Station WIL ~ What It's Like

“Empowering stories for young readers and adventurers!”

Tag: Cat Fiasco

  • CC ~ Tossed and Found

    Tossed and Found

    by Cat Fiasco

    “I’ve seen a lot of crap, Gram.”

    Her silver hair framed a weathered face, her graying eyes still twinkled with childlike impishness, her gentle hand warmed me like an angel’s caress. Gram nodded.  “I’m sure you have, sweet thing. Tell me about it.”

    She stroked my head and waited. I considered whether retracing my journey would rekindle past pain or release me from it. It was time. Squirming closer to her side, I began.

    “It was a stormy night, but not a Mother Nature kind of gale.  This bitter storm raged inside a small, wood-framed ranch house. The thunder of angry voices, a brutish hand around my neck, I knew my fate was writ when I was stuffed into a dark plastic bag.  Barking, growling, pleading for mercy, all useless. I wanted to live. I just needed to figure out how.”

     Gram patted my shoulder.  “You’re a fighter, aren’t you?”

    Without reply, I continued. “It happened quickly.  The speeding car, the sound of rushing air, the bone-crushing landing.  Looking back, it was a small blessing to land on a clump of muhly grass rather than on unforgiving pavement.  With a broken leg and barely enough air to breath, my teeth tore furiously through the plastic shroud meant to be my coffin.  Bundled like garbage, discarded like trash, I squeezed myself through a ragged hole, a rebirth of sorts, into the moonless night.  Although racked with pain, I managed a bloody smile, then out loud I yelped, Tomorrow I may live or die—either way, I am free.”

    A tear drop dampened the scruff of my neck as Gram stretched for the tissue box, never far from her nose.  After a honk like the call of a migrating goose, she sniffed and whispered. “The pain of rejection can linger long after the ache of broken bones. It can torture the soul.”  For a fleeting moment I wondered what secret agony hid in her aging body.

    “Yes, Gram, except for the rousing warmth of the morning sun, I would have surrendered to my predicament.  Awake and squinting into the daylight, I assessed my wounds: my left eye swollen shut, front leg crippled, my body cloaked in bruises. As I scanned my surroundings, my gaze was distracted by a welcome whiff of food that drifted on the breeze. Luckily, my undamaged nose guided me toward a nearby drainage ditch, hopping, and hoping, for breakfast. A paper sack tangled in roadside brambles offered a few stale breadcrumbs.” 

    Gram slowly stroked my side, as if counting each rib. “That doesn’t sound like much food.”

    “You’re right. It wasn’t enough to satisfy my hunger. Oddly, the nightmarish ordeal made me appreciate those few morsels more than any tasty bowl of canned food. Afterward, I stretched out in the sunshine to warm my aching bones. My bulging left eye was worthless, probably crushed when I hit the ground. The right eye slowly focused on an end-row building, its brick wall splashed with paint. Intrigued, wounds forgotten, I pulled myself out of the ditch and hobbled forward. 

    Hunger and pain aside, I sat mesmerized by colors I’d never seen, colors that changed in the shadows of passing clouds, colors that stirred my imagination.  Unfortunately, something else stirred—the pain in my left side. I needed a place to rest, perhaps a place to die. Trembling and with no shelter in sight, I struggled to dig a shallow bed at the base of the wall.”

    Little black, tan, and white Chihuahua sitting and looking ahead, used as text-pause separator.

    Gram pulled me into her lap. “Did you dream?”

    Staring into her eyes, I mused, “An odd question, Gram. I guess I slept fitfully, over hours or days; I’m not sure. My thoughts and, yes, my dreams fixed on that wall, on the mingling of light and dark, on the freedom with which each color danced across that hard surface. I remember waking to a cold downpour. Struggling to move and with nowhere to go, I decided to stay close to the wall, it’s bold colors warmed my spirit if not my rain-soaked fur.

    By morning, mud-caked, hungry, and hurting, I tried to stand. Not good. Yelping, I fell back against the wall.  That’s when I heard voices. Fearful and unable to walk, I waited and listened.

    Two voices approached. ‘Let’s see how it held up in the storm.’ As they rounded the corner, both stopped and stared. I was hoping their gaze was on the wall. The freckle-faced gal lifted her hand to stop the approach of her auburn-haired friend. In a harsh voice, ‘Wait, Misha, I think it’s a rat. Don’t get too close. What if it has rabies?’

    Misha pushed her friend’s hand aside. ‘Don’t be silly, Becky. It’s a chihuahua. That’s why it’s so small.’ She continued to talk, her voice soothing, as she reached out. ‘Hey sweet thing, what happened to you? How about a bath and some food? Oh my, your eye looks bad.’ I barked when she touched my damaged leg. ‘You poor thing. Let’s get you to a vet.’

