spot the kitty in the fields nearby catching her dinners. She was always swift and sure at this, with the precision that nature provides for the hunters of the animal kingdom.

I’d sit under the apple tree by the grassy place that was her hunting ground, determined to somehow reach her and to befriend her. I persisted at calling her and telling her she’d be safe with me…that I understood her resistance, and would only be her caring friend. It was then I decided to name her Phantom. It suited her elusive demeanor and the bit of mystery about her.

I know there is a bridge in the stream of intelligence that flows through all life on this earth. I know it is shared by all sentient kingdoms. I’ve heard that even plants respond to human focus and voice vibrations directed toward them, even from miles away.

The animal kingdom is very interactive with us. Some of them are meant to be attracted to and comfortable with us, even serving our special needs by bringing us a kind of joy that teaches, guides, and heals our own lives. This kitty needed to remember her instincts for this, and learn to trust again.

One day, while I was sunning on the deck outside the kitchen, Phantom came near the steps. I held my breath and lay motionless, giving her the assurance that I would not be a threat to her safety or independence. She seemed to want to lie in the sun too, and watch the butterflies flit about the rose garden. I was secretly thrilled that at least she was willing to share a space, though at a distance.

Again, I called her name softly, inviting her to come closer. She simply looked at me, but didn’t move away or closer. Progress, I thought! I’ll take it very slowly and be patient with her timing. But Phantom lived her name, and just didn’t move beyond her comfortable parameters. There wasn’t really any true interaction yet.

There was a trellis that covered part of that deck, with pretty vines creeping up the side toward the slatted top. Sometimes I’d sit in a chair there, and George, friendly guy that he was, would jump into my lap.

One day, George got more adventuresome than I’d ever seen him. He made his way up the trellis to the slatted canopy. Because his footing was not secure, he slipped trying to back down from that upper perch. Phantom, who’d been nearby, tore up the trellis to reach George in his crisis, answering his feline distress call. She tried her best to cushion his fall.

What a thing to witness! This shared consciousness in action. It was an incident that at once awed me and warmed my heart. These two were certainly buddies, and the caring was indisputable. Yes, my heart smiled.

One moonlit evening, at the point of early darkness, I looked out the kitchen door to see George sitting on the deck. His back was to me. He faced the sky, where a moon, full and yellow, graced the evening with a light that put George in a silhouette. It caught my breath. I thought, how interesting—he’s surveying his kingdom.

Next day my husband had some errands to do in town. He said he’d be back later in the afternoon.

About five minutes after he’d left, I heard the car return. Surprised, I found him walking back to the house and I asked what was up?

He spoke slowly, tears welling up in his eyes. “George is dead,” he said. “He’s been hit by a car just down the road, and was lying in the gutter.”

I screamed. “No, no! Where is he now!?”

His words didn’t seem real, as he said, “I put him in the back of the car and brought him home.”

I ran to the car in disbelief and anguish. George was still warm, but his vital self was no longer there. I cried again, and felt so helpless for a moment.

Then, knowing we would have to bury him, said, “Let’s put him by the bird bath where he always liked to drink. It was his favorite place.”

So my husband got a shovel and dug a place near the bird bath, while I got a clean pillowcase in which to wrap George.

A couple of days passed, while we each quietly grieved.

Though George was always an outdoor cat, his presence on the deck, or there in a chair, or sunning on the pebbly driveway always seemed—well, right. He would indeed be missed.

Most of our lives are lived on what we call the visible plane. But we also know that our thoughts, ideas, feelings, inspirations, creative processes, intuition, telepathy and dreaming, to name a few, are not of the physical substance we regard as “reality”. They are of the ethereal dimensions where the like of angels, spirit guides and teachers, have their Being, giving us nudges on occasion, to remind us that we are indeed more than what our five senses convey, more than our personalities, even more than our intellect.

What took place next can only be called a kind of miracle. Although, what it really did was simply open wider for us the doorway to that dimension just beyond the physical.

There was a glass and wood-frame enclosure around the cellar door and kitchen entrance to keep out the wind, rain and snows of the more inclement seasons. In order for George to come into that protected area to eat his food and drink fresh water, there was a standard-type kitty door. After George’s passing, I took away the dishes at the place near the cellar door where he’d found his meals. It was sad, as it left us with a feeling of emptiness.

It was a pleasant sunny afternoon. I decided to indulge myself in some deck-basking.

Seeing Phantom in the yard, I called to her. She moved toward me, and stepped onto the deck.

She had never responded this way, and a surge of excitement swept through me. Something was different! Could it be she would come to me?

