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A Tail of Two Cats ~ By John Bolton

Our sons have long since grown up and moved away. Our two black cats are like children to us now. I think their stories are worth telling.

Elvis came to us first. Linda and I were biking the Raccoon River Trail on a late summer morning. About ten miles out we crossed a gravel road. The trail on the far side had a shady line of trees. Just off the trail were two tiny kittens. One was black and the other was black and white. They looked to be only six weeks old. Being animal lovers, we stopped to hold and pet the babies. They were starved for attention and maybe just plain starving.

There was no house or farmstead in sight and we were about four miles from the nearest town. We had a cat at home and did not need another. Three would definitely be too many. I persuaded Linda to complete our ride. If the kittens were there when we came back, we would find a way to help.

We pedaled off toward the town of Redfield. The kittens raced after us. The tiny black one ran like he was running for his life. I feel hard hearted about it now, but we completed our ride. And of course those little cats stayed on our minds.

We came back and lo and behold, there was a mother cat and now three babies. Momma cat was sweet, petite, solid black and affectionate. Linda thought there might be more kittens and she started calling for them. We soon had five babies of assorted colors. The little black one was the runt of the litter and the most outgoing.

I raced back to the town where we’d parked our truck. By gravel roads, I found my way to Linda and the brood of cats. In the weeds off the bike trail, Linda had found a Bud Light beer box with an old towel inside. Someone had abandoned that momma cat and her litter, literally in the middle of nowhere.

Did you ever make a sixty mile trip in the cab of a small pickup with two humans, a momma cat and five kittens? It was entertaining. We bought a sack of kitten chow along the way home. Those cats were going crazy for it before the bag was open.

We already had a cat, Katie, an older gray female, set in her ways, vocal and crabby. We couldn’t have more cats. We kept the cat family in the garage for a couple of days. It was fun to let them out to play and a circus to re-capture them. We there was undigested corn in momma cat’s poop. What a good mother cat she was to eat field corn to stay alive and feed her babies.

Our vet, Michelle, and vet tech, Susie, are good, people. They found a farm home for the whole litter. It was a relief to find them a home. On the other hand, we knew that farm cats tend to have short lives
And I kept regretting giving up that lively black runt of the litter. I had named him Elvis. He had a lot of personality.  Linda relented to my whining and we asked if we could have him back.  He was soon ours. Or we were soon his.

Our Katie cat was greatly affronted and offended by the new ball of black fur in her domain. How could we bring such a creature into her house? She bullied him while he was small, but soon they were friends. That runt grew into a fifteen pound (neutered) tom. That is a pretty big cat. He in turn bullied Katie. And she would scream when he did. In spite of her angry ‘I’m being murdered’ screams ~ Katie liked it fine.

A few years later Katie cat was dying of old age and kidney failure. She’d had violent seizures. We called Michelle, the vet, to euthanize her. She came to our house to do the merciful deed. Linda held Katie as the life slipped out of her.

Elvis ruled the roost by himself for a few years until Rockie came along.

The winter of 2009 and 2010 was the harshest in my memory. We had the double whammy of severe cold and deep snow. Linda and I worked at our small town hospital. Early on a dark January morning, with the temperature at eighteen below zero, an outpatient came in and told Linda there was a little cat outside and that she was just about frozen. Not much later, a second outpatient repeated the story. Linda went outside and picked up a filthy, starving and nearly frozen little cat. Her tail was broken and covered with frost. Linda cuddled her in blankets. Weak as she was, the little cat purred.

It was off to the veterinary clinic for that little cat. She was so frozen, ill and malnourished that she stayed there for nearly a month. IVs and nutrition helped her regain her strength. She arrived at the vet weighing three pounds. A month later, she was six pounds. And that was after her tail was removed. There was no saving that broken, frozen tail.

It was an unexpected surprise to learn the little cat’s story. Keith was a college student working part time in maintenance at the hospital. I sat with him one morning at coffee break and mentioned the little cat we found. Keith asked, “Is she solid black and about so big?”

