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

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.

May Magic Leprechaun Cats be near you
To spread luck along your way.
And may all the Irish angels
Smile upon you on St. Patrick’s Day.

Beannachtai na feile Padraig
Happy St. Patrick’s Day

© Finn McCool, the Magic Leprechaun Cat. 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.

Nollaig Shona! Happy Christmas to all!

© Finn McCool, the Magic Leprechaun Cat 2009
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

Halloween was also a favorite of Sara’s. Every year, she gave careful consideration to the costume she would wear. Luckily, her Aunt Elie, who lived with her family, was a skilled seamstress and could make most any costume Sara desired. This year, Sara would be a fairy princess, complete with jeweled crown, gossamer wings and a magic wand.

Aunt Ellie’s husband, Uncle Joe, also lived with her family in their big house that faced the town square. Uncle Joe loved to tell stories. Sara was sure he made them up as he went along, because he never could tell a story the same way twice.

Just the other day, in honor of Halloween, Uncle Joe told her the story of a cat name Shade.

How could a Halloween cat be anything but black? Shade was black as the night, with beautiful mahogany brown eyes. His meow was hushed and he walked on silent, velvet paws that left no prints, for Shade was a ghost.

It was said that Shade lived in the abandoned, and some said, haunted house, that was across the square from Sara’s home. That he roamed the night in search of the spirit of the child he once belonged to and was lost. Some nights, people swore they could hear his lonesome wailing, a melancholy sound that drifted across the night air.

Shade was a story without ending, because, Uncle Joe said, a ghost story is without end.

Sara laughed. A ghost story is a tale without end…only Uncle Joe could come up with an idea like that.

Halloween night arrived. Sara’s Dad drove her to the school gym, where a costume party was already in progress. Her gossamer wings had proved a problem where her seat belt was concerned. But, she made it.

The gym had been decorated in sections, all spooky. There was a cave that bats flew out of as you walked passed, a cemetery, where ghosts and skeletons rose up from behind the tombstones, and a haunted house.

Sara stood before the haunted house. It gave her an eerie feeling.

“You think that house you live across from is really haunted?” A voice from behind her asked.

“Don’t know,” she replied to the boy, dressed as a vampire, that she recognized as a classmate. “I’ve never been in it.”

“I have,” he said. “and its spooky as heck. Got out of there in a hurry, I did!”

“Did you see a ghost?” Sara asked. “Did you see the cat?”

“Nah, I didn’t see anything. It was just creepy, that’s all.”

It was still early when the party ended, so some of Sara’s friends suggested they go trick or treating house to house.

Sara called home and got permission to join them, but was told to stay with the group no matter what and to be home by eight o’clock.

In the Halloween spirit, most homeowners had turned on their porch lights and welcomed the ghouls, ghosts, witches, clowns and one very pretty fairy princess as they went about, door to door, filling their plastic pumpkin baskets and bags with treats.

When the tower clock on city hall chimed eight o’clock, the group was almost to Sara’s house.

“I have to go,” she said, as she bid them farewell and started toward home.

Before she realized it, she was in front of the old, abandoned house. She had never really seen it at night, and as she looked at its dark foreboding facade a chill rain down her spine.

She heard a rustling sound, and thought she saw something dart through the tangled underbrush.

Could it be the cat? Sara thought. The thought drew her in, and before she knew what she was doing, she had opened the creaky, wrought iron gate and let herself into the front yard.

Go back Sara, her inner voice warned…go back.

But, Sara coould not go back, something drew her on, and now, she was at the front door.

She turned the knob and the door began to open. What am I doing, she thought, and started to retreat.

“Meow!”

The sound startled her, but drew her back to the door. With shaking hand, she again grasped the knob. The door opened at her touch.

“Meow!”

“Here kitty…where are you, kitty?” She heard herself say, as she stepped inside what was a large foyer. From the light cast by a streetlamp out front, she could see that the furnishings were very old, and very dusty.

“Meow!”

The sound seemed to be coming from the top of the winding staircase that began in the foyer and rose to the second floor. She placed her treat-filled, pumpkin basket on the floor, switched her magic wand into her left hand, grasped the banister along the wall and started up the stairs.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” she called, as she made her way up the steps and to the second floor.

Another “Meow!” came from the dark hall.

“Please, come here, kitty,” Sara begged, afraid to go any farther. “Here kitty, kitty.”

Sara could see that one of the doors was opened, light from the streetlamp illuminating the open doorway.

Suddenly, the front door slammed shut.

Sara screamed in fright, and for no apparent reason, ran to the light and the open door.

Once inside, she realized it was a child’s room. A canopy bed sat against one wall, stuffed animals set up against the pillows. Bookcases set on dressers and a desk lined another wall. The shelves filled with books, pictures and assorted treasures a young girl might collect. An open chest along another wall held dresses and on a shelf above the dresses sat some dainty hats and purses. There was a white child-sized rocker with a pillow covered in a fabric that matched the old-fashioned floral wallpaper and windows framed in lace curtains. It was a charming, if dusty, room.