Very cautiously, I got up and moved to the door into the enclosure at the kitchen. Something prompted me to go in, grab some cat food left from George’s supply, and replace the dishes at the spot near the cellar door. Would she come in through the kitty door and eat the food?

I sat on those inside steps and waited.

“Come kitty, come Phantom,” I called.

Yes!! In through the doorway she pushed her furry self and walked up to the dish.

I took a chance and carefully stood up so that I could get closer to her. As she began tasting the food, I gently reached down to touch her back. Amazingly she didn’t move away, she just kept eating the food!

For the first time since that day I saw her in the hayloft, I touched this lovely creature, stroking her, as she finished the meal. I could scarcely hold in my delight. Sitting back on the steps, I just waited for what might happen now.

I kept talking to her, saying things like “Beautiful girl,” and “It’s alright.” “Thank you for coming here!”

I thought I would melt with happiness when she moved up the steps and crawled under my knees, back-and-forth, as I stroked her head and back.

“Good heavens” I thought, “Is this really happening!? What is this sudden alteration in her behavior?”

Later that day, we saw her sitting on the deck. It was like looking at George. Her body posture, head position, even facial expression looked exactly as we had seen George look so many times.

In astonishment, I remarked to my husband, “I believe George’s spirit has moved in with Phantom’s! I think he knows how much we need this animal companionship in our lives, and how we miss his role. George is giving his friend, Phantom, a way to fulfill our need, and heal our grief.

“Oh my goodness,” I said, joyfully. “What a gift to us! Thank you, thank you, George.”

This is a true story. It took place in 1993, in a small country town in Oregon, USA.



© Alyce Whelan 2011
© Finn McCool, the Magic Leprechaun Cat. All rights reserved.
Illustrations by Cheyenne Booker – All rights reserved

However, St. Patrick is not the only symbol of Ireland. A less celebrated symbol, but no less known, is the Blarney Stone. An ancient bluestone, with a storied history that dates back to Moses, as it was the stone, some say, he supposedly struck to produce water for the Israelites during their flight from Egypt. And until this very day, it is said to possess the power to instill in those who kiss it the gift of Eloquent Speech. So, you’ll never be guilty of a loss for words.

As you probably know, we leprechauns are famous for our “Eloquent Speech”, so much so, that it has been claimed we are responsible for talking normally sane people out of the pots of gold we are guarding and they are finding at the end of rainbows. Now, I say to you, that in itself takes some eloquence, it does, indeed.

But if the truth be known, the real legend of the Blarney Stone begins with my great, great, great Uncle Blarney MacCool, a first generation Magic Leprechaun Cat.

Now, it is widely known, that leprechauns, though mostly known for their appearance as wizen, little brown men in shoemaker attire, can and do change their form to suit their needs.

And so it was, the MacCool Clan came to see the advantages of appearing to be clever, friendly, eloquent cats, who only chose to live in the lap of luxury. Handsome in appearance, they charmed all the humans they met into providing the best of everything in return for their witty conversations and magical charms.

It came to be, that my Uncle Blarney was on his way to a magical place called Rock Close. A place where nature’s own art exceeds anything man could devise, and wherein lived the MacCarthy Clan of fairies, close relatives of the MacCool Clan, though still in traditional fairy form. He was making the journey from our home in Tara for an important meeting of the minds – fairy minds, that is.

As Uncle Blarney was making his way down some stone steps, known today as the Wishing Steps, he was wishing someone would show up with some lunch, as he was mighty hungry.

Low and behold, there at the bottom of the steps, sitting on a rustic couch of rocks, covered in moss and ivy, was none other than the famous Irish Fianna warrior and hunter, and my very own namesake, Fionn (Finn) Mac Cumhaill (McCool).

Finn was about to partake of a lunch made of what later came to be known as the Salmon of Knowledge. The story goes that there was this hazelnut tree over this pond in which the salmon swam. If the salmon swallowed one of the hazelnuts as it was falling from the tree, and a Druid (an ancient Celtic priest) caught the salmon before he got back into the water, then the first to eat of the flesh of the salmon would acquire great wisdom and knowledge.

Working his usual charm, my Uncle Blarney, convinced Finn to share his lunch. As the luck of the Irish would have it, my Uncle Blarney and Finn tasted the salmon at the same time.

To his surprise, my Uncle Blarney now felt full of wisdom and inspiration. He thanked Finn for the lunch and went about his business.

Soon, my Uncle Blarney came across the likes of the great Irish warrior and King of Munster, Cormac MacCarthy.

