It's Butter Your Cat Day Again!

Sommer Katzen

It’s awfully hot the kitty said,

In this fur coat of mine!

My mind is languid.

I’m full of sleep,

As you will observe.

In my summer dreams I pace

A jungle, a desert, a mountain.

Wild again!

Then I rouse to find a cooler place,

For dreaming. 

🤍

The Story of Cherry and Blue, The Wolf Child

💙 A Happy Tootsday to All before we begin!💙

            It was Mother Wolf’s last litter, and she knew it. Only two had been born that spring. One had lived. She was a cream colored female cub, who was quite large for a wolf cub. It might have been because her sire had a bit of giant Malemute in him. It showed in his face a bit. It also showed in his daughter’s face. In her cream fur she had some dark markings, and her eyes were an unearthly light blue.
            Now, this Mother Wolf and Cherry were pretty good friends already, since were able to talk together. They understood each other’s hearts. Mother knew a good thing when she saw her, and she knew that her big cub and Cherry needed each other. It was a motherly kind of knowing and concern for both Cherry and this cub, unnamed as yet.
            Ralph had Maeve. Twigg had Berry and Bob, but they both claimed Ramona also, if you could have asked them. They watched her carefully and with utter feline devotion.
            Mother Wolf knew that Cherry needed a wolf. She just knew it. So, one day she strolled up to Bob out along the trail somewhere and told him of her plan and asked his cooperation and his brother’s, who was silently listening.
She introduced her child to them right there on the trail.  Both agreed that they could live with a wolf around, since she would be young and they could make sure she knew what she needed to know.
            Mother Wolf talked to Maeve, who talked to Ralph, who talked to Ramona. All were pleased to welcome the big cub into the family. Ralph didn’t think this addition would require much more hunting or fishing. His theory, being Ralph and all, was that there is always enough for one more, or several.
            So, with the groundwork laid, Mother Wolf sought Cherry in the general vicinity of the Home Clearing. She found her out by the berm which hosted Rabbit Town. When located, she was sitting on the grass with a whole class of little brown cottontails, trying to get them to sing with her. It was a funny sight, and the bunnies could only squeak a bit, but they squeaked the song together as well as they could, considering. The song was called, “Come out and Play.”
            Several yellow butterflies twinkled about their heads in a single beam of sunlight.
            Mother approached slowly, hoping not to frighten the bunnies, with the big cub in tow behind her.
            The bunnies scrambled back into their burrows, just to be sure. Bunnies are very cautious, as you know! And they should be.
            “Hello, Mama Wolf,” said Cherry. “Hello, Blue Star,” she said without thinking. It just popped out the way names do sometimes. Thus, the cub was named Blue Star.
           “Hello Cherry,” said Mother Wolf in her voiceless way, which Cherry understood just fine. “I’m sorry I scattered your class. But, they will come back tomorrow for sure.”

            “They will. They always do,” agreed Cherry.
            Mother Wolf sat down on her haunches, wrapped her tail tightly around her feet and spoke to Cherry. The cub, Blue Star now, sat belly down beside her mother and waited, looking from face to face as they talked.
            “Cherry, this is my last cub, the only survivor of my last litter. There will be no more.”
            Cherry and Blue Star looked at each other as if memorizing what they saw.
            “Go to her,” Mother Wolf told her child with a gruff little wolf sound.
            Cherry waited quietly.
            Then, Blue Star, the wolf child came to Cherry and never left her side again as long as she lived.
            They embraced as children and canids have done since time began. There was laughter and happy yipping and all sorts of affectionate goofing.
            Mother Wolf looked on for a few moments. Then she slipped away into the depths of the forest. Her heart was satisfied.
            Cherry looked up too late to see Mother Wolf leave.
            “Oh, your mama’s gone,” she said. “Well, Blue, I will take care of you now. Let’s go see what my mama is doing.”
            So, of course, that’s just what they did.
            Most of the time the wolf child was just called Blue.