Curiosity drew Sara to the bookcases and to the pictures on the shelves. There were lots of family pictures, but one, especially, caught Sara’s eye. It was a picture of a blond girl with blue eyes, who looked a lot like Sara and who Sara figured must have been about her age. In her arms was a handsome black cat with beautiful mahogany brown eyes.

“Oh, dear,” Sara thought out loud. “It’s Shade.”

Sara knew the picture had to be 50 years old by the dress the girl had on and how she wore her hair. So, there was no way the cat in the picture could still be alive.

The cat…Sara had forgotten about the cat. She turned to the door and there, sitting on the rocker, was a black cat with mahogany brown eyes.

The sight of the cat caught her breath.

“Don’t be afraid, Sara,” the cat said, kindly. “I am sorry if I scared you.”

“You can talk!” Sara said in amazement.

“I can do a lot of things,” the cat replied, “but, wanting to scare you isn’t one of them.

“The girl in the picture was my best friend,” he said, with sadness in his voice. “Her name was Laurie. She got very sick. They took her to a hospital to get well, but Laurie never came home.

“For all of these years,” he went on, “I have waited in this house for her return. It has been a long time and I have been very sad and lonely.”

“I don’t think Laurie’s coming home, Shade,” Sara said.

“You know my name,” the cat said in surprise.

“My Uncle Joe told me your story,” Sara replied. “I have always thought it was just another of his made up tales. But, you are real…then, again, maybe not really, real, are you?”

“I’m afraid not…real, that is,” Shade replied. “But, I could be again, if someone loved me enough to make me their friend and care for me. I miss all the good things a cat and its human share…especially, the love.”

Sara approached the cat. “I could love you, Shade. I, too. need someone to love and care for…a dear and special friend.”

She reached to stroke the cat’s head, but when she did, there was nothing but air.

Sara jumped backwards, almost falling over a toy lying on the floor. She steadied herself and looked at the cat, which she could still see but not touch.

“Fairy Princess Sara,” the cat said, “if you want to be my friend, wave your magic wand over me and say, ‘Shade, no longer will you be a shadow in the night, but my Shade in the light of day.’

“If you believe the magic, Sara, it will be as you believe.”

Sara raised the magic wand. Waving it over the cat, she said, “Shade, no longer will you be a shadow in the night, but my Shade in the light of day.”

As the magic wand moved through the air tiny, sparkling stars fell from its tip and over the cat. They merged in one bright light, and then, along with the cat, disappeared.

In place of the cat sat a black kitten with beautiful, mahogany brown eyes.

“Oh, my,” said Sara, as she bent down and reached to pet the kitten. This time, her hand stroked its soft black fur.

“Oh, my wonderful Shade,” she said, picking up the purring kitten and holding him close. “You are the best Halloween treat, ever. Let’s go home.”

Karen A. Lynch, Copyright 2008

Having a loving relationship with a pet is one of the great pleasures in life. When we are happy, they share our joy. When we feel the need to play, they are eager participants in our games. When we need some quiet time, they are content to lie beside us and share our dreams. And, when we are sad, they seem to know how best to bring a smile back to our faces.

But of all the elements that make up the bond we have with our animal friends, none is more important then the trust that exists between us. None of the above would be possible without that underlying assurance that we can be trusted to always do what is in their best interest.

Sometimes trust comes easily, but most often it must be earned. And so it was with a cat named Sayde.

For 20 years, I have been rescuing cats. I am lucky to have a friend who is a cat vet, who assists me in placing the many kittens I have rescued. But, for the most part, I am caretaker and friend to the many adult cats not considered adoptable, and who end up living out their lives in my care.

There is one cat, a brown tabby with white markings, who chooses to live his life outdoors, but who is basically my cat. He has chosen me and my house as his permanent residence and takes all of his meals and most of his companionship from me. His name is Scooter.

Scooter has a mission in life. It is his objective to see that all of the mother cats with kittens are escorted to my door, so they may have a chance at a better life than the one living on the streets would provide.

The first I realized this was Scooter’s intention was one warm, spring day in 2002.

I had fed Scooter, and the other assorted neighborhood cats that frequented my Cat-a-teria, which is located in my front yard. Their breakfast eaten, they would go about their business of the day. Save for Scooter, who spent his afternoons lounging under the oak tree. They would not be back until the 5:00 p.m. dinner call.

I began cleaning up the flower beds and sweeping the walk. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught site of Scooter coming up the drive. In tow, were a black and white mother cat and her four kittens.

Scooter came up to me, but the mother cat remained a safe distance away, her tiny kittens keeping close to her side.

From the mode of communication that Scooter and I have developed over the years, Cat Speak, I concluded that what he had in mind was breakfast for his new found friends. So, I left them, went into the house and returned with an additional meal for Scooter, a bowl of food for mom and a saucer of milk for the kittens.

Scooter went right to eating his food, but when I approached the mother cat, she began to hiss and growl. The kittens ran for cover. I stopped in my tracks and put the food down where I was, then quietly retreated into the house. I could see from my vantage point behind the front door, mom and the kittens making short work of the meal.

