The Smilin' Rebel

Cats are natural-born rebels.  They are not confined by man-made rules, public opinion, or even the laws of nature.  In any situation, they simply study the situation, consider their limitations, and - in many cases - enjoy their reward.

As I write this, my cat Maggie is on my desk with her head forced deep into a tiny bowl lapping the ice cream I scooped for dessert.  See what I mean?

I first became aware of this attitude while observing our cat Joni.  My daughter had rescued her from a home where some guy found it necessary to beat her with a shovel and shatter her pelvis.  She never completely healed and spent her life scuttling around in a funny sideways walk resembling a crab.  Anyway, she never spent one second feeling sorry for herself or giving in to her disability - I saw that cat accomplish things that would give some of our healthier cats trouble.  She was SO stubborn!  Many times we would try to dissuade her from attempting some feat, but she would always consider the situation, weigh her limitations, then just do it.  Even if she failed, she seemed to enjoy a deep satisfaction in trying.  She was a true Smilin' Rebel.

Our culture often portrays rebels as angry, unshaven individuals with little consideration of anyone or anything outside their cause.  However, cats have taught me to be another kind of rebel - a "Smilin' Rebel," who pursues his cause regardless of unwritten rules and unsubstantiated attitudes.

Oh, I'm NOT talking about civil rebellion, but artistic.

I actually began writing my current book over a decade ago during the age of traditional Christian (CBA) publishing.  Although several of my proposals received positive remarks (God bless those kind editors who took the time), not one publisher would touch it.  Why?  Because my book was an allegory of the Christian life featuring cats, and, to quote one editor, "Cats can't receive salvation."  Well, of course not - nowhere in my book did I suggest they could.  It wasn't until much later I discovered that some Christians regard stories in which animals are a little "more" than animals as sacrilege... even downright demonic if they talked (mine didn't).  So, not seeing how I could possibly overcome this marketing prejudice, I moved on to something else.

When I first started writing poems for publication, I hit a similar brick wall.  While I enjoy telling stories in rhyme, those in the poetry field did not regard this form of poetry highly; apparently Americans prefer freestyle and esoteric stuff to straightforward storytelling.  Time after time I would enter a contest or submit to a publication, only to have my work vanish in the mist.  Later, when I checked to see what WAS accepted, I could never quite figure out why.  So I moved on to something else.

My perception changed, however, when I began receiving reviews from readers who enjoyed my poems.  Most of them began with the words, "I usually don't like poetry, but..."  I began questioning the former critiques of my work; how could my poems be "wrong" when people were enjoying them so much?  That didn't make sense...

Then I remembered Joni.

Here was the situation:  I liked writing rhyming poems and people liked reading them.  So, according to Joni, that's exactly what I should do.

Now, what about my cat book?  Didn't I owe my fellow rebels something?

While the attitudes within the traditional publishing would are beyond my control, I have to act on gut instinct (also popular with cats).  Do I believe it's wrong to use cats/animals to illustrate spiritual lessons?  Heck, no - if I did, I'd have to label C.S. Lewis a heretic... not to mention having to reconcile the Parable of the Sower.  So, should I reconsider writing my cat book?

Joni says yes... and she's smilin'.

Well, Looks Like the Vacation is Over...

As mentioned earlier in this blog, the purpose of my travelogue was to search for inspiration along the highways of my imagination.  Well, I have good news and bad news - I found my inspiration and therefore will no longer be posting any travels.  I will, however, be posting periodic updates on the progress of my new book project.

In a way, I'm beginning the greatest journey of all...

You Are What You Eat

Did you know reptiles never stop growing during their lifetime?  Neither did I... until today.

While traveling along a picturesque country road, I was overtaken by a speeding station wagon.  The driver frantically waved me to the side of the road, so I promptly pulled onto the shoulder, expecting to be told there was something amiss with my scooter.  However, this was not the case.

"You have to turn back," shouted the man, red-faced with alarm. "My cat is loose."

A strange warning, indeed.  "Why?" I asked.  "What's so dangerous about a cat?"

"Well, my cat's a little different than most," the man panted.  "He ain't been eating nothin' but snakes and lizards for the past couple o' years."

"So?"

 "So now he won't stop growin', just like them reptiles."  He paused.  "Reptiles never stop growin', y'know."

I figured this must be how these farmers dealt with boredom - messing with the heads of city folk.  Well, I wasn't about to fall for it.  "I see," I replied, grinning.  "How big is he?"

"Dunno.  Haven't seen him since last night."