🐺

A Folktale Translated from the Saslingua

            Many long moons ago when all the forest and meadows were merry and free, there lived a family apart from others. There were so few of the people that many times no one saw anyone else for long times.
            As is always righteous, there was a papa, a mama, and four little ones of stair-stepped ages. The youngest was still at the breast. Then there was a three year old, a five year old and an eight year old. All were model children.
            Papa was stern and yet kind. He was dark, lanky and very tall. His name meant “In Front.” Whatever came to them, came to him first.
            Mama was shorter and rounder, as is often the case. She was almost a blond. Her name, translated, meant “She is There.” Even the old-timers liked a joke or two, of the mild variety. She certainly was there!
            In those days people often had a name for use in childhood. When they became of marriageable age, a new name was found for them befitting their own nature.
            So, the children were known as “Bud,” “Leaf,” “Lily,” and finally, the oldest was known as “Stalk,” or merely “Son.” All the rest were girls.
            The people in those days ate what the land provided. Each season had its gifts, sometimes shoots, sometimes fruits, and sometimes roots. (That does not rhyme in Saslingua.)
            Also, In Front and Stalk hunted animals for meat. There were two methods In Front was teaching the boy by example. One was to run it down and grab it and break its neck quickly. The papa was faster than a deer and had phenomenal stamina. He could outrun any deer he chose for his family.
            The other method was rock throwing. Women and children were encouraged to practice rock throwing until their aim was useful and sure. Men did this too, especially when hunting birds, or other small things like rabbits.
            She is There was very handy with a handful sized chunk of granite. The three older children were working on it every day. They learned how to live from their parents.
            Surely, in those days, no one would interfere with anyone else’s children. It was not done.
            The children orbited their mother as if they were her moons, and they sat before their father as learners once they were old enough to follow him.
            When they first married, In Front and She is There began building a place of cover to sleep inside of. It was more than a pile of brush! But it wasn’t quite a permanent house either. It was a largish hut made of branches and bark. They added materiel to it every year. It was sturdy and looked like part of the landscape. Plants and grass grew on it, making it more and more water proof as the years went on. She is There filled it with mosses and dry grasses, and changed those frequently, as they got matted down and dirty. It pleased her to keep a pleasant home.
            They didn’t use fire.
            One day, in the summer of the year, She is There took Bud and went to the meadow near her home to see what might be had for the gathering. It was a bit late for shoots and a bit early for fruits, so she was looking pretty hard at some seed heads on grasses. She was just chewing some of these seeds to see how they tasted when she noticed something so frightening that she stopped breathing for a moment. Her hand covered her mouth in horror.
            Surely this creature must be ill she thought. It was almost like a person as it sat there on the ground doing something unheard of by all her people.
            It was as small as a child and had almost no hair. Just a bit on its head and this hair wasn’t loose like hair normally was. It was arranged in some way. She could see that the sick thing must be a female, by its breasts. But then it had some sort of material wrapped around itself. Perhaps because it had lost its hair, she wondered. The female creature’s appearance was horrible!            She is There would have thought this was a Fey, if she had known the concept because the small whitehaired creature had fire on the ground before herself and did not flee it. In fact, she kept putting more little sticks and stuff into it and it kept growing. Then to She is There’s horror and amazement the creature began putting meat over this fire, meat that was threaded onto green twigs and held over the fire by some sort of contrivance to keep it from burning up.
            She is There deeply feared fire, but she held her ground watching from the cover of the underbrush.
            The whitehaired thing began speaking or perhaps chanting, but it didn’t sound like speech to She is There, because her people didn’t speak aloud. It was some sort of outlandish gabbling sound. Another one of these sick looking animals appeared. It was too much.
            She is There fled. Her mind was in turmoil. She didn’t know what she had seen in the meadow, but three seeds had been planted in her mind, and she thought of them all the rest of her life.
            The first was that fire could be kept small and used like a tool.
            The second was that a person might put meat in fire, though she wasn’t aware of why.
            The third was audible speech. The sound of it was terrifying at first, like some animal crying out.
            So, according to the tale, this was how the people first met mankind. And in the times that came later, there were more meetings. Some were pleasant and many were not. But there was a sort tacit knowledge among each group that the other existed.
            Also, some of the people learned to use fire, and to speak aloud, or even sing!

            Ramona was told this old Firekeeper's tale by her mother and her grandmother too.