^top^

And so it was, from then on, twice a day Scooter, momma cat, to whom I gave the name of Sayde, and her four kittens made their appearance at mealtimes. Over time, I thought Sayde would quit the growling and hissing, but she persisted in making it known, that though she might be grateful for the free meals, she wanted me to keep my distance.

I had hoped to make friends, so that I could tame her and the kittens and take them to the vet, where they would be cared for and with luck find good homes. Sayde’s attitude did not bode well for that happening anytime soon.

The kittens, three of which were the same black and white as their mom, and a fourth, that was a plain grey tabby, were growing quickly. I was afraid if I didn’t tame them soon, they would not find the homes I hoped to get for them.

Then one morning, Sayde showed up alone. It was clear, by her demeanor, that she was ill.

Oh, this is a good one, I thought. She is sick. I need to take her to the vet. How am I supposed to get this hissing, growling feline there?

My neighbor, Joe, who is retired and who spends a good deal of his time sitting in his front yard, was observing the goings on.

I looked over at him and said, “This is going to be interesting. Sayde is sick and needs to go to the vet. I need to get her in a carrier to take her there. What do you think the chances are I am going to get that done without losing a hand?”

He just shrugged his shoulders and laughed.

I went in the house to get a carrier thinking she would be gone by the time I got back. But, there she sat. I put the carrier down a short distance from her and walked away.

“Sayde,” I said, and she responded by looking at me.

Wow, I thought, this is seriously nuts. You don’t actually think she is going to get in that box, do you? Heck!

“Sayde,” I repeated, “You are sick. I have to take you to the vet. You have to get in the box.”

Right!

Trust is something we sometimes have to earn. Someone willing to put all their trust in you when it counts most is your reward for your efforts.

Sayde walked to the box, gave it a sniff and walked in and sat down – no lie, I promise you.

A small, but very important miracle had just occurred.

I closed the carrier door, placed her on the back seat of my truck and took her to the vet. She was sick indeed, and would require hospitalization. I left her there and returned home wondering where in the world were her kittens.

Scooter provided the answer, when he came marching up the drive followed close behind by four confused and hungry kittens. They ate and before I could round them up, he had made off with them.

The next morning, kitten sitter, Scooter, was back with his young charges. One night guarding four motherless kittens was more than even the brave hearted Scooter could take. So, discretion being the better part of valor, he left them with me.

I was able to round them up and take them to the vet. But, their mom was too sick to care for them. After determining they were old enough to make it on their own, they got weaned.

Eventually, Sayde recovered, and the two male, black and white kittens found homes. But, Sayde and her two girls came to live with me. I named the black and white one Oreo, and the grey one, Misty Mu.

Sayde staked out my office as her space of choice and moved in with her girls. They are my company and my inspiration, as I ply my trade as a writer and publisher.

Yesterday, much to our dismay, Sayde chose to move on to her heavenly home. There she will reside safe in the care of her creator, who saw fit to share her with us for much too short a time.

Trust is something we sometimes have to earn and nourish, but once achieved is rewarded with a lifetime of gratitude and love.

I had moved to Florida to be with my soon-to-be husband, Gray, while Elizabeth had remained in our home in Kentucky.

A couple of days later, she called to tell me that she had bought a Chow puppy. He was ginger colored and resembled a cuddly bear cub, and so she had named him Ginger Bear.

Elizabeth had been raised with animals all of her life, and knew the value of training. So, Bear was soon enrolled in obedience class. Because of the Chow reputation, she also took advantage of her job at a saddlery shop to accustom him to mixing with people and other dogs. Horse people take their dogs with them everywhere, so there was a steady stream of new canine faces for Bear to meet, while Elizabeth saw to the needs of their humans.

A few months later, we sold our Kentucky home. Elizabeth, and Bear, came to live with Gray and me.

It was clear from the beginning that whatever had been written or said about Chows did not apply to Bear. He was, as is the case with most Chows, quiet and reserved, but he did not have a mean bone in his body. You could see his kind gentleness in his eyes and read it in his demeanor. Gray and I both fell in love with him.

When Bear was about a year old, Elizabeth moved back to Kentucky. The young man she had been dating for most of her college years had finally proposed and she went back to make plans for a Kentucky wedding.

Doug had been introduced to Bear and spent time with him when he had visited our home. All seemed well between them until Bear, not knowing it was Doug coming through the door of Elizabeth’s new apartment, because he could not see him behind the large box he was carrying, growled at Doug. It was more that Bear was afraid of the weird sight of a walking box than that he was angry with Doug. However, Doug, who, as a child, had been bitten by his family’s German Shepard, instantly, became afraid of Bear.

The next thing I knew, Elizabeth was on the phone to me in tears. She told me about the incident, and said Doug had told her she would have to make a choice between him and Bear. Heartbroken, she said she would need a new home for Bear.

“He already has a home, Elizabeth,” I said. “This is his home. Bring him back to me.”

The years passed and there was nary another incident with Bear.

