This Week's Travel Reading, Dresden Files Edition

It had been a spell (pun intended) since I dipped into the literary world of The Dresden Files, Jim Butcher's series of novels about Harry Dresden, private eye and wizard.

Yes. Wizard.

See, Harry investigates supernatural occurences in and around Chicago--that's why my friend Margo recommended the series to me in the first place, knowing that that's my hometown--and winds up throwing down with vampires, werewolves, evil wizards and even, occasionally, dragons. Butcher doesn't always get the geography quite right--putting locations too close to one another, for example--but he captures the vibe of my city nicely while still telling compelling--sometimes frightening--tales.

Side Jobs is a collection of short stories that take place between the novels and feature Harry facing off against any number of things that go "bump" in the night. They're lots of fun and brisk reading while riding the El or bus, though not quite as involving as Butcher's novels are. There is at least one, maybe two of those I haven't gotten around to yet.

They're next.

Just in Case You're Wondering...

Bumpy would still like to know what you think you're doing.

Hippity Hoppity

Easter is still weeks away, but that hasn't stopped Target from going into Full Bunny mode.

Every Picture Tells a Story 3/22/22

Moose

"He followed me home."

This was the story Mom told the day Moose entered our house. And, I'm sure, it was at least partially true. I'm sure Moose followed Mom home from her job at CVS Pharmacy.

But I'm equally sure she encouraged him along the way, calling him, "Puss Puss Puss!" and petting his huge head along the way until she'd gotten him to her front door and in.

And in he would stay for the better part of two decades until Sunday morning, when he laid down to sleep and never woke up again.

He'd been struggling for the past few weeks, most likely with kidney failure, and with each day he ate and drank less and less. I kept him close most of those nights, letting him lie on my chest for a while, stroking his head, telling him what a good boy he was, even if that wasn't exactly true.

Oftentimes, he could be a bastard, chasing the other cats around the house at all hours of the day and night, thumping them in the head and wrestling with any other males in the vicinity. (The past couple of years, that was Bumpy.)

Friday night, he walked out, under his own power, to the water dish in the dining room and drank for a minute or two. Then he returned to his hidey hole by the heat vent in the living room and pretty much stayed there until Sunday morning, when I brought him out to lie next to me by the couch.

And that's where, sometime just after dawn, he breathed his last.

I'm going to miss that old tomcat. The other cats will miss him too, especially Cocoa, who had adopted Moose as her "daddy." She'd curl up with him, no matter where he was or whether or not he was in the mood for such.

And Bumpy? Who will he thump in the head every day? And who will thump him back? The other two cats in the house--Mimi and Cocoa--are gentle souls who only fight in self-defense. Bumpy won't find much play from those two.

Over the past few weeks, when Moose struggled to eat, I came home anxiously, not knowing what I'd find when I got there.

Now? I know what I'll find: An empty spot where Moose used to be.

Like I said--I'll miss that old tomcat. I miss him already.

I leave you with a few photos of the old boy. He loved to pose for the camera.

Every Picture Tells a Story 3/21/22

Yes, the river is still frozen. Wouldn't recommend walking on it, though.

Yet Another Party 3/18/22

Yet another party I was not invited to.

St. Patrick's Day 2022

My Irish tweed hat and I both wish you all a Happy St. Patrick's Day.

(FYI: I bought this hat ages ago from a Cabella's catalogue not because it was an Irish "walking hat," but because it was a dead ringer for the hat worn by Walter Matthau in The Taking of Pelham 123. And having just recently watched that most excellent '70s movie again while reading the novel it was based on? Nope, don't regret the purchase at all.)

No Cat in the Window

I'm a creature of habit. Get up at the same time every day. Leave for work at the same time. Get home around the same time. Eat dinner. Watch TV. Go to "bed" (which, for me, still means sleeping on Mom's living room couch). Get up again at the same time the next morning.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Part of my morning and evening routines involved putting out food for Petunia, the cat who lived on our back porch until she was run over by a car this past weekend.

Now I get up, put down food for the cats and look out the back window into the yard.

No cat's face staring back through the window. No paws knocking on the window, asking for attention. No movement in the yard at all.

There's still movement in the house, though. Mimi, Bumpy and Cocoa all still circle me like little furry sharks, all wanting to be petted and fed.

Not Moose, though. He stays in his current hidey-hole, in front of the living room heat vent, and doesn't show any interest.

For the past few nights, I've brought the food to him, putting out some Friskies Shreds (lots of liquid in those tins) on a small plastic lid. He'd come out, nibble on the food for a few minutes (mostly licking up the gravy) and then head on back in front of the vent. And when I went to bed, he'd come up and lie on my chest for a while until I needed to roll over and set him gently down on the floor.

Last night, though, he didn't come up to me. He stayed in his hidey hole near the vent. And this morning, I couldn't coax him to eat even a bite of the plate of food I put down for him.

I fear his time is coming soon.

Petunia

She was never a formal member of the Moore Family Kitty Clan, but Petunia hung out in Mom's yard for the past three or four years, chasing down rats and squirrels and coming up to the back window and knocking to let us know that she was there and hungry. I'd pop open a tin of Friskies, peel off 3/4 of the can for the indoor beasties, and drop the remaining 1/4 out on the porch for her.

Petunia never let me get close enough to pet her and hissed at me more often than not, but in time we developed an understanding: I put down the food and closed the back gate, and she would come out from her hidey-hole on the porch and eat whatever I'd put down.

When she didn't appear at the back window Friday or Saturday, I just chalked it up to her venturing to her other benefactors in the neighborhood. Or maybe she'd gotten herself locked up somewhere; that had happened once years ago right around Thanksgiving, and when she appeared it was like a holiday miracle.

There would be no miracle this time, though. On my way to the corner store yesterday, I found Petunia lying by the curb just up the block from our house. She'd obviously tried crossing our street--which, though not a main artery, is still fairly busy at all times of the day and night--and had not made it.

I went upstairs and told my brother, who sighed heavily, went outside and moved Petunia away from the curb to keep a car from parking on her. (I'd seen that happen to a cat once before--a horrible sight.) It was the first time he'd actually touched Petunia; he said her fur was very soft.

It's a lousy way for a cat--or any animal, domestic or not--to die, and Petunia certainly deserved better. But the life of a cat on the streets of a big city is difficult. If we could have convinced her to come in to our house, we would have; we tried more than once. It had become part of my routine to feed her as soon as I got up in the morning and when I got in from work in the evening. I hoped that she knew I cared.

But that's all over now. She's dead. And I already miss her.