    The wall seemed to be Becky’s focus. ‘Misha, what about our artwork? The street festival is next week. I don’t see any storm damage but it needs some finishing touches. Why don’t you get that ratty thing to the vet and I’ll finish our mural?’

    Misha agreed. ‘Thanks, Becky. Don’t forget to sign it.’ I whimpered in pain as she lifted me to eye level and asked, ‘What shall I call you?’

    Mocking my size and appearance Becky chuckled, ‘How about Stinkerbell?’ Both girls laughed before Misha disagreed. ‘No, maybe something shorter. Tink it is. Let’s get you some help.’”

    Little black, tan, and white Chihuahua sitting and looking ahead, used as text-pause separator.

    “My memory of the vet is hazy – warm bath, flashes of color, masked faces. I woke up groggy and alone in a small wire cage, my neck bound with a collar so big I couldn’t see the rest of me. Although my pain was gone, a different loss overshadowed that welcome news. I was trapped; my freedom was stolen once more. If dogs could cry … I begged the universe to set me free.”

    I heard Gram laugh quietly. “It sent my granddaughter instead.”

    “Yes, it did.” We both laughed out loud. “Gram, I could use a snack.”

    Always accommodating, she agreed. “Sure, chewy or crunchy? I’ll top off my coffee.”

    “Yes, please, to both.” From the time Misha introduced us, her grandmother and I have had a magical connection. At our first meeting, she sat in a yellow-cushioned rocker, book in hand, a blue pen stuck over her left ear. Setting the book aside, she leaned toward me and stared, her two blue-gray eyes to my single dark one, then whispered, “Come here, sweet thing.” I hobbled forward, a black patch over a worthless eyeball and a pink cast bracing my left leg. When she lifted me to her lap, like super-glue, we bonded. From that time forward, she has been my confidant, my sage, my voice and interpreter of all things human.

    When Gram returned from the kitchen, hot coffee and treats in hand, I hopped into her lap and quickly snapped up a crunchy biscuit. “Where were we?”

    After a loud slurp of caffeine, Gram replied. “I think we’re at the point where Misha brings you home from the hospital.”

    “Right. Confined again, I freaked out during the car ride home. Too many terrifying flashbacks. I pawed, I gnawed, I trembled and whined for the entire trip. I didn’t calm down until Misha pulled me from that soft-sided prison she called a pet carrier and put me in front of you, announcing, ‘Meet Tink.’”

    I stretched my body as Gram swept her warm hand across my back. “My apologies for laughing at your name. Misha explained its origin and I had to agree.” She chuckled, “Yes, Tink’s freedom came at a high price but it opened a new kind of independence, one of self-determination. When I first looked into your sad little eye, I saw flashes of color, flames of a creative soul—an artist waiting for inspiration.”

     I pressed my paw on her wrinkled hand. “Thanks, Gram.” After a bite of my blueberry-flavored chew, I continued. “But I didn’t see flames in your eyes. I saw a tunnel, swirling with brilliant colors, inviting yet frightening, pulling me forward into your world.”

    Gram sighed, “Yes, in that instant our worlds collided, our souls, our destiny forever entangled. Now tell me about your art.”

    Little black, tan, and white Chihuahua sitting and looking ahead, used as text-pause separator.

    That’s quite a leap, Gram, from your eyes to my art.”

    Gram chuckled, “Yes, it is.  I can recite Misha’s stories from the time she could lift a crayon. Her techie job only served to help her achieve her dream of owning an art gallery. I know her art history. Continue with yours.” 

    After a long sigh, “My painful recovery took three months but offered a few surprise benefits.  Misha kept me close, handfeeding me and tending to my injuries. Best of all, she tucked me inside her jacket as we toured art museums, galleries, libraries and murals around town educating ourselves as we went.

    Over time, I developed an abstract style that Misha described as canine Jackson Pollock.  Lots of bold tail-strokes, usually after breakfast when I had lots of energy. My bedtime art tended to be sweeping and rhythmic like a queen’s wave. And I always signed my work with a pink swoosh.

    When I appeared in public, people adored my uniqueness, a black patch over one eye and a pink binding over my gimpy leg. One gallery visitor declared ‘Aww, what a cute little pirate.’ From then on, people asked about the Pink Pirate. Everyone, especially me, loved the name.

    Gram patted my head. “Names don’t usually change, but nicknames adapt to character. My birth name is Sofia but now everyone calls me Gram. Tink suited you at the time of your rescue.  Now you are the Pink Pirate, resourceful, daring and colorful.”