Our house backs up to a lake. I would let Bear out in the back yard on a long line that allowed him to roam the boundaries of our property. Strangers would walk along the edge of the lake right past Bear. Never did he even offer to bark at them. The neighborhood children all loved Bear. When they would see him out in the yard, they would come running. They loved to hug the dog that looked like a big fuzzy bear and he loved their attention. He would let them hug and pet him all they wanted.

We had guests stay with us all the time, they could come and go as they pleased never bothered or worried about Bear not letting them back in when they returned with or without us.

Then, late one night, Gray and I were fast asleep. We were wakened by a noise such as nothing we had ever heard before. It was like the deep and angry roar of a lion, and was followed by sharp, angry barking and growling. It was Bear. I knew there must be trouble, serious trouble to cause him to act in this manner.

I headed down the stairs, calling to Bear. He came to me. The hair on his body was standing on end and there was a low rumbling growl still in his throat. I told him to be quiet. The growling stopped.

I could see movement and what appeared to be headlights in the back yard. Slowly, I edged my way to the sun porch. The vinyl windows, fogged with age, hindered a clear view of the yard, but also offered me cover as I made my way stealthily across the room, Bear at my heels.

Using the doorframe for cover, I slid open one of the windows. I was surprised to see that the headlights were from a sheriff’s car parked in my back yard, a deputy standing beside it. I opened the window and asked “Anything wrong, deputy?”

“No, Ma’am,” he replied, with no further explanation.

“You’re sure?” I asked, feeling some sort of explanation for him using my backyard as a parking lot, and sending my otherwise calm dog off the deep end, was in order.

“Yes, Ma’am,” was the sum total of his response.

“Right!” I replied. “Well then, good night, deputy.”

“Night, Ma’am.”

Obviously, he was a man of few words.

^top^

I patted Bear on the head and sent him back to his bed and I went back to mine. Nevertheless, something wasn’t right. My instincts made me rise again, and putting Bear on his long leash, I headed out the front door towards the corner of the street. On reaching the corner, I could see the deputy’s cruiser was now parked in the cul de sac that faced the lake. Off on the lawn, behind the corner house, was an older model Lincoln sedan.

Bear and I walked toward the cars. As we passed the rear end of the Lincoln, I could see the deputy bent over, searching the front seat of the vehicle. Not wanting to startle him, I coughed, and said, “Ah, deputy, you still sure nothing is wrong?”

He came out of that car like a shot. Then, seeing it was just Bear and me, he relaxed.

“Well, there was a bit of a problem,” he said, walking our way. Without hesitation, he reached down and patted Bear on the head. Bear licked the deputy’s hand.

“I was driving on the main road and thought the car in front of me was suspicious, so I ran the license plate,” he explained. “Turns out the owner had an outstanding arrest warrant for drug trafficking, I turned on my lights to pull him over and he took off.

“I chased him into your village and up into this cul de sac here,” he went on. “I guess he didn’t know it was a dead end, and ended up ditching the car and taking off on foot. There were three other guys in the car with him. They ran through the back yards ’till they got to your house, then they cut through your side yard and over the fence to the street.”

So that was why Bear had gone ballistic. He thought they were trying to get into our house. If they had thought to do it, the sound of Bear’s lion’s roar must have convinced them otherwise.

As the deputy and I were talking, an older model Cadillac Eldorado pulled up to the entrance of the cul de sac and stopped. A tall, heavy-set, black man got out of the car. The deputy walked to his cruiser, bent over and was reaching for his radio. The man approached him, and positioned himself so that he had the deputy pinned in the car.

I could hear they were having words and not of the friendly variety.

I looked down at Bear. He was no longer sitting beside me relaxed, but standing at full attention, his coat standing on end as it had been inside the house. He stepped forward a bit and I released my hold on the long line just slightly. As the two men’s exchanges became more heated, I could see Bear’s demeanor growing more hostile. I let out the line a bit more and Bear took another step forward.

This time the motion caught the man’s attention, though he kept up his menacing tone, he did it now with one eye on the deputy and one eye on Bear, who was edging ever closer, a low, rumbling growl coming from deep in his throat. The man moved away from the cruiser. Still with one eye on us, he said something in a harsh tone to the deputy, and then, quickly moved to his car, got in and took off.

Bear and I went to the cruiser, where a pretty shaken deputy was now leaning against a rear door. “Thanks,” he said, more to Bear, than to me. “That was the brother of one of the guys that I was chasing. He wanted me to turn the Lincoln over to him. I told him no, but.”

He took a deep breath and steadied himself, and said, “I don”t know what he would have done, if you two hadn’t been here. Really, thanks.”

“No problem, deputy, right place, right time, I guess,” I said with a reassuring smile.

“That’ a good dog you’ve got there, Ma’am. Knows the good guys from the bad, doesn’t he?”

“That he does!” I said as I gave Bear a big hug. “He’s my silent sentinel.”

I could see things were back under control, so I said, “Well, maybe I’ll just head on home, and see if I can get back to sleep now that the excitement’s over.”

I have no idea what happened after we left. There was nothing in the newspaper or on the TV news. But, I know one thing for sure, they can say what they want, write what they want, but they can never convince me a Chow is anything but the best breed of dog on this planet. The proof is in the Ginger Bear.