MacCarthy was turning an old hunting lodge into one of the most awesome castles in all of Ireland. So entranced with my Uncle Blarney’s newfound wisdom and inspiration was he, that he invited Uncle Blarney to come and live in the new castle and to be his trusted advisor.

MacCarthy Clan members came and went, but Uncle Blarney, being a Magic Leprechaun Cat and being immortal, and all, lived on.

In time, the MacCarthy holdings came to be owed by Dermot MacCarthy. It was his sad fate to have upset the British Queen, Elizabeth the First, who then commanded the Earl of Leicester to take possession of the castle.

Each time the Earl would appear to take possession, Dermot would send Uncle Blarney to negotiate the matter. Having had the gifts of wisdom and inspiration and all the knowledge of the world at his paw tips, Uncle Blarney was always able to employ logical delaying tactics to fend off the threatened taking of the castle.

Good Queen Bess was so irritated by the reports and excuses that she got from the Earl that she cried out, “It’s Blarney, Blarney, all Blarney!”

Eventually the matter was dropped, and the Earl was called back to England.

In gratitude for saving the castle, Dermot MacCarthy renamed the castle for Uncle Blarney. And so, my friends, Blarney Castle was born.

But that’s not the whole of the story, for Dermot was so taken with Uncle Blarney’s “Gift of Gab” that he asked my uncle to kiss the piece of bluestone Cormac MacCarthy received from King Robert the Bruce of Scotland in the year 1314 A.D. at the battle of Bannockburn, so as to pass the gift of Blarney on to generations to come, thus it became the Blarney Stone.

I hasten to say, that though this is a fine tale, indeed, should you be falling for my Blarney, then I am thinking you’ve fallen victim to too much “Green Beer,” as well.

Best you all be wearing of the green, for today I am wishing you a Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Finn McCool, the Magic Leprechaun Cat – Copyright 2009

In my homeland of Ireland, where Gaelic is the old language, Christmas is a very special time of the year. It is a magical season, full of sparkle and wonder, like the beautifully decorated trees and homes, festive parties, the anticipation of receiving those long desired gifts, soon to appear in the sack at the back of the bed, rather then under the tree (that’s an Irish tradition,) It is the time of year when people make magic happen, through the love they show to others and their generosity, both of spirit and of giving. Above all, for the Irish, it is what the day is all about, the joy of welcoming the Baby Jesus into our world.

Dreams come true at Christmas. Here is the story of one such dream.

* * *

“If you could have one wish for Christmas Emily what would it be?” Thomas Harding asked his young daughter.

He got no reply from the small, dark-haired child looking wistfully out her bedroom window, for Emily did not speak. It was not that she could not speak, but rather that she chose, since her mother’s passing, to lead a silent, speechless life.

“Father Christmas is eager to know what you would like,” Thomas continued, in spite of a lack of reply. “Tomorrow is Christmas and you have been very good this year. Perhaps, he will bring you something special.”

No amount of wishing could possibly bring me what I really want, Emily thought. No amount of wishing can bring back my lovely, sweet Mum.

Not wanting to be rude to the Father she loved Emily got up from her chair, and going to him, wrapped her arms around him and gave him a hug.

The moment was interrupted by Margaret, the housekeeper’s, knock on the door.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Harding,” She said through the door, “but, Mr. O’Leary has arrived and is waiting in the library. I have put the day’s mail on your desk.”

“Thank you Margaret,” Thomas replied, “tell Mr. O’Leary I shall be with him in a moment.

“Come with me, Emily,” Thomas said, extending his hand. “Mr. O’Leary will be very pleased to see you.”

Emily hung back. Though it was her choice not to speak, it no less embarrassed her to be around people and be silent.

“No need to speak to Mr. O’Leary, Emily,” Thomas said gently, “you know that he understands. One of your beautiful smiles will do nicely. Come, perhaps there is some mail for you.”

The thought of a letter from her Mum’s sister, Aunt Beatrice, who lived in France, or her old schoolmate, Abigail, whose family had recently moved to America, convinced Emily to accompany her father.

“Ah, sweet, Emily, come and greet a crotchety, old man,” the jovial Irishman, O’Leary exclaimed, as Thomas and Emily entered the library. “It is one of your sweet smiles I be hoping to see to set me day right.”

A smile spread across Emily’s face. She loved O’Leary, who was an old friend of her family. Having no family of his own, he often spent Christmas with the Hardings. She especially loved his Irish brogue, the twinkle in his eyes, and the lilting sound of his laughter. A stout man, with a full head of white hair and a beard to match, she had thought many times how he resembled the pictures of Father Christmas.

