Krampus Tale

   A few years ago, I wrote a story that I was going to submit for an anthology of Krampus tales.  The anthology had its fair share of cutsie, froo-froo stories, as well as gory, blood-soaked offerings, so they were looking for a happy medium, from outside of the box. I wrote the following story with those parameters in mind, and with the intention of submitting it, but having done all the work on my smartphone, I was unable to edit it in time for the deadline.


  So, after having it sit around, collecting dust, I've decided to post it here. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!

The Visit

  "Papa, I still don't understand why we had to go to his funeral. He was just a terribly mean, old man," Stefan proclaimed shrugging off his heavy, wool coat, dusting the floor around him with snowflakes. "We were the only ones there! Why did we have to go?"

   Stefan was correct, of course, and his father, Tobias, would be hard pressed to produce an argument to the contrary. He took his son's coat and hung it on a peg by the front door, next to his wife's and his own. He then crossed the room with his long, heavy strides, leaving small clumps of packed snow in his wake, and poked at the fire in the hearth, bringing it back up to a respectable roar.  Stefan's mother, Claudia, sat on the edge of her bed, whispering soothing words to his fussy, infant sister, Annett.

   Stefan sat on his little stool and warmed himself by the fire as he watched his papa, waiting for a response. His father was a giant of a man, with chestnut eyes and matching hair. People would tell Stefan, all the time, that he "looks just like his papa".  He hoped that meant he would be as big and strong and handsome, when he grew up.  Tonight, however, his father's strong shoulders drooped a bit, as if under the weight of some invisible yoke.

   Tobias felt his son's eyes on him and resigned to the fact that he was not going to be able to dodge the boy's query.  He took his pipe from the mantle, packed it with fresh tobacco from his pouch, and lit it with a piece of kindling he had used to borrow some flame from the fireplace. After a few draws on the pipe, satisfied that he had a good burn going, he tossed the kindling into the fire, crossed the room to his chair (mussing Stefan's hair with his frying pan sized hand as he passed) and took his seat.  He began telling his son a tale that "took place long before you were born..."

***

  Nils was a young boy who lived in this very hamlet, with his small family. His father was a hard working woodsman, known to be fair and kind. His mother, a creature of beauty and grace, was loved by all. He also had an older brother, who was a bright, respectful lad who took after his papa.

  Nils was a störenfried.  Behind closed doors, some folks in the hamlet took to calling him "the gremlin" due to his mischievous ways.  He wasn't a mean spirited child, and his mother was always quick to point out that he meant no harm.  But, one of the poor woman's daily chores seemed to be to apologize to someone or another due to his antics.  He was very fortunate that she was well liked, and able to quell any issues with relative ease.

  Then, one dark evening in the middle of January, after a short, but savage battle with a bout of the flu, she was no more.

 Her passing made life more difficult for the whole family. Nils' father adjusted to life as a widower, but was far too busy supporting his two boys to go about town, smoothing out all the wrinkles caused by Nils' pranks. And his tomfoolery worsened. Small pranks gave way to grander mischief. A neighbor suffered a broken arm when Nils loosened a wheel on his cart.  A farmer took ill after falling into the icy water while trying to retrieve his livestock after Nils had opened the paddock.

  Some claimed, Nils acting out was his way of mourning. Others sensed it was because his mama wasn't around to make appeals on his behalf. Maybe, it was due to the fact that he was getting older, and able to be more mischievous.  No one really knew, perhaps it was the sum of all of these factors.  His untoward antics continued on through most of the year, until that fateful night on the eve of Saint Nicholas Day.

  The night was full of mirth and merriment, as everyone turned out to celebrate.  Music and stories and laughter filled the air around the bonfire.  At the height of the merrymaking, the sound of bells cut through the din of celebration like a sharp knife.

 The sound wasn't coming from any of the routes leading into town, but from the dense woods, nearby.  They weren't the cheery bells that were affixed to the horses which pulled carts and sleighs, they were low and ominous. A shriek and the pointing finger of a frightened girl revealed its source.