© Karen Lynch 2008

I hope you enjoyed the story of my wonderful friend, Bear. I have had a lot of dogs in my life, but Bear certainly holds a special place. We lost Bear about three years ago, but not a day goes by that I am not reminded of him. Especially, when I look at the area behind the recliner in my office, which Bear had chosen to make his den. I rescue cats, so we always have a house full of feline friends. Chows are very cat-like in their behavior, so he felt right at home with his feline buddies, especially King Tut, pictured with him in our back yard. I think Bear wished to be a cat, and I often wonder when a new cat comes calling, if it’s not Bear in cat clothing. Animals leave an indelible stamp on our lives and our souls. We are so blessed to have them as our friends.

I was looking through them over coffee, and one in particular caught my eye and made me laugh out loud. It wasn’t the picture per se that made me laugh, but rather the story behind the lovely horse, pictured with his back to the camera, moving off up the path, his head turned in such a way as to appear to be looking over his shoulder. His name was Cooncan.

I was all of 19-years-old, and had just purchased my first AQHA roping horse. Purchasing Cooncan on my own was a major achievement, and I was very proud. He was a well-muscled sorrel with a bald face, wonderful conformation, great action and he rode like a Cadillac.

The rancher that I’d bought Cooncan from was a soft-spoken fella, who wore a huge grey cowboy hat, and one of those crinkly cowboy grins, that westerners naturally associate with an honest and gentlemanly nature.

I knew I had made the right decision when Cooncan walked right into the trailer as though he was as eager to start his new life with me, as I with him.

On arriving home, he unloaded quietly, and I immediately saddled him up for an inspection of his new turf.

He glided across the Arizona fields, over the rocks, through the pines and back to the barn as sweet as honey. No spooking, no bolting, nothing seemed to concern him.

Then, I rode him into the arena, where we did some concentrated work. He even did a very nice side pass. It appeared he was well educated for a roping horse.

It had been a splendid afternoon, and I was eager to share the news of Cooncan’s arrival with my friends.

It was about 11:00 p.m., that I first heard what sounded like a gator in a southern swamp at night. Those of you who live in gator country will know what I mean. But, this was Arizona, and there hadn’t been a swamp here in a million years. So, an investigation was in order.

Armed with my trusty flashlight, I followed the deep rumbling sound to the paddock. I crept up to the stall, where I thought my wonderful new horse would be soundly sleeping, but the stall was empty.

He must have gone for a moon-lit walk in the paddock, I thought. So, I walked through his fragrant straw bedding and peered out the stall door into the night. It was too dark to see clearly, so I flipped on the outdoor floodlights.

My hand froze on the switch. There, standing in the paddock, gleaming in the floodlight like a newly minted copper penny, was my beloved Cooncan, his front teeth firmly grasping the fence rail hawking in air, sitting back on his haunches for leverage, his neck bent so that he had that exaggerated arch displayed by Arabian stallions in a halter class.

I had bought a cribber!

A cribber, for those unfamiliar with the term, is a horse that has developed the bad habit of sucking air into his lungs by grasping hold of most any object, fence rail, bucket, feed bin, you name it, if he can get his teeth on it, he will suck air. This is not only an annoying, destructive habit, but unhealthy for the horse, as well.

I don’t exactly remember what my emotions were after the first shock wore off, as everything was a blur, but insurmountable fury was a good possibility.

^top^

After a sleepless night, I returned the next morning to the ranch where I had purchased Cooncan the day before. I hunted down that cowboy, with the vengeance of a werewolf on the night of a harvest moon.

I found, what I now viewed as an evil, wicked man, in a field, mounted on a lovely, grey Quarter Horse, loping after a herd of Herefords.

I screamed some very unladylike obscenities at him, and then drove my jeep right out across the field towards him.

Politely, he stopped, tipped his hat, and with that crinkly grin, now more reminiscent of a smug collections lawyer, then the honest man I first thought him to be, said, “Howdy, ma’am, how’s the new horse?”

The only thing that kept me from running him down — several times — was the beautiful, probably, non-cribbing horse he was sitting on.

I yelled at him about his having sold me a cribbing horse. That it was a cruel thing to do to me, and how heinous it was for him to have hidden this horrid affliction from me.

Then, through gritted teeth, I asked him why he hadn’t told me.

He looked at me quite undisturbed, and said, “You didn’t ask.”

Well, there was nothing to be done, though I let loose another barrage of curse word, the papers had been signed and my fate was sealed.

Arizona cowboys affectionately call cribbers “stump suckers.” Now, doesn’t that have a charming adult store ring to it?

I was soon the snickering stock of my little town, as it seems Cooncan was a veritable legend, having been sold from person to person, never staying long at any one ranch. No wonder he loaded so well in the trailer, the bum was used to traveling.

It is unclear whether it was embarrassment, rage, determination, stupidity, or merely just the challenge that motivated me, but I did not give up on ol’ Cooncan right then and there as I should have.

I was hell-bent on rectifying this situation, and so, the stage was set for some eye-opening and jaw-dropping experiences.