“How are you Nicholas,” Thomas said in greeting as he extended his hand. “I was just trying to get Emily to give me a hint of what it is she might like Father Christmas to bring her this year. But, she is keeping it to herself. So, he will have to learn the secret wish from her heart.”

“Ah. And so he shall. Will he not, Emily?” O’Leary said to the smiling child, “Just as he always has.”

It was true, Emily thought, no matter what she had wished for at Christmas, since she had gone silent, it had always come true. Could this year’s wish come true…only in my dreams, she was sure.

“Well, what have we here, Emily,” Thomas said, as he sorted through the mail. “It appears you have received a Christmas card.”

Eagerly, Emily took the card from her Father’s outstretched hand, and to the far end of the room where she curled up in a chair next to the fireplace to examine her prize.

It was addressed to Miss Emily Harding. The return address did not have a name, but indicated it was from 1 Catnip Lane, Puss-in-the Willows, County Meath, Ireland.

Printed on the card, and framed in gold was the picture of a golden, ginger kitten with emerald green eyes and a red Christmas bow around his neck. He was sitting in front of a beautifully decorated Christmas tree with a shining crystal star on top, his paw raised as if in greeting. Emily was sure she could see a smile on its face.

Inside, the card read.

It was signed, Callaghan Mac Cool.

As Emily closed the card, she noticed that the kitten, which had previously been facing to the right of the card, was now facing to the left. I must have seen it wrong when I opened it, she thought.

Believe in the Magic of Christmas, she repeated to herself, and your wish will come true. Oh, how she wished it were true. But, Emily was old enough to know that a wish like hers could never come true, no matter how much she would like to believe it could be so.

“Mr. Harding.” Emily heard Margaret saying from the doorway of the library. The Christmas tree has been set up in the parlor.”

Emily, Thomas and O’Leary retired to the parlor to decorate the tree. The crystal star Emily’s Mum had purchased on a trip to Waterford, Ireland, and which Emily loved best of the ornaments, sat atop the tree. It reflected the light from the fireplace and the colored lights on the tree, every facet of its dazzling, cut crystal sparkled and shined.

As she looked up at the shining star, she heard a small voice inside her say, “Believe Emily, believe.”

Their work done, they enjoyed a cup of hot cocoa in front of the fireplace and admired the tree.

“I do believe it is the prettiest tree we have ever had,” Thomas said.

“It is, indeed, but the magic and beauty of it all is in the Irish star,” O’Leary replied, his gaze focusing on Emily. “Don’t you agree, child?”

Emily smiled in agreement. But, as she took in its beauty, she thought of how happy she had been when her Mum had given it to her, and a small tear started down her cheek, and then another.

“Saints, preserve us,” O’Leary said, as he and Thomas rushed to Emily’s side. “It was not my intention to make you sad, child.”

Emily wiped her eyes and smiled. She gave them each a hug and started for her room.

“It’s lonely the child is, Thomas, she be in need of a friend,” O’Leary said.

“And where would I find such a friend…my friend?” Thomas asked.

“You best be leaving that to me,” O’Leary replied.

Sleep came easily to Emily. Somewhere in the night, she began to dream. In her dream, she saw her Christmas tree as the tree in the Christmas card, the star at the top shining brightly. The glow from it seemed to spread and then she heard a voice…a familiar voice.

“Emily…dear Emily, I know how much you miss me,” she heard her Mum’s voice say. “And I also miss you. You must know that I am always with you in spirit, that I will always love you and that you are never alone. Tomorrow is Christmas and it is you that must give a special gift. Tomorrow, you must go to your dear Father, who loves you with all his heart and speak to him. Do this for me Emily… and, I, in turn, have a special present for you.”

Christmas morning arrived. Thomas and O’Leary were already seated before the parlor fireplace when Emily came downstairs. The Christmas tree was lit. Below it were presents wrapped in colorful papers and topped with beautiful bows, the traditional sack at the end of the bed having been abandoned for the modern under tree presentation.

“Good morning, Emily,” Thomas said. “Are you ready to see what Father Christmas brought my sweet girl?”

But, Emily did not rush to the tree. Instead, she came to her Father, took his hand and said, “Happy Christmas, Father, I love you. I will be silent no more.”

“What a wonderful present, Emily,” Thomas said, hugging her close. “Thank you.”

“Ah, and did your Christmas wish come true, Emily,” O’Leary asked, in a way that said he already knew.

‘Yes,” she said, happily “In the most beautiful way.”