    I nodded agreement, “Yes, the nickname fits.”

    Thoughtfully, I explained. “I literally stepped into art. Most evenings Misha laid several canvases on the floor with jars of paint and trays of brushes scattered around them. From my cozy bed, I studied her color choices, and brush techniques.

    One late night, Misha knelt before a primed canvas, the usual clutter of paints and brushes nearby. In a hurry to get to the doggie door, I figured the shortest path to relief lay between the canvas and Misha.  In my haste, I stepped from her mixing tray onto the canvas. Trying to shake off midnight blue, I knocked over two jars: teal and lemon-yellow. Slipping, sliding, mixing colors with my butt, I skidded across the canvas. Shrieking, Misha grabbed me and raced to the sink. After a scrub, and a scold, we returned to the canvas.  Misha stuffed me in her oversized smock pocket and stared at the chaos of colors.  She smiled then said ‘I like it! Let’s try another.’”

    What began as an accident lit the fire that was my calling. Misha and I loved painting together. At first, people only saw me as her save-the-animals project, a one-eyed, limping dog. My art exposed them to the true dog inside, to the creativity that was my heart and soul.

    After years of murals, street fairs and party sketches, Misha resigned her techie job and bought a studio to display our work as well as that of other artists. I barked constantly on our road trip to the new location. When she lifted me from the car, I was stunned. Before me stood a solid brick building with a faded, yet familiar, mural on its west wall. A sad homecoming. I suppose fate is the artist.

    As Misha lifted me out of the car, she asked, ‘What do you think?’  I hopped out of her arms, trotted to the wall and peed on it.”

    Gram chuckled. “A strange baptism, indeed.”

    “For weeks, Misha struggled to name her new studio, names like The Barking Brush and Pawsitive Art. When she suggested Tossed and Found, a tribute to my journey, I barked agreement. Misha gathered me in her arms and together we danced. The choice was made.

    Little black, tan, and white Chihuahua sitting and looking ahead, used as text-pause separator.

    At our opening gala, I wandered through the crowded gallery, accepting pats on my head. Small crowds would gather to remark on tail-strokes, color and composition. My signature piece hung in the entryway. “Misha labeled it First Steps because I trotted all over the canvas, mixing colors as I raced for the doggie door. I called it Relief.

    Our masterwork had stormy grays, dark blues, ominous black with red splotches meant to be teeth marks. No tail-work, only paws and claws digging a hole through the canvas. Misha titled it Rage; I called it Rebirth. Another canvas filled with streaks of every shade of blue completed my contribution to the show. Misha labeled it Rain; I called it Tears. Amazing how the same image evokes such different reactions. Isn’t that the power of abstract art?”

    Gram nodded. “Truly.”

    “I don’t have enough paws to count the dog years since Misha rescued me. The early ones were filled with pain, the middle years with art and accolades, and my senior years with love and reflection. Throw in several dog biscuits along the way and I’ve had a good run. Funny how the brain doesn’t seem to recognize the passage of time the way the body does. It’s been a joyful and art-filled life.  Sadly, my vet recently declared I have a failing heart. I’m dying, Gram.

    Now, I want to end my life with dignity. Your granddaughter is talented and sentimental. She has given me a wonderful life and does not want to let me go. I love her for that, but prolonging my stay means enduring the bittersweet pain of living. I need your help. Will you tell her it’s time for me to go? Will you stay with me when I die?”

    Gram hesitated then pulled me close. “Yes, sweet thing, I will look into your eye and watch the brilliant colors you love draw you, once again, into a miraculous new world.”

    “I’m ready, Gram.”

  • CC ~ Murder of Crows

    Two birds, large red hawk and small black coot stand facing each other in a shallow puddle beneath a tree.

    Murder of Crows

    by Cat Fiasco

    Exhausted after a harrowing flight from Dallas and soaked from a late-night thunderstorm, I decided to check in at police headquarters. Dripping wet, I greeted the bleary-eyed night owls who had the dusk to dawn duty. They rarely spoke but always acknowledged my arrival with a nod or a hoot. Making my way upstairs, I felt small comfort in seeing the hole I called an office.

    My door was always open. That wasn’t part of any worker-friendly policy; just that stacks of unsolved case files overflowed into the hallway blocking the door. City lights twinkled in the distance offering enough light to make my way around the reams of paperwork. Drat! Candy-wrappers littered my desk. Those damn squirrels downstairs were using my space again. I could only hope for better accommodations when the new branch opened this Spring. Right now, I needed a Texas gully-washer to do some housekeeping for me.