Why not give it a shot, after all, Cooncan was drop-dead gorgeous. From every angle, this boy had it going on. He was perfect. Perfect, all right, a perfect nightmare!

Monica, my best friend at that time, shared with me all the thrills and the trials we had encountered with the horses in our lives. We loved to get together and ride. She was very impressed the first time she saw Cooncan. We decided to saddle up and explore the high country as we so often did.

I thought this would be a fine time to test Cooncan with another horse, and to relieve the stress I was feeling. So, off we rode into the northern Arizona splendor.

It was a beautiful day and the wildflowers were in bloom across what we called the “loping field.” Because there were no gopher holes or rocks, this was a great place to let our horses gallop.

We clucked, leaned forward and eased our horses into a nice rocking horse lope that we would build to a good run. It was at that moment, that I realized the bit I chosen to use on Cooncan would not suffice.

I remember seeing Monica on her bewildered palomino, left in a cloud of dust, the distance between us ever increasing as Cooncan, his lovely, shapely ears pinned back in perverse glee, thunder like Secretariat across the field.

I shortened my left rein and began to slowly turn him, the object being to make the circle smaller and smaller until he stopped. It didn’t work. He shook his head and began to do ballet maneuvers, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since I saw the Bolshoi ballet as a child.

In retrospect, it was hilarious, but at the time, it was all I could do to sit the caprioles and side to side leaps done at a full, lathered gallop.

Like a crazed kangaroo, he boinged-boinged his way across the field until he came to a huge clustered of rocks far too high for him to climb. There, he slid the perfect reining horse slide, stopping cold and planting my face in the poll of his neck.

Twenty minutes later, Monica appeared her face ashen and full of concern. She suggested I walk Cooncan behind her back to the barn. That seemed a safe and reasonable suggestion. I took a deep breath and we started off slowly. We hadn’t gone more than 20 paces, when Cooncan laid back his ears and took a mighty bite out of Monica’s well-mannered horse’s butt. Monica’s horse squealed and let out a buck that sent her airborne.

I leapt from my saddle to assist her. She was shaken, but intact, so we remounted and decided to take the high trail home. It was narrow and up a side hill and required a horse and rider to concentrate to navigate it safely. It was a shorter way home and seemed a sound decision. Surely, Cooncan’s mind would be on staying upright, so off we went to the hills.

I led the way, and the next half hour went well. We were riding alongside a sharp cliff on a narrow trail that was impossible to turn around on. The bank below was a sloping hill of landslide gravel, so the only choice was to go straight ahead.

That is when Cooncan decided to balk and turn around. I urged him forward to no avail. He began to rear, so to keep him from going over backwards; I relaxed, leaned forward and loosened the reins.

^top^

He was determined to turn around, and as my life flashed before me, he gathered himself into a hump-backed position. At that point, I bailed out, hitting the dirt as Cooncan fell off the trail and slid backwards, then rolled haphazardly down the slope until he crashed into the pine trees at the bottom of the hill.

He got up, the saddle beneath him, the bridle completely off, the reins around his neck and looked back at me as though I’d had something to do with this disaster. Then, snorting loudly, he began bucking and taking his frustration out on the trees with strikes and kicks.

Monica and I stared down in horror, absolutely immobilized.

Cooncan stopped for a moment, then bolted through the underbrush at a dead run until he vanished from our sight.

We rode double back to the barn, where we found Cooncan standing buck-naked next to his paddock. To this day, I have no idea what became of my tack, lost forever in the wilds of the high desert.

I looked Monica dead in the eye and said, “I’m going to kill him. No, really, I AM going to kill him!”

It went downhill from there. Cribbing collars, hot wire on the fence, nothing stopped his horrid stump-sucking habit. What was worse, once he settled into my barn, his entire disposition shifted. He developed a less than charming habit of pinning his ears and snarling at me, nose wrinkled and teeth bared, during saddling.

He soon began rearing and kicking under the saddle, which ultimately led to him bucking, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since the last National Finals Rodeo.

After hitting the ground enough times to need a chiropractor for the rest of my days, a rodeo man named Lucky (I know, but that really was his name.), who was a dear friend of mine, suggested I sell this now rank bucking horse to the rodeo. I was told that the way he bucked, he would do very well in that venue.

I was beyond fed up with the seething glares I received from Cooncan when I tried working with him, so the decision to sell came easily.

Lucky made a few calls and soon I had some money in my pocket and was rid of the wicked, “stump-sucking” roping horse, that was afraid of ropes and cattle, wouldn’t cross water, kicked at me, charged me, tore down his stall and cribbed the night away until he was lightheaded and stumbled like a drunkard.

There was a lot of build up about Cooncan’s sun fishing ability — that is bucking so violently that he would go belly up in the air. So, all the cowboys were eager to watch this horse in action at the local rodeo, where he would make his debut.

The cowboy who drew Cooncan was an accomplished bronc rider, and on that hot July day, we all gathered in heated anticipation. The hushed crowd stood motionless as the young rodeo star mounted the wicked Cooncan in the chute, where he squealed and reared, kicked and struck, teeth flashing, and eyes red. Our pulses raced.