O’Leary reached to the floor beside his chair.

“This is for your, Emily,” he said. “A dear friend gave him to me to entrust to your care. His name is Callaghan Mac Cool.”

In his hand, he held a golden, ginger kitten, with emerald green eyes and a red bow around his neck. And, as Emily approached, the kitten held out his paw in greeting and smiled.

©Finn McCool, the Magic Leprechaun Cat, 2009
Illustrations by Cheyenne Booker – All rights reserved
First published by www.floydthedog.com

It has come to my attention that many of you do not know that the tradition of celebrating Halloween originated in Ireland centuries ago. The word Shamhna, Halloween, implies the end of summer, the end of the light and the beginning of the dark winter season. Initially an ancient harvest festival, it also has some elements of the festival of the dead, for the early Celts believed that during the last day of October the border between earth and the underworld became thin, allowing the dead to wander the earth. Thus the need to wear scary costumes, meant to ward off evil spirits. Of all the holidays in Ireland, Halloween is the most magical. And so with great pleasure, as my Halloween treat to you, I offer this tale of my great, great, great uncle, Cormac MacCool, the Magic Leprechaun Cat and the Fairy Coins of Tara.

Cara Kelly’s life could best be described as daunting. An only child, she had to both care for her ailing mother and to help her father in the running of their small farm. The farm lay at the edge of the Hill of Tara, a place of mystery and magic. Cara had roamed Tara in search of the fairy folk she had heard lived there. Despite never seeing any, she still believed they existed. Cara dreamt of them flitting through the dark woods that stood between the farm and the hill.

It was Cara’s joy in life to ride and groom the old, grey horse she had grown up with. Ahearn, whose name means ‘Noble Horse’ was used to tend the fields and take the produce to market. In his youth, Ahearn was indeed magnificent. Cara loved the old horse with all her heart. She admired him for, ancient as he was, he always worked hard at whatever was asked of him, never letting the family down, even when, because of his age, he did not really feel very well. His determination was the inspiration for Cara to persevere.

Cara’s mother, Maureen, had been a professional singer before she had met, fallen in love with, and married Michael Kelly. Cara had inherited her mother’s beautiful voice. Cara’s singing brought great comfort to both of her parents. Ahearn was also appreciative, nodding his head up and down and whinnying in approval whenever Cara finished a song.

It was late October, harvest time, Cara knew by the worried look on her father’s face that all was not well. The next day, she overheard him speaking to another farmer who lived close by. “I doubt the harvest will yield enough for me to keep the farm,” Michael said. “How will I break the news of this to my wife and daughter?”

Cara slept on her worry, wondering what it was she could do to help. She woke early on that last day of October. It was Shamhna, Halloween. The children in the village would be going door to door guising (trick or treating), collecting assorted goodies and coins to enjoy later.

It was the coins that interested Cara. It was her plan to ride into town dressed as a beggar and sing for the occupants of the homes she visited in the hopes they would reward her with coins.

So that her mother would not worry, Cara, told her of her plan. Her mother gestured to the drawer in her night table. In it Cara found a key. Maureen pointed to a trunk in the corner of the room and told Cara to open it. Inside Cara found the most beautiful dress, lying next to it, a newspaper clipping with a picture of her mother in the dress singing on a stage.

Cara kissed her mother, dressed and went to the barn. She bridled Ahearn, mounted him and rode off to town.

Though she received many compliments for her singing, and her bag weighed heavy with the cookies and candies that the townsfolk gave her in return for her songs, there was not one coin to be found.

Disillusioned, Cara mounted Ahearn and headed home. It was late. To save time, she decided to cut through the woods.

She remembered the warnings about the evil beings that were said to wander abroad on Halloween night. To warn them of her coming and sooth their restless spirits, she sang, loud and clear, until she came to a clearing.

Ahearn saw him first and pulled up suddenly, half-rearing in order to stop short. Sitting on a large mushroom, was a golden, ginger cat. He wore a fancy mask and an elegant green and gold cape.

“Welcome, my Lady,” he said, rising and bowing low. “I have been listening to your beautiful song. What brings you to my forest on this of all nights?”

Frightened and alarmed by the cat speaking, Cara could not, at first, respond.

“Fear not, my Lady, for I mean you no harm.” The cat said. “My name is Cormac Mac Cool, the Magic Leprechaun Cat.

“I am sorry to have disturbed you, Sir Cat,” she replied, “We were on our way home and because of the late hour thought to take a short cut through the woods.”

“And did your beautiful voice receive its due when you sang for the townsfolk?” Cormac asked.