  The dark forest had birthed a figure that slowly, but determinedly approached the gathering around the bonfire.   Roughly the size of a man, its body was covered with dark, mangy hair.  It had the head of a goat, but with sharp teeth that gleamed in the firelight.  Rusted chains with large, heavy bells attached to them, hung all over its frame and a decrepit wicker basket was slung across its back.

  The creature stitched its way through the crowd, upon cloven hoof, sniffing and snuffling the whole time. Its warm breath curled into the cold night air from its nostrils like smoke, enhancing its demonic appearance.  Having reached its quarry, it came to a stop before Nils.  It stared at him with hungry eyes, its tongue hung from its mouth, glistening with saliva. It pointed a filthy, twisted finger at the boy.

  "Please don't eat me.”, Nils cried, "Don't sup on my bones!" The boy was near tears as he plaintively searched for help. Seeing no aid coming his way, he racked his brain for a way out of his predicament. He calmed as a solution formed. A grin slid across his lips as he approached the creature. 

He addressed the devil, "Wait! Allow me to wager a bet with you. And, if I win, you won't eat me. Deal?"

  The beast stood there for a few moments, eyeing the boy, then slowly nodded its shaggy, horned head.  Nearby, a large evergreen, adorned with candles, and apples and bows, towered over the bonfire.

Nils gestured toward it.  "I'll bet you that I can jump higher than that tree."  And, without waiting for a response, he took a small hop. 

Nils bounded around the creature like a jackanapes.  "The tree cannot jump!  I've beaten you! You can't kill me, you can't eat me!" He stuck his tongue out at the thing before him.

  The creature regarded the boy, twisting its head to the side as the child danced.  Its toothy mouth was designed to rend and chew, and it did so to the words it spoke.  "I will not kill you," it said, in a low, guttural voice.  "I will not strip flesh."  It paused between statements, as if it took a great degree of deliberation to speak. "I let you live, but I still get child."

  The crowd stood agog, as they pondered the monster's statement.  Even Nils paused in his celebrating as the words echoed in his head.  The beast wound a chain around his hand, and raised his arm.  With his other hand, he slowly tapped the bell three times.  With each tap, the bell rang deeper and resonated longer.  As the last note faded, a small click sounded behind his head and leather straps squeaked in protest as the lid on the wicker basket flew open.

  A cacophony of disembodied voices shrieking in misery and sorrow streamed from the opening. Crying and wailing, begging and pleading and promises of good behavior filled the air.  The village fixated on the demon before them, completely unaware of the change taking place with Nils.

  When their attention returned to the boy, women gasped and the men pulled their children closer.  Before them stood Nils but he was no longer alone. Beside him, his ghost-like twin, stark terror flashing in its eyes, pleaded wordlessly. The twin undulated and began drifting toward the basket, screaming silently, blue-silver tears streaming down his cheeks.  Nils clawed at the air desperately, in a vain attempt to reclaim it, but the twin reached the edge of the basket, and was quickly sucked in.  The lid snapped shut, the hasp clicked closed, and the wailing of the children ceased.  

"Deal is deal," the beast growled.

  Its business concluded, the creature set off in the direction came from.  Spinning abruptly toward a boy whose complexion immediately went pallid, it thrust a large lump of coal into his trembling, mittened hands, then proceeded on its way.  The crowd watched breathlessly as the living nightmare retreated from the firelight and melted back into the woods.

Nils stood, silent, a single tear rolling down his face. He stared in the direction where the creature disappeared, for a long while.  Eventually, listlessly, he returned to his cottage, saying nothing to anyone along the way.

***

 “…From that night, Nils never smiled or laughed.  Never sang, or whistled or hummed.  Never played, or danced.  And, every year that passed, he seemed to age five.  He became a miserable, old man. He had no friends, took no wife.  He cursed at children and kicked at dogs.  And then, he died alone.”

