My Mummy told me a nice story when she came back from the Craft Market today. She took the ferry from Dockyard to St. George, then made connections for a No I bus at Grotto Bay. She knew it was a wonderful bus as soon as she entered. An exotic scent, not unlike pineapple and flowers, filled the air. A sign displayed the driver’s name, M. Anderson, along with words, “Ladies, Stay Fabulous.” If I were a lady, which of course, I’m not, I would like that sign. Maybe one day, there’ll be a sign reading, “Cats are fabulous.” One can’t say, “stay fabulous,” however, to a cat, because we are fabulous and will always be so.
Well, Mummy said Mr. Anderson’s bus was as fabulous as his sign. He had decorated it in Cup Match colours. For those who don’t know, Cup Match is a game of cricket between the East and West ends that is played over a two day period at the end of July, and is one of the most vibrant, team-supported, celebrations in Bermuda.
A brilliant red Somerset baseball cap sat perched over the coin drop, and Driver Anderson removed it every time someone entered the bus. This caused comment from passengers who supported St. George’s, but their navy cap hung over the sign next to the “Stay Fabulous” bit, so you could call it a trade off.
A miniature cricket bat, a shiny silver cup, ribbons of team colours decorated the short table attached to the coin drop. Two large flags, Somerset’s red and royal, St. George’s navy and blue, hung on either side of the table’s railings next to the window. Anyone standing at a bus stop would surely know this was a very special Cup Match bus. Alarmingly, the red showed up in the traveling bus window far sooner than the navy, and why would a bus fly a red flag in the East End, St. George’s territory? It all comes together when one boards the bus.
Bus driver Anderson, took very special care to create the jovial ambiance on his bus. It captured a “ come-into-my-parlour” atmosphere, decorated for the occasion, and not unlike one decorates for Christmas. He warmly greeted new passengers and said especially said nice things to the ladies. I think Mr. Anderson achieves more good will than all the expensive advertising about Bermuda done abroad. Don’t you? A tourist meeting Mr. Anderson, bus-driver-supreme, ambassador for Bermuda, would never forget him.
Magic spread by Mr. Anderson will travel a long way…just like I do in my books, promoting Bermuda’s magic. Today, Mummy signed my Shoo Cat Shoo book for Hannah and Samantha who live in New York and I will live with them now in my book. I also live in Europe and Australia.
Maybe one day, my Mummy will write a book about Mr. Anderson’s Bermuda bus. I’ll be along for the ride. I can see another adventure stirring in my soul.
A Mewling Kitten at four months
Feed me, feed me, please.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
Chapter Six: Going to visit Lulu and Max
I am so excited, I could meow. MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!
My first book order came over our new web site. I am going to visit Hannah and her new black and white kitten, called Lulu, and Patrick and his new orange and white kitten, called Max, in my very first adventure book titled Shoo Cat Shoo.
Recently, Hannah’s grandmother, Louise, came into the Craft Market and bought my mistress’s art book for Hannah and Kaley. She said the girls would show other children in their class at school the beautiful scenes of Bermuda. Another of my books, the Road Toad, went to live with Patrick and Jack, so they already know what sort of trouble I get myself into when I start out on an adventure.
If you read my Chapter Two, I bet kittens, Lulu and Max, don’t end up in a cardboard box. And, like myself, this is certainly an adventurous family. It’s obvious, they never wear cardboard boxes over their heads! They share meaningful and exciting experiences with their children. They will always remember their trip to Bermuda on a cruise ship. Their grandmother is very special to me. She wrote nice things about my mistress and that makes me very happy.
Quote:
-- I'm so happy to be the FIRST ORDER, I love your books as much as my grandkids do and I love your art work as well -- I wish you MUCH MUCH success with this new venture.
I will be ordering all of your books… your ART is the best…. thank you again for sharing you (and)your talents with us.
Wasn’t that wonderful? It’s exciting to make new friends, isn’t it? I don’t know if anyone is even reads what I write (hello, anyone there?) as they probably think that as a cat, I am illiterate. My, won’t they be surprised. My mistress is the one who makes all the mistakes with punctuation and grammar. I, for one, know, and can read and write one million words beginning with cat. Cat bird, catnap, cat walk, cat’s paw, cat food, cat food, cat food, cat food…it takes a long time to write that a million times, so you will have to be patient and leave me alone.
My first book order came over our new web site. I am going to visit Hannah and her new black and white kitten, called Lulu, and Patrick and his new orange and white kitten, called Max, in my very first adventure book titled Shoo Cat Shoo.
Recently, Hannah’s grandmother, Louise, came into the Craft Market and bought my mistress’s art book for Hannah and Kaley. She said the girls would show other children in their class at school the beautiful scenes of Bermuda. Another of my books, the Road Toad, went to live with Patrick and Jack, so they already know what sort of trouble I get myself into when I start out on an adventure.