We pieced the story together. Keith lived on a farm about fifteen miles away. The farm cats would climb up under the hoods of the cars and trucks to get warm. One recent day Keith had been driving away from the farm and something caught his eye in the rear view mirror. It was the little black cat tumbling in the snow after falling from her perch near the truck motor. When Keith came home, there was the little cat in the farm yard and apparently unharmed.

I asked Kieth if she had a name. I am hard of hearing and I thought Kieth said, ‘Rockie’. That seemed like a fine name for her. She’d
had a rocky start in life. Days later, I would learn that I had misheard. Keith had called her Lucky. But Rockie fit and Rockie it would stay.

Rockie did not learn her lesson after falling out of the truck engine compartment the first time. We think she got under that truck hood again and rode fifteen miles to Harlan and the hospital parking lot - probably getting her tail broken by the fan or fan belts in the process. Like Elvis had run for his life, Rockie stowed away and rode to town for hers. We think she was out in sub zero temps for three days without food or water.

Keith was content to let us keep Rockie. And though it went unspoken, he was content to let us keep her vet bills. By the time she was strong enough to come home, Rockie had bewitched the vet clinic staff. They offered to keep her.

Linda and I – especially Linda, had visited her numerous times. We wanted that cat. We took her home.

If this was fiction, Rockie would be the best cat ever. She isn’t even close. Elvis is the best cat ever. He is our gentle and loving and talkative giant. Rockie is naughty, quirky, independent - and fun.

When we took Rockie back to the vet for her first checkup, we showed Michelle what we thought was a bone chip beneath the skin on her rump and above her thumb sized stub of tail. Michele felt it and rolled in her fingers. She said, “That’s a BB.”

That BB is still there and oddly fascinating to feel. We used to joke about getting Rockie a prosthetic tail. But that stiff little stub does not bother her a bit. It seems to constantly stand up and twitch.

We are Rockie’s staff and she is stand-offish. Elvis is now an old man cat at about fifteen years old. He moves like an old man cat. Rockie will be four this autumn of 2013. She is fast and a champion jumper. She loves and mothers poor Elvis, who mostly tolerates her. Rockie has a high weak and squeaky voice. She does not meow. She does not
yowl. She says, “Eee, eee, eee.”

When company comes, Rockie hides and is not seen until she is certain they have they are gone.

Linda sits in the couch recliner in the evening and Rockie lies on her lap. Rockie regards me as the big bad wolf. She does not hide from me, but she stays two human steps away and will bolt if I intrude closer. She is arrogantly aware that she is smart and fast and I am slow and stupid.

Rockie occasionally allows me to pet her in her designated petting area. This requires me to lie on the floor and pet her beneath a wooden bench. She chooses the petting times and they are not frequent. As I pet her, she watches me warily with her green owl eyes. She is a scaredy cat.

Rockie’s full name is ever changing. It is currently Rockie, BB-butt, monkey-paws, coyote-brain. She earns those names. She is playful cat and has many cat toys. When she has not placed her toys on our bed or scattered them around the house, they are kept under the same wood bench that serves as the designated petting area.

***

We will lose our beloved Elvis at some not too distant point. It’s going to be terrible. He is the best cat ever. Rockie is a healthy little beast. Her bowed hind legs may be a sign that she was malnourished as a kitten. I hope that she will mellow with time and be a more loving cat with me.

Linda says there will be no more cats after these two. I’ve heard that
story before.

Professor Pete ~ A Goodland County Story
By John Bolton

Clayton, Oklahoma 1934

Professor Pete and Stanley Peters rode the northbound into Goodland County on a gorgeous October afternoon. The steam whistle blew two shorts and long as the train slowed for the town of Clayton. The boys had no idea or immediate concern for where they were. They were both very drunk.

They were dangling their legs from an empty Morton Salt boxcar and Stan stood up to pee. The engineer hit the brakes, the box car lurched and Stan was hurled off the train. He landed on his right side and rolled. The roll came to an end and he started to laugh.