His story told, Tobias rose to his feet, emptied the bowl of his pipe into the ash bucket, then returned it to its place on the mantle.

”But, papa, you never answered my question. Why did we have to go?” Stefan scratched his head and rubbed the back of his neck.  

Tobias glanced over at the bin near the fireplace, brimming with wood.  "That will never get us through the night,” he said unconvincingly. Before his son could disagree, Tobias’ shuddering frame filled the doorway and was quickly swallowed by the evening.

 ​Claudia placed Annett in her bassinet, before joining Stefan by the fire.  She wrapped her arms around him and kissed his forehead.  "We had to go because he was your uncle. Nils was your papa's little brother."

The Blog Post That May One Day Save Your Life.

I wrote this a long time ago... on my Blackberry... with my thumbs.  It took quite a while, as you can imagine, so I wanted to put it here for safe keeping.  Enjoy!


The following comes from my personal zombie mythology. My zombies are the slow moving, non-speaking, non-reasoning, undead version. It is in no way the end all be all definition of the creature. You may agree with what I write, you may disagree with what I write, you may have your eyes opened to a theory that you hadn't otherwise thought of, or you may have your own theories. Most of my thoughts are really just my opinion, governed by facts (as I perceive them) and/or common sense. I will do my best to categorize my thoughts, but due to the nature of the beast (heh heh), I may have to jump back and forth a bit from time to time. Enjoy!

CATALYST-

What got the whole thing started? What heralded the end of days? Did someone read aloud from an eldritch tome? Did an irradiated meteor pass a bit too closely to our planet? Did man's advances in medicine bear an unforeseen side effect that was worse than the cure? Maybe it was just some bad milk? From the stories I've read and the movies I've seen, it could be all of the above, and then some! Personally, it doesn't really matter to me what started it as long as it's believable within the confines of the story and it affects the appropriate region. (A meteor passing by should affect at least most of the world, where a little lab accident should just affect a town/city/county, and not the other way around, circumstances providing.)

TRANSITION-

Be it from the catalyst or from an attack (though in some stories the effects vary somewhat) our subjects are about to have the worst day of their lives. They die. Maybe they're one of the lucky ones who die from shock as Grandma rends their biceps muscle clean from their humerus, or through the mercy of bloodloss, or luckiest of all, they get put down with a bullet to the head from their quick-acting son as he chokes out an apology through his constricted throat, ending the nightmare completely for them.

Those who die from their attack, slip into the nether (peacefully unaware of the tortuous transformation) until reborn as the embodiment of hell on earth, but some won't be so lucky.

Those who survive their attacks get to endure a lifetime's worth of pain through the course of agonizing hours. The body fights, initially, and it fights hard. Any wound or other entry-point for the affliction will immediately and continuously ooze a foul smelling combination of ichor, mung and pus.

Sweltering fever or Hyperpyrexia, begins when the affliction reaches the brain via the bloodstream. Due to the damage being done through the violent nature of the affliction, the body reacts as though dealing with an intracranial hemorrhage.

Simultaneously, the rest of the body attempts to fend off a unique and extremely aggressive form of necrosis. Horrific seizures, spasms and acute cramps rack the body's muscles as the necrosis spreads, sometimes fracturing the victim's own bones in the process. Skin becomes discolored, irises pale and become a milky hue of their former color, blood takes on a thicker consistency and the body evacuates its waste.

A form of dementia becomes apparent at the final stage, as the victim's last words can range from babbling, to baby-talk, to repeating a word or phrase over and over again, a sign of the last few neurons struggling to survive.

The unique necrosis that has taken over the body at an alarming rate slows to a crawl, the body falls limp and a final breath is exhaled. At this point, the transformation is complete and the process has, for lack of a better term, vulcanized the skin, muscle and organs of the subject.