Surprised by his knowledge of her reason for being so late, again she remained silent.

“I have been told by the flower fairies that live in your garden, that you sought coins with which to help your family.”

“Fairies! There are fairies in my garden?” Cara asked in surprise.

“Indeed there are,” said Cormac. “They were kind enough to tell me of your plight.

Motioning to the spot before him, he continued, “Would you join me for a minute. Since it is Shamhna, and you are guising, I must give you a treat as a reward for your beautiful song.”

Cara dismounted from Ahearn and walked slowly to where the cat sat. She could see that he was not sitting on an ordinary mushroom, it was a bright red, and sitting on another of the mushrooms next to him was a gold pot filled with coins.

“Hold out your hands, Cara,” Cormac said, and into them he dropped three coins.

“These are not ordinary coins, Cara. These are the Fairy Coins of Tara. Each coin has its own special power and one is the most powerful of all. That is the one that can grant you your deepest desire. You must not tell anyone you have them, or they will disappear. Nor can you wish anyone evil with them. Use them wisely and they can make your dreams come true.”

In a blink of an eye, the cat was gone. Sitting on what was now an ordinary looking mushroom, where once the cat sat, was a purple, velvet bag. Cara picked up the bag. Inside there was a piece of parchment paper. On it was written:

During the days that followed, Cara used two of her wishes. She wished that the harvest would be good, and so it was. She wished that her mother would be cured, and so she was. There was one coin left. The coin Cormac the Magic Leprechaun Cat said could grant her deepest desire.

Cara wanted to become a famous singer, so that she could help her family and do what she loved best for the rest of her life. She took the coin and started out towards the enchanted wood, where she planned to leave the coin along with her last wish.

As she past the barn, she heard thrashing and what sounded like moans. Cara entered the barn and found Ahearn rolling in his stall in great pain. She ran to the barn door and called for her father to come, then ran back to the stall.

“Oh, Ahearn,” she said. “What is wrong?”

It was obvious that Ahearn was in great pain. He thrashed about making it dangerous for Cara to enter the stall. When her father arrived, he quickly diagnosed the problem, “Cara, Ahearn is having a colic attack,” her father said. “Colic is like a very bad stomach ache, but if a horse gets down and rolls as Ahearn has, there is the chance that it might kill him.”

Suddenly, Ahearn stopped thrashing. He lay still, covered in sweat, his breathing labored. Then there was silence.

“Best you leave now, Cara.” Her father said, kindly. “There is nothing more to be done.”

“Yes!” Cara cried as she ran from the barn and toward the woods.

“There is something to be done.”

She ran as fast as she could to the spot she had met with the cat. She placed her last coin on the mushroom. Forgetting her own dreams for the future, she said, “My deepest desire is for my dear friend, Ahearn, to be young and healthy again.”

And she fell to the ground in tears.

“Why do you cry, my Lady?” a familiar voice asked. “Is this not what you wished for?”

Cara raised her head and through eyes blurred by tears, she saw Cormac, the Magic Leprechaun Cat and the young, beautiful, powerful Ahearn, just as Cara remembered him from her childhood.

With a cry of joy, she rose. Ahearn came to her and knelt before her. She climbed aboard his broad, strong back and they headed home.

The next day, there was a knock at the door. Her mother answered it. A few minutes later Maureen called Cara.

“Cara, this is Mr. O’Brian. He used to be director of the theater where I sang. He is now head of the Opera House in Dublin. He heard you sing the other night, but could not get to the door in time to meet you. He is offering you a scholarship to study with him.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Cara saw a golden, ginger cat sitting cheekily on one of the best chairs. Cormac, the Magic Leprechaun Cat, gave her a smile and winked knowingly.

©Finn McCool, the Magic Leprechaun Cat, 2010
Illustrations by Cheyenne Booker – All rights reserved

Floyd the Dog has donated 46.99 Euros (US$63.41 UK£40.07) on behalf of Finn McCool to “Cause for Paws”, Florida, U.S.A.

First published by www.floydthedog.com

The stray cat business had been slow this particular spring, with only the regulars making their appearances at my outside feeder I call The Hovel. One day, a short-haired, grey, tabby, sporting only three quarters of its tail appeared. After observing the cat for a day or two, I noticed that it was definitely a “she” and that she was nursing kittens.

The usual procedure with stray mother cats is that when the kittens are old enough to eat real food, the mother cat will lead them to The Hovel. Since this mother cat came on her own, I knew her kittens were too young to travel.