Just then, the air was split with the sickening sound of bending steel and breaking glass.  A few hundred yards away I was horrified to see a gigantic cat rolling around on the road clutching a compact car between his paws.  A man who I assumed was the driver stood at a nearby pay phone calling... I dunno, Animal Control, mebbe?

I guess it's true―you are what you eat.

Motel Blues

One of the coolest things about traveling through time and space is experiencing nostalgia instead of just talking about it.  

I was given such an opportunity the other night while searching for a motel somewhere in the late-'50s.  Tucked beside a nearly-deserted highway was a motel reminiscent of the scores which once lined Route 66.  Sensing a possible story, I parked my scooter outside a door marked "Office" and went inside.

There was nobody behind the tiny counter.  I noticed each of the numbered hooks on the wall was adorned with a key, suggesting I would be the night's solitary guest.  A brass bell sat on a hand-lettered note:  "Ring for Service."  I did.  Nothing.  A few minutes later I tried again.  Still nothing.  

It was between the fourth and fifth ringing I noticed a matchbook on the counter emblazoned with the hotel's name and telephone number.  Perhaps the proprietor was up in that big ol' Victorian house I saw when parking my scooter and this number would ring up there.  I grabbed the phone and dialed the number.

"Hello?" crackled the voice on the other end.

"G'evening, ma'am," I replied in my cheeriest tone.  "I'm, down here in the office and―"

"I can't help you," snapped the voice.  "My son takes care of everything for me."

"Well, can I speak to him?"

"He's not here."  

You'd think someone with an empty motel on a deserted road would be a little more gracious. However, I wasnt ready to give up yet.  "When do you expect him back?" I asked.

"He comes and goes as he pleases!"  The phone actually trembled in my hand.  "The ungrateful little whelp doesn't even bother to feed me most of the time."

I felt a twinge of pity for the old woman.  "Oh?  Would you like me to bring you something?"

 "No, I fixed myself something earlier.  I'm stuffed."

"Okay," I said, "But if you like, I could come up there and―"

"And... what?" growled the voice. "Why do you want to come up here so badly?  To rob me?"

"Heavens, no!"

"Perhaps you would like to kill me."

"Of course not."  This was getting to be too much.

"Go away!" shrieked the phone.  "Or I'll send my son down to kill you first!"

I quickly hung up the phone and rushed outside to my scooter.  From up on the hill, I heard the front door of the house slam shut. Between heartbeats, I flipped the switch and powered the scooter back onto the road at full speed.

Guess I'll have to look elsewhere for a good story...

The Dangerous Desert

I've never been particularly fond of the desert.  My parents purchased a parcel of land at Lake Havasu back in the '60s and would pack us down there for a camping trip every few years.  Ugh.  All I can remember is sitting in the Colorado river up to my nose waiting for the sun to go down.  Anyway, over the years I've heard how nice the area was developed so I decided to make it my first destination.  The London Bridge wasn't there yet when we visited and I wanted to see it.

It didn't take long for me to remember why I avoid the desert - it was HOT.  I was surrounded by a quivering landscape of shimmering sand and the sun seemed intent on melting my tires onto the oozing asphalt road.  Even the tumbleweeds were rushing towards yucca trees to cool off in their shadows.

Suddenly, a truck filled with men - some in police uniforms - flew by, spraying me with hot gravel.  One of the cops yelled something at me as they passed, but I couldn't hear over the sound of rocks pelting my helmet.  The truck flew over a small rise in the road ahead and disappeared.  I followed.  Why not?

I was totally unprepared for what awaited me over the rise.  The truck was parked at an awkward angle at the side of the road and the men were jumping off, each of them brandishing a firearm.  My first thought was I was being ambushed by the Prickly Pear Gang, a notorious band of highway pirates known to roam the Arizona highways.  However, I soon realized their target was not me when they opened up with a barrage of gunfire at something to my left.

Plodding towards us across the sand was the biggest tarantula I'd ever seen.  It was enormous!  Even though it was several hundred yards away, I could still see the sunlight glinting off  its eight eyes and the thick, viscous venom dripping from its fangs.  Each time a bullet would find its mark, the beast would stagger back a few steps, only to recover and resume its ungainly charge.  Finally, after about fifteen minutes of steady gunfire, the spider's legs buckled and it collapsed onto the desert floor in a swirling cloud of dust.

Stunned, I approached one of the men in uniform.  "Uh... what was that?" I asked.

"Tarantula," he replied.  "We have to git rid of 'em sometimes."

"Dangerous, eh?"

"No, not really," he drawled, scanning the horizon.  "But they attract them durn big snakes."

I turned my scooter around headed back home.  I'll see the London Bridge some other time.