BRAIN FUNCTION-

The brain has undergone a brutal assault (chemically, physically, etc.), resulting in SEVERE damage and in fact, it remaps itself. Memories, speech and reason are GONE! There is no remembering, no problem solving, no learning, nothing. Motor skills and sensory impulse speed are critically hampered and pain receptors, along with self preservation (fear) are all but eradicated, with one exception. The only pain they feel is hunger, the only fear they have is starvation, but more on that later.

They will not recover from this, it will not get better. A living being that undergoes severe brain damage, due to illness, trauma, etc., has slim hope of recovery, and that is WITH medical care, rehabilitation, their own body's healing process, and willpower. Zombies have none of that.

Zombies will not remember how to shave, they will not flock to the mall (unless, of course, they are chasing food or alerted by noise), they will not watch fireworks or celebrate holidays. They will not remember you, you are no longer mom or dad, sister or brother, wife or husband... You are the sole motivation that fuels their drive. You are the brief respite from their only pain. You are food... PERIOD.

SENSES-

With all the other changes taking place in the zombie's body, why wouldn't the senses be affected? I'll start with what doesn't change, or change that much, and work my way down the list. Bear in mind, the senses that do continue to work could in fact be considerably slower or ineffective due to the neural pathways being non efficient as a result of the brain damage and remapping.

Hearing; relatively unaffected, possibly due to the close proximity to the brain. Always active, hearing does seem to lead zombies toward potential prey.

Sight; relatively unaffected, again due to proximity to the brain. Sight seems to aid in the location of prey, but zombies also seem to be able to locate prey in total darkness. More on that later.

Taste; does it really matter? Due to lack of coordination, many zombies chew their own tongues off before or during their first feeding, anyway. This explains the common sight of ichor spilling out past clenched teeth and leathery lips. Besides, I like my steaks rare and I've eaten hagis, but I seriously doubt I'd want to try either of them raw (oddly enough, I don't mind raw hamburger meat. Don't judge!). Zombies don't eat people because they are tasty, they do it out of their one survival instinct. So, zombies can taste, or not, but if they do, it's not for long.

Smell; defunct. The sense of smell is almost completely reliant on breathing. Zombies don't breathe, so zombies can't smell. Simple as that.

Touch; skin, being the largest sensory organ on the body takes a huge hit here. Between the 'vulcanization' process and the nerve damage, touch/pain/heat/cold/etc. are nonexistent. This loss is also something that makes zombies extremely dangerous.

The fact that they feel no pain makes them stronger than humans, much stronger. Everyone's heard of the mother who moved the car to save their trapped baby, or the druggy who got shot with the taser or pistol and didn't even skip a beat. Zombies have this in spades, and it's active all the time, not just in short, little bursts.

Feeding is also aided by this change. It's the reason why zombies can rip through living tissue with relative ease, whereas a human might sometimes struggle with a cooked steak.

That covers the basic senses, but what if the process awarded the zombie something new? How are they able to track humans so easily in total darkness? How are zombies with eyes gouged out and ears ripped off still finding a way to feed? Perhaps they receive and extra sensory boon during the change. What if somehow, they are able to zero in on the human brain's bio-electrical impulses? This may also explain the misnomer of zombies eating brains. They aren't after our brains, they are after us BECAUSE OF our brains. And being the smartest animals on the planet (debatable, I know), human brains have more activity than other animals, which causes them to go unnoticed and unfettered by the zombies.

However, there seems to be a trend lately where zombies are targeting animals, and that's a real game-changer, but I'll discuss that more in the 'DIET' section.

MOBILITY-

I believe the character Sheriff McClelland from the original 'Night of the Living Dead' said it best... "Yeah, they're dead. They're all messed up." After the ordeal they've been through and the damage done, zombies bumble and stumble around like drunken toddlers. If you can't understand why, then you really haven't been paying attention, have you?

Slow, weak impulse signals, poor motor control (resulting in greatly depleted hand-eye coordination), along with a stiffened muscular system makes walking, among other things, very difficult. The result being an unsteady, slow, jerky mobility, and that's just the intact zombies.