     Time to visit the night-shift officers. I had one or two bird brains on my team, but most were capable investigators. Russell, my sergeant, was a tough old coot who spent his career working homicide. He wasn’t a high-flyer, but he had a keen sense of right and wrong. And he was good at his job. As I perched on the edge of his desk, he got a caw. At this late hour, that usually meant trouble.

    Minutes later, Russell and I arrived at the edge of the heavily wooded city park. The steady downpour and a flickering streetlight offered little help in sorting out the scene.  We examined the sweet young thing lying motionless in the middle of the well-worn path that stretched the length of the park. Who was she? How did she die? Why was she here?  Was it accidental or intentional? I needed answers.

    Russell pointed to the tire tracks across her sleek, lifeless body as I watched raven-colored quills drift into a nearby ditch. Must have been something heavy. Likely hit and run. As we surveyed the dark landscape, Russell spied a second feathered body deep in the rain-soaked weeds. Yes, tonight we had a murder of crows.  I needed coffee.

    After two hours of waiting, a sliver of sunlight signaled the end of the midnight storm and the arrival of the forensics team – more like a forensics pair, an MD named Tom and his no-name sidekick. Tom, a seasoned crime scene investigator with a taste for tragedy, waved as he approached.  One of the local cops lifted the crime scene tape deferring to Tom’s gruff manner and imposing figure – large frame, heavy jowls, and dark piercing eyes.  His sidekick hefted the tools of their trade.

    When Tom joined Russell and me beside the tire-marked body, he handed me a small bag. “Here you go, Hawkeye.”

    Even though it was a routine Tom and I had established in our early years together, the satisfaction of this small gesture never diminished.  Neither did my desire for coffee.  Quickly I opened the sack and chucked down my first coffee bean of the day.  I liked them raw and one at a time. It was an acquired taste, like working homicide.

     Tom squatted to examine the wounds on the first victim as I turned to Russell. Who, how and why thoughts raced through my head. “Beside two dead bodies, what do we know? Any witnesses? How about who called it in?”

    Russell hesitated. “I think we have a witness.  Well, maybe not an eyewitness. He’s a petty thief that we’ve dealt with before; goes by Snake. He says he spoke to this young bird right before she died. Do you want to talk to him here or at the station?”

    “Bring him here. Let’s do it now before those vultures who call themselves reporters show up. And tell the locals to get rid of that gaggle of onlookers. They display no concern for the living but show up with a morbid curiosity for the dead and dying. I hate that.”

    A tough flight, a sleepless night and two dead bodies added up to a rough day ahead. Hoping for a sorely needed energy boost, I popped another coffee bean.  As the caffeine buzz grew stronger, I watched Russell yank the skinny small-time hood from the departing crowd and push him my way.

    This guy didn’t want to make eye contact, but I insisted. “Look at me, Snake. You might be our only witness. Or you could be our only suspect. I need to know what you know. Talk to me now and maybe you can slither back under that rock you call home.”

    He decided to talk.

    “Okay, okay. Like I was telling your sergeant, her name is Flora.  And that pile of feathers in the weeds is her boyfriend, Chi. They’re always together.  Anyway, I don’t know about him, but I heard Flora scream. It was raining hard and by the time I got to her, she was barely breathing. Her eyes were closed but she managed to whisper one word.”

    Snake paused. What’s with this lizard? My blood pressure was climbing. “Okay, drama queen, I’ll bite. What did she whisper?”

     “My hearing’s not so good but it sounded like ‘Nevermore’.”

    I stumbled backward as I shouted. “You’ve got to be kidding! What kind of bird brain quotes poetry as a dying declaration? Get out of here. And go get your ear buds cleaned.”

    Snake seemed anxious to oblige but my sleep-deprived, caffeine-charged rant wasn’t finished.

    “And don’t leave town. You’re still on my radar. Go, before I change my mind.”

    After Snake skittered away, Russell poked at me. “Hawkeye, maybe he’s right. If they were lovers, it’s possible her last thoughts were about Chi – about losing him. Think about it.”

    Trying to ignore him, I turned for an update from Tom but Russell persisted. “I’m not finished. Quit popping those coffee beans. They’re not helping. You’re jittery and not thinking squarely. You need to rest. I don’t care where – just get some shut-eye. I’ll check with forensics and then find us some breakfast. Be back in an hour.” Then he was gone.

    It’s hard to do a self-assessment in the middle of a meltdown but he was right. My heart was racing, and my thinking was muddled. The hundred-year-old red oak shrouding the crime scene had my name on it. I needed sleep.