           

The Meaning and Deportment of Claws

 

A Symposium

 

(Today’s meeting is being brought to you by KittyComm™)

 
            “Meowees and Prrrrts, a question has arisen among some of our human friends. It’s a small thing but often comes up in conversation among them. I felt that it would be appropriate for us to discuss, and possibly deal with,” said Willie, speaking as Chair for the group.
            “What it amounts to is this: claw deportment. There it is! Most of us learn some time in kittenhood to retract our claws when being handled by humans. It’s a minor courtesy. But, occasionally there is a cat who for one reason or another does not employ this nicety. The question is why not?
            “Naturally, this leads on to another discussion. What is the meaning of claw behavior? And is that behavior necessarily innate, or is it learned? In other words, do you snag every doggone thing, and get hung up on sweaters, shirts and blankets because you are a Scaredycat™?” said Willie. “Also, what makes a Scaredycat™?”
            “The floor is open, anyone?” said Willie.
            “I’ll go,” said Buddy. “I think the important dividing line is between bloodshed, minor or not, and mere annoyance, which often works to our advantage. Unless a human is causing us harm or extreme distress, which none of our people do anyhow, we don’t want to injure their skin or wreck those things they wear, for whatever reason, which I will never understand. However, using our God-given vocal ability is fair game!”
            “Thank you, Buddy. Yes, Charley?”
            “For the most part, Willie, I try to remember not to cause physical harm. I used to hiss and yell a lot, now I don’t. I’m not sure why. But after I went to that place, I think they were aliens, honestly, I just don’t feel as much like raising hell with people. I think the aliens did something weird to me,” said Charley.
            “Sometimes I think a sturdy smack with a closed paw does as much good as a good rip with the claws anyhow. And they don’t carry on as much about that. They might even laugh. Maybe humans are all aliens,” she added.
            “That’s a different question, Charley. Let it be stricken from the record,” said Willie.
            “Ah, Mr. Baby Sir, yes?” Willie pointed to Mr. B.S.
            “I want to touch on the meaning of claw behavior. In the outside world, where we originally lived, before we tamed the big relatively hairless hominids, claws were our tools, and our defensive weapons, in addition to our teeth, being largely the same.
            “Deeply extant in our instinctive minds, this is still the case. Tools and weapons. I would like to ask, are our humans friends or fearsome enemies? I posit that if they are friends we shouldn’t use our weapons on them, even if we are very nervous!
            “Also, no matter how irrelevant their behavior seems at times, they are sentient, and we can’t treat them as if they are inert material,” and Mr. Baby Sir, resumed his seat.
            “Excellent points, Sir,” said Willie, with a nearly straight face.
            (Everyone had a polite little laugh at his expense. Mr. Baby bowed to the group, in good humor.)
            “Let’s get back on track,” said Willie. “Suzy? What say you?”
            “I must say that I feel a little bit pointed out here, but I’ll play. OK. Yes, everybody knows I have jumpy claws. I’m a jumpy cat. Why? Don’t ask me. I didn’t order being jumpy on Amazon. It came in the package that I was born with. If I could choose, I would be all lazy and contented like our esteemed Chair, ahem, Willie.
            “I’m not lazy!” said Willie.
            “Now, you get back on track, Willie,” said Suzy, grinning a little, as if giving herself a point. “This is the deal. Some cats are born domesticated. Some become domesticated, and some will probably never be truly domesticated.
            “But our wildness is useful to the group of contented kitties, I insist. Look at Toots! Our sister, Toots, is a finely tuned watcher and warrior at the gates of her home! Nobody else has the stamina and dedication she possesses. Just let some nasty divergent life form come slinking near her home, and by all that’s holy, she will raise the alarm! I salute her wildness! So what if her claws stick out a little more often than some!” said Suzy, urgently.
            “Well said, Suzy. Now speak for yourself,” said Willie.
            “I will speak for Suzy,” said Toots, suddenly standing and raising her paw.
            “Go ahead then,” said Willie.
            Suzy is a philosopher. Don’t you dare giggle, you guys. She ponders deeply the mixed facts of reality. This is, of course, rather alarming to a girl of her, or my, sensibility. Trust is such an issue in life. Don’t you see?
            “Once one has considered all possibilities, the stark matter of trust raises its wobbly head. To trust, or not to trust. Will a person who is all pets, and lovey words, suddenly become cruel?  How does a cat really know?
            “Most of you are too easily swayed by a past history of comfort and love. I say face the fact that things are not 100% predictable. Suzy has faced this, and it makes her a little excitable. I get that, believe me,” said Toots. “Also, we don’t like cameras, or people suddenly looming over us. Sure, trust, but make sure too!”
            “Wow, Toots, who knew,” said Willie.
            “Thank you, Toots dear,” said Suzy, without recognition from the Chair. Then she sat back down. She and Toots gave each other virtual high-fives.
            “Alright girls. Anybody else have anything to add,” said Willie, giving Suzy a look.
            Sammie raises her paw, waiting for the Chair to notice her.
            “Sammie! I see you there. Go ahead,” said Willie.
            “Hello everybody. I listened carefully to all of you, and I know you all spoke from your hearts. Each of you made very good points and those points give us all an opportunity to understand each other better.
            “It seems to me that our responsibility to those who are easily upset is to comfort them, so that perhaps some day they could drop their vigilance level down a bit, but not all the way down.
            “Now, I don’t mean to take anything away from Toots’ or Suzy’s special abilities. Not at all. We need each of us to do our best. And sometimes heroes are a little less sophisticated than others of us. Let it be, I say.
            “I say a gentle paw on a triggered cat’s shoulder will do more good than all the scolding in the world. Or maybe a concerted effort to Purr™ with the easily alarmed among us would be the way to go.  I’ll leave it there. I don’t mean to lecture, which only dilutes a heartfelt message, in my opinion,” said Sammie.
            “Well, Sammie,” said Willie. “I don’t think there’s any more to be said. Let’s end there so your advice stays with us as we resume our normal schedules.
            “Also, you should speak up more often!” said Willie, who was quite impressed.
            “Thank you, Willie,” said Sammie.
            Willie adjourned the meeting, and everybody went back to their regularly scheduled activities, naps, kibble, naps, and so forth.