Zombies that have suffered damage, such as one leg shorter than the other due to the severing of a foot, or having a leg with several fractures, or even being off balance further due to the removal of an arm, will ambulate even slower.

However, should zombies come into close proximity with their prey, they can and will move remarkably quickly in order to feed.

With that covered, I'd like to go over the subject of 'fast zombies' which, in my honest opinion, is just a crutch for story tellers. I understand the desire to implement them, I've heard people say time and time again how "I'm not afraid of slow zombies, I could just run around them." These people just don't get it. Next time you are around a fairly large crowd of people (a mall, carnival, movie theater), imagine 4 out of 5 of them are after you. And the few people who aren't after you aren't going to just stand there and hold the door open for you. Just some food for thought.

One of the first stories children are told sums the situation up very nicely. The Tortoise and the Hare is the perfect example of why slow moving zombies would be so dangerous. Living beings have got to rest sometime. Sure, you may be able to run away from this group of zombies here, but what about the group you run into there? How fast are you going to get away from them when you are already knackered? And don't forget, you'll have to go to sleep eventually.

Maybe you'll find some place to hole up for a while. Just remember, there is no 'safe' place, only safer. Safe is a myth humans came up with to feel secure. There is no safe in nature.

Most of the world's population is playing non-stop 'Hide and go Seek' with you... and there is no base. But since it's such a difficult concept to convey, writers take the easy way out, and introduce fast zombies.

DIET-

Zombies eat human flesh. Skin, muscles, sinew, organs, whatever they can sink their teeth into. They feed for a while, then when the body expires, (and the bio-electric impulses cease) they move on to the next potential meal. This explains why the victims aren't completely devoured.

But, why? Zombies aren't living, they aren't using the nutrients to build muscle or provide energy, so why do they feed? The reason is because nature chooses the path of least resistance. Some inert drive, tribal knowledge, what have you,(much like a dog eating grass when it has an upset stomach) has them eat fresh flesh so their bodies stop breaking down. The ongoing decomposition and rot (enzymes, bacteria, parasites, etc) that takes place within their bodies works on the fresher, untainted flesh, leaving the more complex, vulcanized meat for later. Zombies will constantly feed if they are able, to the point of forcing the flesh through their system due to sheer volume, or even filling their own chest cavities in the case of the stomach lining or intestines rupturing. Even zombies who were torn in half, or disemboweled will attempt to feed, though the flesh will do them no good as it litters the ground beneath them. Abdomens (those who have them) become distended with rotting flesh/muscle/organs and gas. The tell-tale moaning and hissing is actually gas escaping; remember, as mentioned earlier, zombies don't breathe.

If an experiment were conducted, using three cells, identical in every way, where an untainted corpse occupied one cell, a starved zombie resided in the next, and a regularly fed zombie resided in the third, the understanding of the feedings would be apparent. The untainted corpse would waste away the fastest, followed quite a while later by the starved zombie, while the fed zombie would last years after the occupants of the first two cells have withered away to dry bones and dust.

As I had mentioned earlier, there seems to be a new trend lately of zombies feeding on animals. Worst case scenario, the nightmare worsens for survivors as they have to now deal with zombie rats, cats, dogs, platypi... Best case scenario is still grim, whereas the animals do not become zombies, but the befouling of a food source would make survival harder. And, I know Romero had a zombie eat a bug in NotLD, but I whole-heartedly believe that gratuitous scene was simply for shock factor. (But seeing his later work, who the hell knows. What is it about men named 'George' who create movies with a cult following, and legions of fans all over the world, only to let the cats into their sand boxes and ruining what once was great? I'm looking at you too, Lucas!)

Finally, another rant. (Sorry kids!) I am so EFFING tired of hearing "Braaainsss" whenever the word zombie is mentioned. I have a couple valid reasons for this.