It was spring, so I named my new dinner guest, Lily, after the quintessential spring flower. I knew it was useless to search for her kittens, as I was sure she had hidden them well, so that when she left to eat, they would be safe. But, I ventured a guess that they were not very far away.

It wasn’t long after Lily arrived, that my neighbor, Joe, who lives across the street, informed me there were kittens in the yard backing up to his. One, he said, solemnly, was particularly mean as it had hissed at him.

I followed him back to his house and into his backyard. It was separated from his neighbor’s yard by a solid six foot fence. I peeked through the crack, and saw three, very small kittens playing in the tall grass.

Now I know where your kittens are, Lily, I thought, but, how to get them? The backyard they were in belonged to a vacant house, surrounded by this six foot fence and whose gate was locked. This would take team work. So, I enlisted the aid of two neighbors, who conveniently owned stepladders.

I went back home to get my large cat carrier. On my way out the door, I encountered Lily sitting on my front walk. She looked at me as if to say, “I know what you’re doing.”

“It’s time to bring the kittens inside, Lily,” I said to her, because knowing cats as I do, I knew she would understand what I was saying, “where you and they will be safe. Come on, let’s go get them.”

Lily took off and I gathered my cat rescue team and entered Joe’s back yard.

Using the ladders provided by my neighbors, I climbed over the fence and went about looking for the kittens.

“Be careful!” Joe warned. “One of them is mean.”

I didn’t have to look far. There in the tall grass were the three kittens. None of them were bigger then the palm of my hand. Two of them were dark brown, long-haired tabbies with white markings. They were huddled close together. It was clear they were scared to death.

In front of the two stood the third kitten, this one was also long-haired, but it had beautiful blue-point coloration and startling Mediterranean blue eyes and it was clearly in charge.

How big do you think a kitten the size of your palm, with a tail the length of the first digit of your little finger, can blow itself up to be…not too large, you say? Really! In spite of my huge frame looming over him, I sensed that he pictured himself the size of a mature lion facing off a gladiator in the coliseum. The only way to the two kittens cowering behind him was through him. And I was daft if I thought that was going to happen.

He hissed his best hiss, growled his best growl and leaped forward in defiance and distain.

What, I ask you, does one do in the face of such out and out heroics?

First, I smiled and marveled that something so small, so young and innocent was willing to give it his all to save his siblings. I had never known a greater feat of bravery. Then, I scooped the feline Sir Lancelot up and held him close and said, “My brave one, I assure you that you and your family are safe.”

I turned and saw Lily standing a short distance away. I scooped the other two kittens up with my other hand, kissed them all gently on the head and placed them in the carrier.

“Time to take your family home, Mama Lily,” I said, and she followed the kittens into the carrier.

When I got home, I showed the Lily family to my husband, Gray, and told him how brave the blue-point kitten had been.

“I’d say he’s Special Forces material,” he said, having been a US Army Special Forces soldier himself, he new one when he saw one. “I think we should name him Tuff Tuff, for double tough, because that’s what he was.”

Over the years, Tuff Tuff made sure he did not miss any meals. Rather than being double tough, he grew to be 26, not fat, just big, pounds of double sweet cat.

But don’t let that sweet demeanor fool you. The other day, a security system’s salesman came to my door. He argued, and I do me argued, the benefits of installing his security system in my home. Despite my telling him repeatedly my house was already well guarded, he continued his sales pitch.

Suddenly, he stopped mid-sentence and said, “I guess you don’t need a security system. That cat’s bigger than most peoples’ dogs.”

I looked down and there sat Tuff, Tuff, in his full Sir Lancelot mode.

“I laughed and replied, “He’s just the backup.”

The salesman turned and walked away.

No one knows when they will be called upon to act with courage. It is instinctive in all creatures to defend what they love without regard for their own safety or wellbeing.

Tuff Tuff, at 14-years-old, is still Special Forces material, for sure!

Karen A. Lynch
Copyright 2010, all rights reserved.

My destination was Houyhnhnm Farm. Perhaps you will remember Houyhnhnm as the name of a breed of intelligent horses that author Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver encountered in the last part of the satiric story Gulliver’s Travels. It was a tongue-twister of a name until I learned that it was pronounced whin-em, which is what the owners of the farm to which I was heading, hoped that the horses they raised would do, both on the racetrack and in the show ring.

Lexington is the center of the world’s Thoroughbred and Standardbred horse breeding industry. It was my dream to rise to the top of the Thoroughbred industry. A lofty ambition given I was not a blue-blooded Kentuckian, whose families have been steeped in the tradition of Thoroughbred breeding for centuries. Although I had the qualifications and experience to succeed, I was an outsider, a transplant from northern Ohio, and female, another oddity in the business.