😺😸😻🤍😹😸😹

Just A Saturday Blessing and a Bubble!

 

This bubble was

just too good not to repost.

God bless you all with every good thing!

Sincerely.

May your cows always come home

on time.

May your chickens stick around.

And

may all your holy dreams come true.

🤍

Just Buzzing Around One Day

 

Photo by Bernard Marschner.

Fairbanks, AK, 2024.

            Even for a Forest Kid, Cherry was on odd one. For one thing, her appearance. She was platinum blond all over and had pale blue eyes. Maybe she represented a further stage in evolution, if you hold with that theory. When the direct sunlight hit her she glowed and was a little hard to look upon. Flashy kid!
            It was the middle of summer. Even up in the woods it was hot! Down in town at sea level, it would  have been even hotter. The wind hadn’t visited the Home Clearing all day. Colors were rich, and drowsy, with that surreal look, like a Maxfield Parrish painting.
            Everyone but Cherry was just about asleep, even Bob and Berry, which is actually not surprising. Cats are cats, after all. Heat seekers.
            Ramona kept thinking that they all needed a good dip in the river, but she was so sleepy that she never quite got it out of her mouth. She was lying down in the cave with the green door open. Ralph has taken to his log, and was thinking about everything at once, which is sure to put anyone to sleep. Cherry was beside her mother, but not asleep.
            Twigg and the cats were snoozing under some ferns in the general area somewhere. Though Twigg was getting to be a quite big boy, he still liked to find a nice place to hang out with the Puma Bros, in seclusion.
            No one with a heart could blame Cherry for being bored.
            She remembered that she had promised Ralph and Ramona that she would keep her feet on the ground, mostly, especially if no one had eyes on her. She really did try to obey them.
            Besides being airborne sometimes, Cherry had a few other attributes. One of these was the ability to call animals to play and chat with her. She did this by singing, like her father did.
            Cherry was about the same as a human six year old, so she knew her way around her neighborhood pretty well. She usually enjoyed playing with rabbits. Rabbits liked her. They just stayed clear of Bob and Berry.
            She wandered off to rabbit town. Rabbit town was just a berm of earth really, full of burrows and bunnies. It was just before you get to the river. Kind of over there. She sang her rabbit calling song. One sleepy looking mother Cotton Tail came out and looked at her, shook her head, and went back down into the burrow. “Not today, Sweetie,” she said, as she disappeared.
            Cherry tried the Chickadees. Maybe they couldn’t hear her. None of them showed up when she sang her bird song to them.
            Well, bees like sunshine. Also, bees are flying things!
            It just happened. She called the bees, and several of those B.s we met before buzzed right over to Cherry. Bernice and the girls were tickled to see her. They danced around her head until she was quite dazzled. The flew up, they flew down. They said they were looking for flowers, fireweed especially. Would she like to help them find some, as if they didn’t already know every flower in the Great Forest and surrounding meadows and fields.
            Up went Cherry, surrounded by a nimbus of yellow and black, furry bees. She accompanied them to a patch of fireweed out by the Gifting Stump in the meadow. Then they invited her back to the hive in the little house that Twigg had given them after he had rescued them from that pickup they were living in before.