Firstly, pop culture is clueless and senseless. Sometimes it gets its hooks into something, like a Cenobite with OCD, and beats it into an unrecognizable mess that resembles nothing to its origin. Everyone just accepts it without thinking on their own, and a lot of times, it would leave you scratching your head if you did dwell on it. (If you do not no what a Cenobite is, please message me and remind me why we are friends. ;))

To the best of my knowledge, the whole zombies = "Braaaainsss" mess began with the movie 'Return of the Living Dead'. Now don't get me wrong, I've seen the movie several times, and I even own a copy. It has some entertainment value, but they shoot themselves in the foot early, and unfortunately get themselves categorized as stupid/comedy/horror instead of a true zombie film, in my opinion.

For those who haven't seen it, or are hazy on the details, the premise of the movie is that 'Night of the Living Dead' by Romero wasn't fiction, but more like a documentary. Their proof was a zombie sealed away in a drum, along with other Army surplus, that the main characters accidentally open. The zombie (MUCH faster than Romero's zombies which it was supposed to be.) escapes and all Hell breaks loose. The zombies are fast, they think, speak and use tools, they eat brains... ALL OF WHICH goes COMPLETELY against what they used to explain their origin!! (Remember what I said earlier about CATALYSTS?) They took their source material and crapped all over it.

The zombies in NotLD were not particularly fast, they did not speak, they did not reason, they did not use tools (aside from breaking a headlight with a rock, which I would have done differently) and they did NOT feed specifically on brains! I don't recall seeing any of the zombies in NotLD eating any brain matter! Granted, if given the chance I'm sure they would, but why bother wasting the time to bust open a skull when the rest of the body is right there?

But, alas, one film gives zombies a catch-phrase, and the sheep latch on.

Now, did I say I had a couple reasons why that didn't work? I guess I did, so here's reason number 2! In the cannon of monster lore, it is widely understood that different creatures have different ways of being defeated. Zombies, it is generally accepted, are easily dealt with by destroying their brains. My question is this... If zombies eat brains, they destroy the brains of their victims in the process, no? So if they EAT brains, where do all the other zombies come from? The victims would remain dead and not reanimate.

One zombie does not a pandemic make!

WEAKNESS-

As I had just touched on, destroying the brain is the most efficient way to drop a zombie. Decapitation will stop a zombie from pursuing you, but the head will still remain active, and to a point dangerous, until it finally concedes to rot and decomposition.

Fire is a BAD CHOICE as far as defeating zombies goes. When human remains are cremated, they are placed in an oven (with constant, prolonged heat) at between 1800 and 2000 degrees Farenhieght for up to 2 hours or more. All your molotov cocktail or home-made flamethrower is going to do is double your misery while you get eaten alive... while on fire. And, if you don't get eaten, you'll have to deal with the smell of burning flesh and hair along with the already prevalent smell of death and rot, along with the possibility of your shelter burning to the ground.

Their lack of self preservation is a bit of a help to survivors, too as zombies can and will put themselves in harm's way while trying to get a meal. They won't duck either, so save your ammo and go for the head shots.

In closing croquet mallets are the worst weapon... EVER! Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed the ride!

Girl Power!!!

Religion.

Politics.

Sports.

These are three topics I tend to avoid discussing, largely for the same shared reasons. Childish name calling/belittling, omitting/editing facts to support one's argument, total lack of willingness to even try to see the other's side of things, girding one's loins with the "knowledge" that one's self is 110% correct.

Sports is a subject swathed in trash-talking. It's difficult to hear a discussion about sports without it, even if the participants are commiserating. But, with the recent standings in football, one irksome "put down" has been bandied around quite a bit and I take umbrage with it.

 

 

"The Dallas Cowgirls"

Now, please forgive my capitalized, italicized, underlined, bold expletive...

How the FUCK is that a put down?!?!?!

Are women generally pathetic, and by some fluke I happen to meet/interact with the exceptions to the rule?

Now, for the sake of this post, the term of "girl" shall represent female, without bearing on age.

My mother is a girl.

She's awesome, and part of the reason I am who I am.