If you read my Chapter Two, I bet kittens, Lulu and Max, don’t end up in a cardboard box. And, like myself, this is certainly an adventurous family. It’s obvious, they never wear cardboard boxes over their heads! They share meaningful and exciting experiences with their children. They will always remember their trip to Bermuda on a cruise ship. Their grandmother is very special to me. She wrote nice things about my mistress and that makes me very happy.
Quote:
-- I'm so happy to be the FIRST ORDER, I love your books as much as my grandkids do and I love your art work as well -- I wish you MUCH MUCH success with this new venture.
I will be ordering all of your books… your ART is the best…. thank you again for sharing you (and)your talents with us.
Wasn’t that wonderful? It’s exciting to make new friends, isn’t it? I don’t know if anyone is even reads what I write (hello, anyone there?) as they probably think that as a cat, I am illiterate. My, won’t they be surprised. My mistress is the one who makes all the mistakes with punctuation and grammar. I, for one, know, and can read and write one million words beginning with cat. Cat bird, catnap, cat walk, cat’s paw, cat food, cat food, cat food, cat food…it takes a long time to write that a million times, so you will have to be patient and leave me alone.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Chapter Five: White or Black? Or 4,000 shades inbetween.
I am a black and white cat. No denying that. Of course, I am more black than white, as black fur covers 80% of my body. But my white parts are lovely. You should feel my tummy. The fur there is long and soft and my Mummy likes to bury her nose in my tummy and tell me how beautiful I am. My paws are white. My chest and chin are white. I have a few white hairs under my nose. As you see, I am a pretty good combination.
All my parts get along just fine. The black parts and the white parts. It’s like Bermuda. There are black people and there are white people. At least that is what they call themselves. Actually, I’ve seen them. No one is black like my black, and no one is white like my white. They are brown, some dark like my crunchy cat food, some light like my canned tuna. You could call them mahogany or weak tea if you like. The white ones are pink, pale ecru, light blush, hot pink (sunburns), toast brown (suntanned), and burnt brown. That’s the colour of scorched toast. There’s a lot of mixing between the white people and the black people and they are producing an amazing variety of coloured offspring. They are quite beautiful. Just like cats. One mummy cat can have orange kittens, tabby kittens, calico kittens, and of course black and white kittens, like me. Mummy humans don’t have that variety, especially orange and calico, but they sure try hard.
My black parts love my white parts and vice versa. They are in this thing together, meaning me. Humans have divided themselves. They point fingers. He does that because he’s white. She doesn’t do that because she’s black. Isn’t it absurd that a person who is the colour of weak tea hates white people so much when it is obvious they are more white than black? I think the labels are all wrong, don’t you? Instead of calling Bermudians whites or blacks, they should start calling each other lemon tea, pink oleanders, burnt toast, egg shell, teak, etc. That would have been a much better classification for the Census Form. “I am weak tea with a slight pink oleander blush.” Don’t you love it?
“I am speckled, like a Hind, with two thousand dark mahogany freckles on an attractive, translucent honey and lemon tea tan skin, a light patch on my bottom, and a pink scalp. How do you classify me?”
Hah! I even know Ronnie’s from St. David’s.
All my parts get along just fine. The black parts and the white parts. It’s like Bermuda. There are black people and there are white people. At least that is what they call themselves. Actually, I’ve seen them. No one is black like my black, and no one is white like my white. They are brown, some dark like my crunchy cat food, some light like my canned tuna. You could call them mahogany or weak tea if you like. The white ones are pink, pale ecru, light blush, hot pink (sunburns), toast brown (suntanned), and burnt brown. That’s the colour of scorched toast. There’s a lot of mixing between the white people and the black people and they are producing an amazing variety of coloured offspring. They are quite beautiful. Just like cats. One mummy cat can have orange kittens, tabby kittens, calico kittens, and of course black and white kittens, like me. Mummy humans don’t have that variety, especially orange and calico, but they sure try hard.
My black parts love my white parts and vice versa. They are in this thing together, meaning me. Humans have divided themselves. They point fingers. He does that because he’s white. She doesn’t do that because she’s black. Isn’t it absurd that a person who is the colour of weak tea hates white people so much when it is obvious they are more white than black? I think the labels are all wrong, don’t you? Instead of calling Bermudians whites or blacks, they should start calling each other lemon tea, pink oleanders, burnt toast, egg shell, teak, etc. That would have been a much better classification for the Census Form. “I am weak tea with a slight pink oleander blush.” Don’t you love it?
“I am speckled, like a Hind, with two thousand dark mahogany freckles on an attractive, translucent honey and lemon tea tan skin, a light patch on my bottom, and a pink scalp. How do you classify me?”
Hah! I even know Ronnie’s from St. David’s.
Chapter Four: Do Cats Go to Heaven?
Do cats go to Heaven? I’m a cat. I’d like to think so.
My round eyes radiate love. My purring expresses love. So surely, if I have so much love to give, God must love me in return. St. Francis loved animals. He must have some with him in Heaven.