            She met the queen of all the bees, Bernadette, who was very pleased to meet Twigg’s little sister. Bernadette mentioned that Twigg, was, “Friend of all Bees.”
Several of the B.s cut off a nice piece of honeycomb and gave it to her for an afternoon snack. Cherry got rather sticky as a result.
            Cherry didn’t mind being sticky. She and Bernice and the girls went back to frolicking around the meadow, visiting more fireweed. It was late afternoon by now.
            As it happened, Maeve was coasting the air currents way up above the same meadow. She couldn’t believe what she saw down below herself. It looked like Cherry, the little blond urchin, wafting around down there with a bunch of bees.
            She dropped down to investigate this anomaly.
            It was just what it looked like. Cherry was way far from her mother, flying with bees!
            “Cherry, Sweetie,” said Maeve hovering near. “Where is  your mama?”
            “She’s sleeping in the cave,” said Cherry, happily, and stickily.
            “Cherry, what if she wakes up and can’t find you?” said Maeve.
            “Oh, no!” said the child, pretty soberly.
            “Let’s take you home now,” said Maeve. Being an old mother herself, she knew what was what and where the rubber met the road, if you will allow it, in their case.
            Cherry said goodbye to the B.s, who flew off together promising to visit again. Then Maeve and Cherry cruised along together. Maeve went slowly to accommodate Cherry who was not fast, just floaty.
            When they flew into the Home Clearing Ramona was still drowsing on the bed, Ralph was still thinking on his log, Twigg and the Bros were still snoozing under some ferns or something.
            “Evermore!” sang Maeve, as loudly as she could. Ramona woke right up and came out to see what in the world Maeve was on about.
            And there was Cherry, sitting on a log, as quiet as a mouse, as they say. Maeve looked from Ramona to Cherry, and back again a couple of times.
            Ramona saw that her child was all covered in honey and bits of stuff which had stuck to her during her day with the B.s.
            “Cherry, what in the world…?” said the Mother.
            “You better tell her,” said Maeve.
            So, Cherry confessed and was forgiven, but made to promise to keep her previous promise about airborne play when alone.
            “I’ve been thinking all day that we should all go cool down in the river,” said Ramona. “Why don’t you go out and get Ralph, Maeve, and I will whistle for Twigg, and the cats will come with him, and we’ll all go swimming!”
            Maeve, woke Ralph, saying Ramona wanted him. So he came right down the path to her.
            Ramona whistled, which woke Twigg and Bob and Berry.
            “Let’s all go get in the river, and wake up,” said Ramona. “Then, we’ll have to see about some dinner. Maybe it will be fish, right Ralph?”
            “Sure, Mona,” said Ralph, grabbing a bag out of the cave to put the trout in when he talked them into coming to him.
            Cherry got a bath, and they all got cooled off. Ralph and Twigg caught a good lot of large speckled trout. Then they all trooped home to have a nice fish dinner.
            Before bed, Ralph had a little talk with Cherry.

🌸

           

Thursday, July 24, 2025

 

🧡

My Grampa used to say, "Tell me a story...

even if it's a lie!"

I think he was just trying to get me to talk.

He should have hung around for a few more decades, eh?

So.

Have a lovely day!

And maybe tell a story??

🌸

Who Goes There?

 

            Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.  That’s what a gravel road sounds like in the middle of the night when you have a long way to walk.
            Crunch. The sound of gravel even if your sneakers are wet. Even if it’s cold out. But best to keep moving because it’s warmer that way, plus you get home eventually, if you keep moving. A sound concept. Sound is right. I felt aurally conspicuous. There was the rhythmic crunching of my steps and the sound of my hurried breathing.
            When it’s good and dark you can’t see much while walking next to the ditch. There was tall grass. Vines snagged my jeans and made an interesting zipper noise as I pulled away. I stepped on an occasional aluminum can. Crunch!
            This was way before mobile phones. Without the phone, you’re on your own! A marching cadence? If only I could have taken a phone from now and sent it back there. As if! I wouldn’t have known how to use it anyhow, and the infrastructure wasn’t there, then. 1966. June.
            So I kept walking and muttering to myself.
            There was no moon overhead. Oh, you can see a little bit, but not much. Trees loomed over both sides of the road. Man, it was quiet. Shouldn’t there be crickets or something? Owls? Even somebody’s mutt dog barking would have sounded more normal.
            After I had gotten into the car and we got out of town, they broke out the vodka. Not beer. Much too mundane. So when my buddy Milo parked, I bailed. Cars can’t follow you out into the woods. So that’s where I went. Then I waited until they drove away to whatever fate might befall them.
            Something bounced off of my right leg. I stopped. Did I run into a branch or something? It didn’t make sense to me. I kept going. I had maybe five miles to go.
            Another something hit me in the rear and fell to the ground. Aw, come on! What! I turned all the way around. Didn’t see a thing.
            I figured I better get a move on. So I did.
            After a couple more minutes, I got an idea. I mean it just popped up.
            “Who goes there?”
            Me, I thought, but didn’t say anything. I’m just trying to get home in one piece, I thought.
            “Who goes there?” Again.
            “Me. I’m going here.” I thought I was losing it maybe. I was stone cold sober too. Who talks to foreign voices in their own head? Crazy people. That’s who.
            When I started walking again, I heard motion to my right, just inside the tree line. I stopped and looked out there, which was stupid, because it was pitch black out there. Flat black.
            “Who is Me?” Another packet landed.
            “Who are you?” I snapped out loud because this was getting weird and the hour was getting late.
            “I’m the Watcher here,” said the inaudible voice.
            “Rooty, toot, toot! I’m the walker here. I’m walking,” I bounced back. I’ll play, I said to myself. Might lighten the weary hours.
            I kept crunching down the road, seconded by the brushy steps to my right. I should have been scared out of my wits, shouldn't I? A mystery. I felt as if I’d gotten off track somehow and landed in a fairytale. You tell me.
            “Walker, you walked into my domain.”
            “I have to walk here.” I sent back.
            “The woods are lovely, dark and deep. And full of things that creep.”
            I must be loopy. Or this Watcher is also a Joker. Robert Frost. Really!
            “I peeked.”
            “Oh yeah? What did you see?”
            “A maiden in distress. Bravado.”
            “Well. What are you going to do about it, Watcher. I must get home,” I nearly wept.
            A darkness separated itself from the forest, moving slowly and smoothly. I heard grassy footsteps. I held steady, just looking.
            As he approached I was wrapped in some kind of cloud of peace, or something goofy like that. I didn’t care. It was alright with me.
            This Watcher was a good 9’ tall. I can’t tell you the details. I think he was black, It was night. He seemed very bulky in a way, but not fat. It occurred to me that perhaps I had been covering up distress with bravado.
            “I will walk with you until you are home,” he said in a basso whisper.
            “Thank you,” I said, surprising myself.
            So we walked all the way to my mailbox. It didn’t take as long as it should have, and I don’t remember talking.
            He watched as I went to my parents’ door. I saw him once in the light before going inside.
            I had never felt so safe in my life.

💚

A Brief Tootsday Report from Suzy

 

💛

        As the chief feline consumer of butter in this house, I felt that it would be timely and appropriate for me to speak on the subject of that very thing, butter.
          It must be stated forcibly that all butters are not equal. Nay! Each maker of butter produces a distinctive product. My experience is fairly extensive, so I will attempt to inform, inasmuch as I may.

           The differences are really important to straight butter eaters.
          I see two major categories. One is domestic, the other is imported from Europe.

          Everybody is nuts about European butter, so I’ll list those first with a brief description.
1.     Irish. Sweet, densely fatted, slightly salty. Everybody likes it.
2.     French. Honestly tastes a bit like cheese. Quite salty. I like it better than Irish.
3.     Italian. Also, quite salty. Cheesy in a different way. I know what these Europeans are up to! Bread and butter! That’s what they’re up to.
 
American butter is milkier. I guess we like it that way?
 
1.     My favorite of all is Danish Creamery.
2.     Darigold and Challenge are about the same. Good. I wouldn’t turn my nose up.
3.     There was one with an Indian chick on the package. Hm! She vanished!
4.     Tillamook. I should love it. Right? Everything they make is good. It’s alright. Needs more salt.
5.     Do not buy the Amazon Fresh store brand. I’m sure it’s OK in a spud or something. But straight the way I eat butter, it seemed almost like it  had some sort of a filler in it! Who puts filler in butter? Weird.
6.     Most store brands are sort of sad. I’ve heard that some are actually reprocessed in some murky way. Best not to indulge, nor ask.
 