The professor witnessed Stan’s rise and fall. With a subdued, look on his round Swedish face he called out, “For every action there is a reaction.”

Professor Pete tossed down Stan’s gunny sack and his own ancient carpet bag. With their nearly empty hooch bottle in hand he scooted off the slow moving train. He landed badly, screamed in pain and collapsed to the ground. Flat on his back, he held up the bottle like a trophy and called back to Stan, “Didn’t break!”

Stan picked himself up, buttoned his trousers and walked up to Pete. He held out his hand, received the bottle, tipped it up, drained it and then smashed it on the track. “Now it did.”

Pete tried to get up and said, “Oof da, my durned ankle hurts.”

Pete put his arm over Stan’s shoulders and with his right ankle elevated, they hobbled off in search of refreshments.

                                                                                ****

Del Wright was the day deputy and took the call about two very drunk white men stumbling around the colored section picking up discarded cigarette and cigar butts. Del found them almost immediately. They were sitting on the front stoop of a small home. The scrawny one, Stan, was smoking and Professor Pete, a big, good looking man with whitish blonde hair was clumsily rolling a cigarette.

Del parked and ambled up to them. Professor Pete greeted him, “Good afternoon, ossifer. Care for a smoke?”

Del looked them over and saw a small pile of cigarette and cigar butts between them. He said, “No thanks. Are you fellers pickin’ up butts and rolling the tobacco into new smokes?”

Pete nodded sagely, belched and said, “Oof da. Yes ossifer. Waste not want not.”

“You been drinking?” Del asked.

Before Pete, the duo’s apparent spokesman could reply, Stan lurched to his feet, stepped off the porch and puked wretchedly and profusely into the flower bed.

Del said, “That is downright rude. I like petunias.”

Professor Pete said, “Oof da. Those are pansies, not petunias. And I apologize for my indisposed friend. We were drinking, but we’re done with that now. I’m sorry for any inconvenience.”

Del said, “Well, you’re drunk as skunks. I can put you in jail or you can mosey down the tracks and save the county the expense. And what the hell is oof da?”

Pete used the porch rail to get up gingerly and said, “Thank you, ossifer. We shall mosey. Oh, oof da is an expression up in Minnesota where I come from. It’s like ‘oh my’, or ‘good gracious’ or ‘oh shit’.”

Del said, “Oof da. You two best mosey. We don’t like people puking in the pansies.”

Stan and Pete hobbled a few steps with Pete using Stan as crutch. They both toppled to the dirt street. Pete lay on his back and told Del. “Ossifer, I fear I’ve injured my limb. Crippled my hind foot. Turned my ankle. I am in dire straights, sir and we are in fact, inebriated. Drunk. Besotted. Three sheets to the wind… Maybe four.”

Del squatted down and probed Pete’s ankle. He said, “Shit. I mean oofda. You got that front leg bone poking where it shouldn’t be poking. Above your ankle. Okay then. Pete’s goin’ to the doc. What’s the plan, Stan? You want to wait on the edge of town for Pete?”

“I don’t got no plan.” Never did.”

Pete said, “Stan needs to get on home to Topeka. His old gran is ill. It’s time we take divergent paths, my friend. Good luck to you, my boon companion.”

“Well gents,” said Del. It’s been entertainin’. Professor Pete, if you won’t puke in the car, I will carry you down to the doc’s.”

Del helped Dr. Koster by pulling strong and steady on Pete’s foot while the doc casted the ankle and lower leg. And surprise, surprise, Pete pulled a money clip from his pocket and paid the doc in full and still had a green back or two remaining in the clip.

“Now what Professor?” Del inquired.

Professor Pete sighed and said, “I could use a bath, a bed and a laundry. Is there a clean and inexpensive hotel nearby?”

Del and the doc exchanged knowing looks and Del said, “We have the finest hotel for miles around. At least for ten miles. I own it. I don’t know about clean, but it’s cheap. Can you get up a flight of stairs on those crutches?”

                                                                                      ****

Del went down for breakfast the next day and was surprised to see the professor there with his cast propped up on a chair. He was drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.