I've been talking so much about my early beginnings, so now I am going to tell you about my present. My Mummy met a vet today at the Craft Market where she goes to sign my books. I’m very popular. My Mummy made me a star in my first book, Shoo Cat Shoo, and everyone who owns a tuxedo cat loves my photo on the back cover. They love me.
Well, this vet discussed my condition. It’s very delicate to talk like this, but I must face facts, I am seventeen years old---and that is OLD AGE for a cat.
I have kidney disease: a terrible thing to have for one who is a fussy eater. The clinic advised I eat a special diet. ME? Lover of kitty cat’s version of snuffed coke---crunchy, dry cat food laced with supercharged, blown-up-out-of-your-mind flavours that no fresh food could begin to imitate. Really! It’s better to be fed than dead. Good motto. I made it past the dry food stage and am crunching the diet-induced pellets that look like chicken feed and have not gotten into the wet stage. We all know, if I don’t like it, I won’t eat it; so I either die of starvation, or eat royally and die from kidney failure. Let’s face it, the end is all the same.
That’s how the topic of Heaven came up. This June, at a train station in New Jersey, my Mummy met a young, vivacious Venezuelan woman, who looked like the movie star in Million Dollar Baby, with a smile and teeth that stretched a mile. She’s a stripper. Not the movie star. The Venezuelan. She’s writing a book about stripping. She owns a gray tabby cat called Canine who she calls her ‘BA—BEE.’ “I love my BA-BEE. Ee’s my child. Ee’s my life. Ma’m, do you think cats go the Heaven?” Now, wasn’t that a thoughtful question? My Mummy told her that she hoped so.
When my Mummy told that story to the vet, the vet said, ”All my pets are in Heaven, getting along with each other, waiting for me.” Isn’t that wonderful? That’s why God made such a big universe. There must be galaxies filled with all the animals that once lived on earth. Can you imagine a planet filled with cats of all colours?
The same day, my Mummy met the owners of Porter and Cosmo, two more tuxedo cats, who had a book dedicated in their names. They asked Mummy if she would take me with her when she moved out of Bermuda. She replied that I was “too old to travel.” What they meant, however, is would she take my ashes with her. I hate small places. I don’t want to end up in a jar in some foreign country. Mummy replied that I had a wonderful garden where I sit and contemplate everyday. “No,” she said. “He’s in his garden, and that’s where he will stay.”
That’s what she thinks! I have every intention of living in Heaven.
My round eyes radiate love. My purring expresses love. So surely, if I have so much love to give, God must love me in return. St. Francis loved animals. He must have some with him in Heaven.
I've been talking so much about my early beginnings, so now I am going to tell you about my present. My Mummy met a vet today at the Craft Market where she goes to sign my books. I’m very popular. My Mummy made me a star in my first book, Shoo Cat Shoo, and everyone who owns a tuxedo cat loves my photo on the back cover. They love me.
Well, this vet discussed my condition. It’s very delicate to talk like this, but I must face facts, I am seventeen years old---and that is OLD AGE for a cat.
I have kidney disease: a terrible thing to have for one who is a fussy eater. The clinic advised I eat a special diet. ME? Lover of kitty cat’s version of snuffed coke---crunchy, dry cat food laced with supercharged, blown-up-out-of-your-mind flavours that no fresh food could begin to imitate. Really! It’s better to be fed than dead. Good motto. I made it past the dry food stage and am crunching the diet-induced pellets that look like chicken feed and have not gotten into the wet stage. We all know, if I don’t like it, I won’t eat it; so I either die of starvation, or eat royally and die from kidney failure. Let’s face it, the end is all the same.
That’s how the topic of Heaven came up. This June, at a train station in New Jersey, my Mummy met a young, vivacious Venezuelan woman, who looked like the movie star in Million Dollar Baby, with a smile and teeth that stretched a mile. She’s a stripper. Not the movie star. The Venezuelan. She’s writing a book about stripping. She owns a gray tabby cat called Canine who she calls her ‘BA—BEE.’ “I love my BA-BEE. Ee’s my child. Ee’s my life. Ma’m, do you think cats go the Heaven?” Now, wasn’t that a thoughtful question? My Mummy told her that she hoped so.
When my Mummy told that story to the vet, the vet said, ”All my pets are in Heaven, getting along with each other, waiting for me.” Isn’t that wonderful? That’s why God made such a big universe. There must be galaxies filled with all the animals that once lived on earth. Can you imagine a planet filled with cats of all colours?
The same day, my Mummy met the owners of Porter and Cosmo, two more tuxedo cats, who had a book dedicated in their names. They asked Mummy if she would take me with her when she moved out of Bermuda. She replied that I was “too old to travel.” What they meant, however, is would she take my ashes with her. I hate small places. I don’t want to end up in a jar in some foreign country. Mummy replied that I had a wonderful garden where I sit and contemplate everyday. “No,” she said. “He’s in his garden, and that’s where he will stay.”
That’s what she thinks! I have every intention of living in Heaven.
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