(And, most people like the man I've become.)

My girlfriend is a girl.

She's smart, strong, and witty.

(Actually, the list goes on and on.)

Her daughter is a girl.

She's also smart, creative, and funny.

(Her list goes on as well.)

Many of my friends and relatives are girls.

There is a plethora of wonderful traits shared by them all.

Several of my friends have daughters, who are girls.

Strong, intelligent, compassionate, etc.

(And some of them are JUST GETTING STARTED!!)

We just rang in 2015... or was it 1815??

Recently, in the news, a small plane crashed in a wooded area of Kentucky. The sole survivor was a seven year old, who walked almost a mile, alone in that dark, cold, forest wearing shorts, a light shirt and one sock, while nursing a broken wrist, until coming upon a house and some help. She was just a girl.

Now, I'm a fairly tough guy, but I don't want to imagine the hell she went through. And, I guarantee you, if some of those trash talkers were in her position, they'd be crying for their mamas! (Who is also, as you may have surmised, a girl)

Now, the salt in the wound is the fact that I've seen several girls use that very same put down!

WHAT?!?!

I called one of them out on it, and her response was, and this is an exact quote...

"I don't know. I learned the term from a bunch of MEN that got me into watching football and it seemed correct. "

WHAT?!?!

 

 

Reading this, I had toyed with the thought of responding with instructions for her to turn off the game and to get back into the kitchen "where she belonged"*, just to see what her reaction would have been, but I decided against it. I just left it sit, for as a man wiser than I once said...

*Obviously, I don't believe this, but I do like to play Devil's Advocate from time to time.

Rorschach's Journal.

May 7th, 2014:

Been a year since I was freed from lock down. Noisy place. Nosy people poking their faces and fingers at me.

Human took me away from that. Let's me stretch my legs. Let's me sleep on the bed. Doesn't get mad when I bite his fingers.

He's a good friend.

I patrol the apartment, searching for information on the Red Dot. I've seen its true face.

It fears me.

 

 

 

One year ago today, my life became enbiggened with the introduction of a huge personality in a small body.  Today's post is dedicated to him...

In order to tell his story though, I feel I must give a little back story. I once had a Siberian Husky named Thunder, he was a wonderful dog, and very much still a puppy until he hurt his back in 2011. For a year, he slowed down considerably, had many accidents in the house, and would actually stumble and fall down the two steps on the back porch on several occasions. At his most recent visit to the vet, the discussion about "quality of life" had come up.

He was struggling.  He was unhappy.  After 13 years, he had become old, simply because of an injury, in the blink of an eye. He tried so hard to greet me at the door when I'd get home, but often would watch me from the floor, wagging his tail and waiting excitedly for me to go to him.  It was around this time that my wife decided that she no longer wished to be married.

I now had a dilemma, I was moving out of my house, uncertain of where I'd wind up. My brother and his family had graciously offered for me to stay with them until I had found a place of my own. The drawback there was that their backyard had about 7 steps to it, and they had a dog that was much more active and rambunctious than Thunder. After a long, soul-wrenching discussion with the vet who had taken great care of him since he was a puppy, it was agreed that the most merciful thing would be to let him sleep.  He drifted off in my arms as I bawled like a baby, soaking him with my tears.

I had just lost two of my best friends at around the same time.

R.I.P. Thunder MacLeod Cruts

 

Eventually, I had acquired an apartment, and, thinking forward, asked the landlord if I'd be able to eventually have a cat.  I knew that after the pain had subsided, I would want another companion, and being on my own, a cat made more sense than a dog. He said it would be no problem, and that answer helped cement my desire for the apartment.