Del got a doughnut and pulled up a chair. “How’s the leg, Professor?”

“Oof da. It’s tiresome and throbbing. My first night in a bed in over a week and I could not sleep. I was going to try and catch a train, but I see a job here in the want ads. Deputy, can you direct me to the school?”

“The school?”

“Yes. They advertise for a part time Latin teacher and substitute teacher.”

“Yeah?”

“Chemistry is my specialty, but I can teach Latin. I hold a teaching certificate. I have it with me in fact.”

Del’s eyebrows raised in surprise and he said, “A Latin teaching hobo?”

“At your service.”

“Professor, I thought you were full of shit, but it turns out you’re full of surprises.”

“Oh deputy, I’m only full of shit when I drink. And I only drink when there is something in the bottle! No, I’m just joshing you. I’m a good teacher. And I’ll go easy on the drink if I get the job.”

There were a lot of good men on the tramp in the dirty thirties. Del had been on the road himself and he usually saw the good in people. But there was something about Pete Peterson that Del didn’t trust.

But Pete got the teaching job and stayed on at the Hotel Delroy though the teaching year. Del figured he’d do something like knock up the first grade teacher and abscond with the pay role.

Pete quit using the professor name. That was a hobo thing.
He was a teacher, but not a professor. Staff and students liked him and he fit in around town and the hotel too. And it seemed like before long everyone in town was saying, ‘Oof da.’

Pete stayed in Clayton for years. He married the algebra teacher, taught school, coached basketball and eventually became school principal. Del kept waiting for something scandalous to happen. But to his continued surprise, it never did.

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The Hubcap Man’s Grave Site (A True story) By John Bolton

The hubcap man lived on a well kept farmstead in the rolling hills of western Iowa. What made his place stand out was the collection of chrome hubcaps wired to the barbwire fence that parallels the road in front of his house. I saw those hubcaps for years but didn’t know who lived there. In my imagination, it was an old guy with a sense of humor and an independence streak.

I finally met the hubcap man. I think it was the summer of 2010. He was younger than I had imagined, maybe mid sixties. He was likeable and did in fact have a sense of humor and an independent streak. And he was terminally ill. I’ve passed his place since that time and the hubcaps are still there and the farm stead is still neat and well kept. I wondered what became of him and supposed he had passed on.

On a nearly perfect fall day in later September of 2012, I was making the drive that would take me past his place. Farmers were in the fields with combines and grain wagons. About half the corn crop was harvested and some farmers were starting to combine the soybeans which had just made their autumn change from golden brown to dirty brown.

I wanted a break from driving and decided to stop at a pioneer cemetery which lays just up the hill from the hubcap man’s place. It was my first time there. I like history and old cemeteries. There were old graves and new. The oldest I saw was from 1850.

The cemetery is on a fairly steep hill and has a small timber on one side. It’s a pretty place with a view of the Boyer River valley. Near the top of the cemetery hill was a three foot tall jagged boulder. Something shiny at its base caught my eye and I walked up to it. At the foot of the boulder sat an unopened can of Bud Light beer and some new golf balls. A magic marker sat on the boulder and the boulder was covered with what I first thought was graffiti.

It wasn’t graffiti. I will call what was written on the boulder ‘tributes’. They said things like, “I love you, dad.” “We miss you.” “The corn crop sucks.”

I had never seen that done. I liked it. Then I looked at the headstone and realized it was the hubcap man. I stood at his grave site and looked toward his old home. I could clearly see it and the hubcaps along the fence.

hey, my first blog post, and i actually have something to say.

my dedicated CBG pickup website is up!

i have a few different models on offer, all of which i am very happy with, and all of which i use myself.

there's schematics and mounting details and spec's and a bit of general silliness.

all my electro-magnetic pickups (i don't do piezos), are designed and hand wound by me in Adelaide, Australia.

check it out if you can...

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i am currently in the throes of putting together sound samples - which just makes me aware of my playing limitations!

nevermind,

e