The cowboy pulled his hat down tight, put his spurs over the point of the horse’s shoulders, raised his hand, held his breath and nodded.

In a blinding moment, the chute crashed opened, the flank strap was pulled tight, and…

Silence. Total silence. The wind could be heard rustling the hot dog wrappers as they blew beneath the grandstand.

The cowboy, still frozen in position, opened one eye.

Cooncan stood calmly in the chute, and then, just as calmly, walked out into the arena. He WALKED out into the arena.

At first, the crowd remained silent. All I wanted to do was to disappear beneath the bleachers and vanish into oblivion. But, all I could do was stare in horror, as laughter started to well up around me.

In the arena, Cooncan cleared his nostrils and stood, awaiting a command from the cowboy with his rosined glove wedged tightly into the riggin’.

Making the very best of the situation, the young cowboy rode Cooncan around the arena, first at a jog, then an easy lope. I think he even tipped his hat to the judges as he loped around the arena for the third time. I couldn’t say for sure, as all that was left of my presence that afternoon was the cloud of red dust my pick up left as I sped out towards the highway.

I learned a lot about hoss tradin’ in my younger days, but something about Cooncan always stayed with me above the rest.
War of Wits Publishing, Ltd. welcomes our April guest author, Cheyenne Booker. Cheyenne is an avid horsewoman and a talented artist. Self-taught, she took to heart her Step-Grandfather’s, a famous artist in his own right, words, “Never go to art school, they’ll take away your gift and mold it into something else.”

Cheyenne was born and raised in Sedona, AZ on a horse and cattle ranch. Her talent for sculpting and drawing became evident at the age of two, when she began molding animal figures from clay.

Encouraged by her family, her creativity blossomed. Inspired from within, Cheyenne’s creations are magical. She works in oil, acrylic watercolor, brush and ink, mixed media as well as pencil, colored pencil and uses airbrush accents. She also makes furniture in steel or stone or whatever the client chooses. And her jewelry is stunning.

“I love to co-create with clients,” Cheyenne says. “This is probably the most gratifying work of all because they have an interactive roll in the art. The smiles and hugs are well worth the time and effort.”

Every piece of Cheyenne’s art is one-of-a-kind and never to be repeated.

“It is what and who I am,” she says, “and I am grateful to have an opportunity to share it.”

We thank Cheyenne for submitting her wonderful story Cooncan. We hope you enjoyed reading it and will take a moment to let Cheyenne know what your thoughts are of her first efforts as a published author. We look forward to publishing more of Cheyenne fine work, both her writing and her art.

“Please could I just sit here for a little while,” he said. “I am too tired, weak and hungry to go any further. I forget the last time I had a really good sleep, or, come to that, a good meal. I am neither lost, nor looking for a job. I am just a dog in transit, with sore paws. My name is Roger.”

“Of course you may rest here, Roger,” I replied. “We are used to people just dropping in. Even that duck you can hear quacking on my pond is in transit. May I ask how you come to be in this state?”

The stranger slowly lowered himself into a resting position before telling me his story.

He was from a good home in a big town. He had been well looked after, given plenty of food and a nice place to sleep. His human family had been kind and considerate. He had no complaints against them at all. The two younger humans would often take him for a walk. Sometimes they went to a park for a romp or a game.

One day, they had been playing the game the humans call ‘hide and seek.’ Roger had been hiding when he was given a nice sniffing tidbit by a human he had never seen before. Almost straight away he had felt dizzy and unable to stand. He had fallen over. The next thing that he could remember was waking up in a strange place.

It was small and dark, with a hard concrete floor. The only light was from a small opening set high in the wooden door. The door formed one wall of the kennel, and was just large enough to fit a human.

After a while the door opened and a human came in carrying a dish of water and some food.

“I had a drink, and felt a lot better for it,” Roger said. “When I looked out through the open door I could see I was in one of many small wire enclosures. A young dog in the one next to me was whimpering. I asked what was going on.”

“We have been dog-napped,” he said. “I was bought here yesterday when the shadows were getting short. You arrived later, the shadows were getting longer again by then. There were a lot of us here. The others were telling me of their experiences before they were all loaded into a white van and taken away. Now there’s only the two of us left here.”

I could hardly imagine such a dreadful thing. “It shouldn’t happen to a dog!” I said with deep feeling.

“The next morning the man came again with more food and water,” Roger continued. “When he left I saw that he had not properly closed the gate. Making sure that no humans could see me, I scratched it open and ran as fast as I could, turning one corner and then another, until I was out of breath and had to stop. Then I sat down and thought things over. I don’t know how, but I knew for certain which way I had to go, and I started walking.

“That was several days ago,” he said. “That is how I came to be here – foot sore, hungry and dog tired, but at least I feel much closer to home. I must be more than halfway there by now! It is most kind of you Floyd to let me rest. But I must try to continue on my way home!”

I felt sorry for the poor Roger, and told him so. “You are welcome to wait here until my humans come back. They will know what to do, all you have to do is to wear your tired, hurt and hungry look. That should not be difficult after all you have been through. Leave the rest to me.”