I now had a foothold in my dream thanks to an Oklahoma oilman, who had entrusted his Thoroughbred breeding operation to my care. I had chosen Houyhnhnm as the place to keep his horses until I could secure a farm of my own.

Houyhnhnm had a mix of Thoroughbred horses, those that race on the flat or over fences, and Standardbreds, who race while pulling a two-wheeled cart called a sulky. For the most part, Thoroughbreds are known for their beauty, while Standardbreds, since the time of their inception and because of their ancestry, have been thought of as plain looking. Standardbreds are bred to have two special gaits, a very fast trot (Trotters) and a gait that involves the horse moving both legs on the same side at the same time, referred to a pacing, Pacers have a very awkward way of moving, giving the impression of listing from side to side as they travel across the ground.

My attention was drawn to a particular colt. He stood out from the others because he was always alone. It was apparent right from the start that though they meant him no harm, the rest of the herd paid little, if any, attention to him. He was obviously an orphan.

He was sweet, but very plain looking and, because he was bred to pace, he moved anything but gracefully. Every day I would check up on him when I came to visit my client’s horses. Most of the foals were still at an age that they clung to their mother’s side. The orphaned colt took his meals with the other foals in the creep feeder, a special enclosure build to allow the foals in to eat, while keeping the mares out. They all had enough to eat, but the other foals still had the additional luxury of feeding from their mother and the comfort of her care.

It was obvious that the orphaned foal was lonely and sad. He stayed close enough to be protected by the herd, but far enough away so as not to incur the wrath of the mares that were not open to the idea of taking on a second foal.

A month passed, and still the orphaned colt made little progress at becoming one of the herd. Then came the summer heat, and with it the scourge of flies. While the other foals stood alongside their mothers blissfully fly-free thanks to her tail, the orphaned colt had to do his best with only the whiskbroom of his own tail.

Eventually, the other foals formed friendships with each other and played the usual horsy games of tag and race you to the fence. When tired, or hungry, they had their mothers to run to for a meal, a sweet lick on the back, or a tooth scratching on the rump.

The orphan stood alone, wearing the saddest of wistful expressions. Was he, perhaps, dreaming of being fully accepted by the others as one of the herd?

There was one Thoroughbred mare my client owned that I especially liked. Her name was Highland Hills. She was very well bred, being a half-sister to the great Sword Dancer. She was also the sweetest, kindest of mares and really beautiful, her coat a rich, chestnut color. By her side was her equally handsome, chestnut foal, a colt by the very good racehorse, Little Current.

This colt had taken to playing games with the others. One day, as I watched, the orphaned colt, caught up in the moment, tried to join in a racing game. Because he paced instead of galloped, he was quickly left behind. I saw Highland’s colt look over his shoulder, and a very curious thing happened. Instead of running on, he galloped back to the orphaned colt, turned and slowed his gallop to match the orphaned colt’s pace. It was a gesture of friendship not lost on me, or the orphaned colt.

After that, the two buddies romped around the field together. You could see the difference in the behavior of the orphaned colt, now happy to have a friend, though always when the time came, Highland’s colt would return to his mother’s side and the orphaned colt would once more be on his own.

One day, the flies were particularly bad. I watched the two colts romp around the field together. Then, as usual, Highland’s colt joined his mother for the comfort provided by her tail. Soon, I saw that the flies had become too much for the orphaned colt. Risking all, he cautiously moved up until he was positioned, face to the rear, on Highland Hill’s unoccupied side.

I saw her look around at the intruder and wondered what her reaction to him would be. Then, I saw her long, think tail, which had, up to then, been swishing only to the side that her colt was standing, begin to swish in both directions, and she lowered her head to the ground and began to eat.

Now the orphaned colt had two friends. Each day the two colts would play together. Then, when Highland’s colt went back to his mother, the orphaned foal would also happily stand alongside her, glad of her protection from the flies.

One day, again as I watched, he took his gamble one step farther. When Highland’s colt had finished feeding from her, the orphaned colt gave it a try. I guess I should not have been surprised that Highland let him. Now the two friends were brothers.

I was not alone in finding a place where dreams could come true.

©Karen Lynch. All rights reserved.
Photograph by Karen Lynch

Floyd the Dog has donated 46.18 Euros (US$56.67 UK£38.33) on behalf of Karen Lynch to “Cause for Paws”, Florida, U.S.A.

First published by www.floydthedog.com