        So, yes, tomorrow is butter your cat day but today is Tootsday and that’s important too. Just ask her, she’ll tell you! Or maybe, it’s Sammie who likes butter. I forget stuff when I'm thinking about butter!
       Willie can’t be bothered with it. Not even in a special tiny bowl! IMO he is sporting enough butter of his own!
 
I guess that’s all I can think of about butter.

Love from the depths of my little butter slurpng heart!
Suzy Q

Ralph vs The Stick Indian

 

            Ralph has been known to roam around. He’s a curious fellow. He likes to see how things are going in the forests outside of the Great Forest itself. For one thing, it’s a kind of reconnaissance. It’s part of his duty as a king.
            He decided one day to go way out to the west to see the salt water and the Reservation there. He felt a little bit of a calling for some reason. So, Ralph kissed Ramona and his children goodbye, saying that he would most likely be back in a day or so. He told Maeve and the cats to stick around while he was gone.
            He felt that he had been taking it a little too easy, getting lazy, so he decided to run down SR530. Of course he wasn’t going to do it visibly. No need to get people all excited and solve one of the greatest puzzles of all time for them that easily. No, he ran like one who was not there.
            SR530 goes southwest until it meets I-5. At that point, he left the road and continued to the Res through the trees and fields and sometimes people’s backyards.
            It was pretty easy going. This forest was much tamer than his own, he observed with satisfaction. There were more alders and maples and other bushes of various kinds. There were firs, and always the cedars. Tribal types think a great deal of cedars.
            This was all very pleasant. Some dogs barked at him, but he shushed them easily. He kept walking until he got to Marine Drive, crossed it in fine Sasquatch style, taking three steps. Then he continued downhill, coming at last to the water at Warm Beach. It’s called Warm Beach, which is quite out of character for PNW beaches, because the slope is so gradual that the water coming in is so shallow that it actually warms in the sunlight. A lot of people have built houses in a cluster there.
            He waded way out in the water to where it was deeper. Then he swam to Tulalip Bay, which was not a difficult swim for Ralph, just around the corner as it were.
            So far, everything looked pretty good. It was like he was on a vacation tour. The water was lovely, briskly chilly. The sun was bright. He grabbed a salmon and ate it Sashimi style as he paddled along. He greeted a couple of seals who were also fishing. He threw his fish scraps up in the air to a couple of gulls, who then had something to squabble about.
            There were quite a few houses right there at the beach, so he decided to cross Marine Drive again, to go up into the less developed area to the north. There the forest began in earnest. The mood was entirely different there, from that at the sunny beach. Ancient firs stood silently. Cedars, shaggy and remote, stood among the firs. The light was dim, the air almost misty, and it was cooler here. It was almost like another world. A crow called to another. They spoke back and forth watching Ralph where he stood, just listening and watching. His hairs might have stood up a little. He thought of Maeve, but he had instructed her to stay with Ramona and the family.
            “No wonder,” he thought to himself. “Something is here.”
            A ripple of madness chattered between the trees. The crows fled. He heard a discordant whistling. Strange images visited his mind, with pursed lips and staring eyes, like a mask.
            As you know, Ralph doesn’t scare easy. He looked straight up where he could see the same blue sky that he saw above the trees at home, and he was strengthened.
            “Who are you,” said Ralph, in a tone no one at home had ever heard. A voice of command.
            “********!” A sound like an owl’s death cry emerged. It was a name no one speaks, neither Indian, nor Forest Man. To say is to summon, they say. Pity the White man who attempts it.
            “I command you, say what you do here,” said Ralph then.
            “I bring self-destruction! I come to madden, confuse, and lead astray!” the gulping voice continued. “None may withstand me!” Laughter ran through the trees. No bird spoke.