When he arrived, I let the Boss know that there was something wrong. I led him to Roger, who managed to stand to greet him.

“You poor old chap!” said the Boss. “Right! First things first! Food and water, by the look of it. Then first aid, comfort and questions!”

Roger was too weak to walk a step further. The Boss picked him up and carried him inside.

So, Roger got fed, had some ointment gently rubbed onto his sore pads, was settled down on some blankets, and fell asleep. By the next morning, he was looking more like a dog and less like a bag of bones.

The Boss gave us both a good breakfast, and then had a look at Roger’s collar.

“I don’t see a name here, but there is something much better,” he said. “I think this is your phone number. Your problems are solved, as long as you are not running away from a bad home, and I can soon find out about that!”

He went and talked to the magic bone on his desk. All was well, he reported back to us. Roger was indeed missing. His family had been frantically looking for him.

Just before dark they arrived, two adults and two young humans. When they and Roger saw each other happiness was the order of the day. Talk about ‘wag your tail off!’. There was barking and jumping and face licking and cuddles and treats and bikkies galore! There was no doubt that dog and humans belonged together.

After Roger and his family had gone, the Boss gave me a thoughtful look. “I think we should put your telephone number on your collar in case you ever go astray,” he said.

I quite agreed.

Wags and Woof from your furry friend,

Floyd the Dog

We hope you enjoyed Floyd’s story. Floyd is a dear friend, who lives in Portugal. He is the author of Puppy Dog Tales and Floyd Family and Friends. Collared is a excerpt from his soon to be released Wagging Tales.

You can learn more about Floyd and his exploits at www.floydthedog.com. There, you can join his fan club, and as part of your membership receive a free Floyd the Dog story each month.

Time has passed since Lady Angel left this life. Her surviving four kittens are doing very well. Oreo, the black kitten found a home with a young girl that lives up the street. The two Tortie sisters, I call them the Fairy Slipper Sisters, Angel and Amber, and their ginger tabby brother, the Magic Leprechaun Cat, Finn McCool, remain with me. They are now a little over seven months old.

About a month ago, I was outside in my front yard serving the night meal to my feline friends. Scooter, the cat who brought me Lady Angel, was, as usual, supervising my efforts. Suddenly, Scooter became very alert, his attention drawn to a dark area in the garden.

I turned in the direction he was looking and I saw something move. Out of the high grass sprung a small kitten. The kitten ran off a few feet, stopped, then ran across the street. I followed close behind it and called to it. It stopped and faced me. I crouched down, so as not to frighten it, and called to it again. It straightway came back, and right to me.

I scooped it up in my arms, and held it close. It started purring and rubbing against me. I knew it had to be hungry and had come to eat, so I took it inside the house. There, I have a permanent set up for just such an occasion. It is a small crate, that contains a bed, a litter box and water and food dishes.

Once inside the house, I was able to get a good look at the kitten. To say I was surprised at what I saw was an understatement. The kitten in my arms was a perfect match for the Fairy Slipper Sisters, the same Tortie color, four white feet and a white bib and tummy. The fact that she had come from the place where I had buried their dead kitten sister only added to the mystery.

I put her in the crate and got her a meal that she promptly ate. Then, I let her rest for the night sleeping safely in her warm bed, and headed back outside to finish feeding Scooter and his friends.

The next morning, I took the new arrival upstairs to where Finn and the Sisters were staying.

There was absolutely no difference between the kitten that I held in my arms and the two female kittens, Angel and Amber, who met me at the top of the stairs. They had the same tortoiseshell color, the same amber eyes, the same white markings and were even the same size, an indication that they were probably about the same age. The lone difference between them was that the kitten in my arms had a long, silky coat and a very fluffy tail.

I did not set the new kitten down, as I wanted to have the vet examine her before I exposed the other kittens to her.

When I took her to the vet, everybody there was amazed by the similarity. In fact, they thought I had brought back one of the original kittens. She got a clean bill of health, save for some fleas and the fact she had not been neutered. The fleas were easily dealt with, and the neutering put off for another day.

Then, the important decision had to be made. Would she stay and become a member of the family? Finn McCool settled that by becoming totally enamored with the new arrival, fawning shamelessly over her to the exclusion of his two sisters. The next question was what to name our mystery lady.

It was a tradition when I was growing up for the youngest in the family to be called Punkin as a term of endearment. I was called Punkin, and so too, was my daughter, Elizabeth, and more recently, my granddaughter, Amy. So, since she was the newest arrival, I named her Punkin.

Punkin is now a full member of the McCool clan. But, I am sorry to report that Finn is no longer enamored with her. He was all for looking after her when he thought she was a helpless orphan. But, he soon learned that she was a wildcat in disguise, leaping and pouncing on everyone in turn. After he got his clocked cleaned a time of two, Finn decided he best be leaving her alone.

She has since mellowed and fits in perfectly. But, what does one make of the mystery of her sudden appearance from the exact spot where the kitten, which had perished at birth, was buried? From where did she come? How could it be that she is a perfect match in appearance and age for the Fairy Slipper Sisters? Cats are said to have nine lives. Could it be she still has eight left?