    Hasty decisions often lead to negative consequences. My snap choice to doze near the crime scene provided welcome relief for my weary body. But – there’s always a but – I woke up to what looked like the mouths of hungry chicks, ten microphones begging for attention. No way to escape. And so, the questions began.

    “Detective, are you okay? How do you feel? Can you tell us what happened? Who is the victim? Was it an accident? Was it gang related? Why were you sleeping? Did you pass out? Are you injured?”

    I pushed the microphones away, swearing to myself that if one more reporter asked me how I felt, I would rip their heart out.  How I felt didn’t matter.  What my next steps were, did.

    Pushing my way through the gauntlet of questions, I told them “Dead is dead. Two bodies, no answers. I’ll get back to you.” I left them to gnaw on those slim pickings.

    Thankfully there was one important question they didn’t ask, and one I forgot to pursue. Who reported it? Snake wasn’t the answer. Then who? Witness, accomplice or murderer; I needed to find out.

    Feeling refreshed and clear-headed, I caught up with Tom and no-name preparing the bodies for the trip to the morgue. Their preliminary investigation must be complete. I shouted at Tom. “What have you found?”

    “Glad you’re back among the living. Your sergeant should return any minute with donuts. As for the victims, one scenario fits. They had to be close, perhaps embracing. The boyfriend took a direct hit from an unknown vehicle. That sent him sailing into the thistle. With no time to react, she was crushed by whatever rolled over her. Heavy rain washed away most of the evidence except for a few remaining tread marks. Not sure if they’ll be much help. Oh, I have a surprise for you.”

    I yawned and waited. Yet another drama queen. There was no good reason to aggravate my esteemed teammate. Instead, I begged for an explanation, “Prey tell.”

    My dark humor wasn’t lost on the good doctor. He chuckled then said, “They weren’t hit last night. It had to be 20 to 24 hours ago. Rough guess, mid-morning yesterday.”

    “Doc, that doesn’t line up with our witness account. Snake said he heard Flora scream last night just before he found her.”

    Tom shrugged his shoulders. “I’m just telling you what the science says.”

    Still stunned by Tom’s revelation, I didn’t notice Russell’s return until he shoved a French cruller in my face. “Hawkeye, maybe Snake didn’t hear Flora? What if the scream came from our mysterious caller?”

    God, I thought, Maybe I should give up coffee beans. I quickly discounted that idea. Beans or no beans, Russell was on to something. I decided to test his recall.

    “Think, Russell, what exactly did the caller say?”

    Before he could answer, one of the officers guarding the crime scene interrupted. “Excuse me, detective. This little lady needs to speak to you. Says it’s urgent.”

    Without waiting for agreement, a tiny, blue-coated thing introduced herself. “My name is Betty Lou Byrd. I live at the south end of the park but we’re moving two streets north – lots more room.” She pointed over my shoulder, then continued.  “Last night I was returning from a late meeting with our contractor.  As I flew through here, I saw this poor dead thing in the short grass; nobody else around. All I could do was scream and hightail it home to call you folks.”

    I smiled. We had our mystery caller. “Thank you. You did the right thing. If you think of anything else, please let us know. Russell, give the lady a jelly donut and help her on her way.”

    Before a crumb touched her lips, Betty Lou shouted, “Wait, there is something else. This path has been overgrown for weeks, until three days ago. Someone’s been mowing the grass. I don’t know about you, but I think that could be dangerous.”

    I wanted to hug Betty Lou Byrd. Instead, I waited until she left then hugged my sergeant. “Russell, I know what Flora tried to tell Snake. Remember he admitted his hearing was bad.  It wasn’t nevermore. She was trying to warn him. I think she said new mower.”

    An odd look of disappointment crossed Russell’s face, perhaps he had a romantic heart.

     Unfortunately, my joy was tempered by a sad reality. Even if the crime guys could help us find the vehicle, there was little we could do. I decided to create a new file for hit-and-runs like this one. They don’t belong in the Closed pile or the Unsolved stack. I need one labeled Unpunished.

    “Get the public safety guys to put out the word. Folks need to know about the mowers in the park. Maybe we can avoid more incidents.”

    After a restless night dreaming about the doomed lovers, Flora and Chi, I made my way to the office. My early-bird sergeant leaned against my door frame. Doesn’t this guy ever go home? “What? Another case already.”

    Russell grinned.  “No, boss. But we may have trouble; there are rumblings of a conspiracy. It’s the Ravens, that gang that hangs out by the city reservoir. Apparently, they’re talking to other neighborhood gangs. They’re threatening to dive bomb, and lay it on, any lawn mowers that come through the city park. What should we do?”

    I paused to take a deep breath—my turn to be a drama queen. “Wish them Godspeed.”