             “Who are you?” it bellowed.
            “The Maker of All withstands you, and I am his servant,” said Ralph, joyously. “Come out before me!”
            And it did. Before Ralph stood the ancient fright of Indian children, and in fact, parents. It was a sorry sight. Sometimes bearlike, shaggy and pouchy. Sometimes thin and tall, like a living being made of sticks and dirt. Sometimes a grey translucent thing, long and shifting.
            Ralph laughed. “Is that all?”
            It searched for a weakness in him. Ralph allowed the thing to see his soul. There was no breath of fear there.
            Ralph understood then why he had come here.
            “You are bound. Mute, you will wait for Reckoning, as long as earth remains,” said Ralph. “Your day is done.”
            A final scream died away, echoing off into the distance.
            Ralph looked around down by his feet and found a small rock about the size of an orange. He held it up before the thing and said, “Get into this rock.” All the disguises fell away and a little grey whisp of a thing did enter the rock because it had no way left to do otherwise.
            Ralph hefted the rock in his hand a couple of times while he was thinking. He decided that even though the thing was powerless, he had better hide it. So he carried it out into the forest. He grabbed a fallen branch and with the branch and his big foot he dug a pretty good hole. He buried the rock and tamped the earth back down firmly. He piled some rocks and sticks over the area too.
            The forest lightened up, even though it was still a forest and they are shady. But it was a normal kind of shady. It seemed warmer too.
            Ralph did some whistling himself. He was pretty happy but thought he would like to go home now. He was sure his work here was done. He figured it was about dinner time at home and that raw salmon was the last thing he had eaten.
            Ralph decided to go home the fast way. You know a portal is just a literary convention. Ralph just thought of home, and sent himself there, and there he was! Back in time for dinner.
            There they all were, gathered around the fire, like any other day. Ramona was serving slices of roast venison. She had made a pot of coffee too. It was just perfect.
            He kissed Ramona, took a deep breath, and sat down on one of those convenient logs.
            Maeve flew up to his shoulder, giving him a very sharp look.
            “Yes, Birdie,” he said. “All in good time.”
            He smiled like he knew a really good secret.

Kind of a Mutual Three Way Interview

 

            So, it was just a normal morning. I was tearing open a package of something, using my hands, like we do. I looked over and saw that Willie was watching me closely. I wondered what in the world he made of that, because there is no way he could do the same with even one of those wrapped tea bags. I wasn’t using my teeth. He could do that maybe and make a big mess of it. I wasn’t holding it down with a foot and ripping it open with my teeth. I suppose he could do that and make a big mess of it.

            So, I asked him.
            Hey, Willfred, I notice you are staring at me while I get into this package. What do you think about that?
            Well, I was wondering why your paws are so different from mine. Mine don’t work like that.
            I was born this way. In a way it doesn’t seem fair, does it?
            I was thinking that it would be really handy if I could open packages, or pull tabs on cans, or open bottle lids.
            Yeah. First we made tools, then we used them. In a way your claws are tools though! It’s almost like you were made with everything a cat needs onboard. Of course this goes back to what is the meaning and manner of a cat? What say you?
            This gets a little awkward. A cat living out of doors lives a cat life. We are apex predators in the sense that we hunt and eat the largest variety of creatures on earth. We small lions just do it on a small scale.
            But indoor cats are stuck in a bit of a quandary. We are still hunters, but we mostly have nothing to hunt. Oh, if a mouse manages to get in, we get him, or some big dumb bug. As you can see, it would be advantageous to us if we could open packages, or doors….as a matter of fact.
            You make it sound like a crazy mixed up world, Willie. We make you live indoors, but you’re not entirely equipped for it. And yet, we keep you from living where you are equipped for. But you know why, don’t you?
            Yeah. I do. You don’t want us to get eaten or smashed. It’s a tough room out there.
            OH! Hi, Suzy! Have you been back there all along?
            For a little while. I’m not sure it’s really your hands doing all that fancy stuff. I think it’s magic. You do lots of magic, all of the time. You make light come, and then you make light go! It’s actually creepy. You bring forth water from a pipe! Gotta be magic!
            You don’t hunt! I know you don’t. Food comes to the house. Magic!
            I wish you would teach me to do magic…
            I don’t know what to say, Suzy. It doesn’t seem very magical to me. I think it’s because we have thumbs and long fingers. Which are also tools, if you think about it. Just tools built for adaptability, apparently.
            Fancy talk, Lady! I think you’re holding out on me! And I know why! You don’t want me to be able to open that door! I rest my case.
            Well, Suze, you’re right about that much. I don’t want you to open that door! But I love you!
            I know. We love you too.
            I guess it’s just the way it is, huh? I don’t think you do magic, but you sure have fancy paws! And yeah, we love you too!
            God made you guys to be clever little hunters, and he put us in charge of welfare I guess. We needed thumbs for that. If you think about it, it works, guys. I do love you so!
 
 
            It came down to one of those affectionate stalemates you get into when discussing matters with cats. Sometimes you just have to reason with them a little bit.
 

 
Bold is me.
Italic is Willie
Plain is Suzy

😺🤍😸