A few months after moving in to my digs, an opportunity to have a cat had cropped up.  We have feral cats where I work, and they would propagate at an alarming rate.  We had taken to capturing the adults, having them spayed or neutered, then returned to the grounds.  Any kittens we located, were young enough to be able to find homes for, as they readily warmed up to humans.  During the cold Winter months, we had located more kittens, one of which was solid black (Spooky). They were malnourished, but otherwise seemed healthy, him being the runt.  They were taken to the vet, gotten a checkup and shots, and Spooky would soon have a nice warm home.  Unfortunately, for no known reason, Spooky didn't make it through the night.  My coworker broke the sad news to me the next morning.

I have several friends who are associated with A.W.S.O.M., which is a no-kill shelter located in the Poconos.  I had friended them on Facebook, and enjoyed reading about all the great dogs and cats who had found loving homes.  Every week they'd do a spotlight piece on a cat or dog who desperately needed and deserved a good home.  One week, they did a spot on a sweet, petite, tuxedo cat they were calling "Pat" who had been in their care for two years!!!  The moment I saw him, and read his story, I knew I had to open my home to him.  I contacted my landlord to make sure it was still okay for me to have a cat, and after a maddening afternoon of him hedging, he finally acquiesced to the agreement struck when I accepted the apartment.  All my ducks in a row, I contacted AWSOM, and informed them that I'd be up after work.

After finally finding the place, I got the ball rolling on the adoption.  As paperwork got shuffled and sorted, I met "Pat" face to face for the first time.  He wouldn't even come to the door to my coaxing, and only grudgingly did with the temptation of the cat treats they had sitting on the reception desk.  My heart sank.  He hates me!  My friend, who met me there, had similar results with him.  Is this a mistake?

Never having adopted before, I was completely green to the process.  I had it in my mind that I'd be meeting and greeting, and dropping off the fee and adoption request, then I'd get a call in a day or two with the good news after background checks and whatnot had been finished.  Imagine my surprise as I watched them take the cat from his cage and fight to get him into the carrier.  It took three grown women to accomplish this feat!  YIKES!!

They gave me his paperwork, a soft blankie, a toy mouse, a bag of catfood and a bag of kitty litter.  They said their goodbyes to "Pat", wished us both luck, and we were on our way.  Our first discussion was about his name.  I disliked the name "Pat", for a few reasons.  This cat would no longer be known as "Pat".  From now on, he would be known as Rorschach!  A very fitting name, considering his petite frame paired with his symmetrical markings.

He's the little guy in the back.

A quick stop at my friend's house, where she gave me some more cat toys and supplies, then we were on our way home.  I could tell it was a bit of an adjustment for him, it was about three days before he would retract his claws while walking around. His treks through the apartment conjured a strong comparison to velcro being pulled from its backing, repeatedly.  My apprehension as to whether or not we were a good fit was assuaged before the end of the first day, when he curled up in my lap and took a nap.  By the third day, he was sleeping on my bed with me. Being so tiny and light, I had no idea he had chosen to sleep on the bed, until  rolled over and disturbed him. He awoke immediately, and at three in the morning, I found myself cuddling and scratching a little cat who seemed to thrive on the attention.  It would be a week before he began purring, and when he finally did, I fell in love with its sound.

The vet couldn't write it if it wasn't true!

Ever since day one of having my apartment, every time I've opened the front door, I've announced, "Hi, Honey! I'm home!" My stepson* found it extremely amusing that I did this to an empty apartment. (*I know he legally isn't my stepson anymore, but I spent 7 years raising him, love him as if he was my own, and my family consider him to be my kid, so if you have a problem with that, deal with it.  I'm sure he'll be mentioned in future postings.)  These days, I continue said antic, but now Rorschach greets me at the door, tail wagging, when I do.  Cats are mysterious creatures, perhaps he learned that habit from Thunder.

What do you see?

A pretty butterfly.

And, now?

Some nice flowers.

Last one.

Love.

I can honestly say that this cat is one of the very few things in this world that can make me genuinely smile. He is definitely Daddy's boy, as he generally runs and hides from most anyone who comes over to visit.  There are only a couple people he will venture out for.  They must be special.

 

Happy anniversary, you fuzzy, little velociraptor.  We rescued each other! <3