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Cold December winds whispered to me and on them I heard his laughter.  White winter snow glistened across the ground, each flake reminding me of the sparkle in his eyes.  Ice sickles dripped, crying as I did for the loss of youth and love.  I was barely more than a girl when I watched them bury him, my heart still in his hands.

Here is a short essay I wrote many years ago, before I even started taking writing courses.  So, don’t be too critical..it’s just a funny story based on a real life situation.

Living in the country.  So many desire it, so many enjoy it.  I’m not sure I’m one of them anymore.  Perhaps it’s because I’ve lived in the country all my life.  Yes, I raised animals, I know the difference between a Holstein and a Jersey (those are cows by the way) and of course, I was even in 4-H.  Not to mention I can recite the words to way to many country music songs.  Being that I live in what many commonly refer to as “the sticks”, I have come across several reasons for packing it up and moving, but one in particular will forever stick in my head.  (Not to mention the fact that my loving husband insists on telling it to every person he feels deserves their laugh for the day.)

Being the country-bumpkin that I am, I of course have a dog.  Not some fluffy little cutesy pup that requires a tiny crocheted jacket in the winter, but a big, loud, overactive, German bred, huntin’ dog, a Weimaraner. Who from this point on, I will refer to as “Dog”, so as to protect the innocent. Now, I don’t hunt, but I have Dog should I ever want to. Good logic right?  Well, it would turn out, if you have a big ol’ huntin’ dog, you yourself don’t actually need to go hunting.  Your dog will do it for you.  No gun and ammunition or bow and arrows needed. 

Towards the end of last summer, not too long after dark, my niece and I head on out to the car to retrieve my five year olds hidden birthday presents.  Well, of course Dog had to go with us.  Now, many of us have dogs for protection, or at least for a “something’s wrong sensor”, so, why not take her out with us.  What could it possibly hurt?

So, out the door we go, my niece, the now bouncing with excitement Dog, and me.  I should have known something was going to go wrong.  Dog always gets excited, but not quite this excited.  Oh well, we’re just walking out to the car, right?  Remember, this is in the country, no handy dandy streetlights to light our way, and of course the kids used the flashlight for some puppet show and it’s now lost in the “I don’t know where” land forever.  Anyways, we get no more then 5 steps onto the porch when Dog lets out the hunting dog howl, the howl only a Weimaraner owner can appreciate, and she darts off into the night.  (Mind you, Dog is sitting next to me watching me type right now, I’m certain she is making sure I don’t forget any good details. Those would be of course the ones that make me look stupid and her superior.) 

Thinking nothing of this situation, my niece announces, “You know that dog is going to come running at us in the dark and scare us to death, right?” That brought a laugh to both of us and we continued on. 

Well, it would seem I spoiled my child way too much that birthday, because we both had our hands full of bags, as we head back to the house.   From behind me, I can hear my best friend Dog running through the yard towards us.  “I told you she’d come running….” Is as far as my niece got before the smell hit me.  You know that smell, the one you pass on the roads that lingers with your car for hours.  The smell that you can’t help but breathing in when you go past it.  You see the remnants of the black with the white stripes, you know you shouldn’t smell, but you do.  You know you should plug your nose, but you don’t. 

Now we all know what I’m talking about, my dear, dear Dog had brought me a present of her own.  Sticking out from each side of her mouth was the trademark black and white. Dog was so proud of her catch that she was going to bring it to me.  So, my niece and I did what any normal person would do.  We screamed like little girls and ran like mad.  Here is where we get the big “L” for “Loser” marked on our foreheads.  We didn’t run for the house, we ran back to the car.  I’m not quite sure how that was going to help, but we did it anyways. 

Dog was however okay with this idea.  She loved to ride in cars so she came over to join us.  Up on the side of my car she jumps and presses the biggest skunk I had ever seen up against my window.  Ah, I think I can still taste the smell.  I’m not sure that’s possible, but yes, I can remember tasting it. 

I’ve got it!  I know what to do!  My husband is getting ready for work, we’ll beep the horn and make him come out and shoot it!  (Don’t worry, he’s a police officer, he trained with his gun)  I know what you’re thinking, “Doesn’t the dog still have the skunk in its mouth?  How’s he going to shoot it?” Yeah that was a good idea. (Can you see the big “L” on my forehead?)  It didn’t matter, he didn’t hear the horn and I had to come up with another brilliant idea. 

So, we will recap up to this point.  Here you have two adult women sitting in a car, in the dark, arms full of birthday presents and a very, very proud dog bouncing up and down outside of the car with a huge skunk in her mouth.  Okay, no problem, we’re adults, we can handle this.  Idea! We will simply drive the car through the yard getting it as close to the door as possible and we will sprint inside.  Sounded good to me. 

Now, after driving the car through the yard, pulling up to the porch and gathering all of our bags, we’re ready to go.  At this point, my niece takes note of a very important factor, “where’s the skunk?”  Obviously, Dog realizing I was not pleased with her generous gift, had let it go, and she was waiting patiently to be let back in the house.  All right, where is the skunk? Is it dead?  Did it run off?  Did she swallow it? (If the swallowing it part does not sound realistic, you definitely don’t own a Weimaraner huntin’ dog)  We allowed probably another five minutes to pass, and after seeing nothing move, we were continuing with our plan to flee, I mean sprint, into the house. (I still haven’t figured out why my husband never wondered why it was taking me so long to return from the car.)

Ready? Go!  I don’t believe I have ever run so fast in my life, nor had I ever seen my niece hurdle a dog in heels before, but we made it into the house.  No skunk in sight, just that notorious smell lingering around the now drooling, proud hunter begging at the door to come inside. Of course I couldn’t leave her outside, she might hunt down something else for me, you know, like the neighbors cat. 

Now, it’s late evening.  Birthday presents need to be wrapped, a cake needs to be baked, the house needs to be air freshened and Dog needs a bath. Do you think I have tomato juice? Of course I do not.  So, being that I tested it myself, should you ever find yourself without tomato juice, vinegar and designer shampoo works fairly well.

Are you wondering yet where this monster skunk ran off to in the dark of the night?  Being the country girl that I am, and being married to a city boy by the way, I am the chosen one to go out the next morning and see that it’s gone.  We can’t after all have a skunk running around a birthday party.  So, out the door I go, shovel in hand, husband watching out the window. (Laughing at me I’m sure) 

The smell is still lingering, therefore I’m pretty sure it’s there, dead, somewhere.  By this time, I’m having a hard time understanding why I can’t find it. It was, after all, huge!  After a few minutes of dedicated searching, I finally see little tuffs of black and white fur sticking up above the grass.  Being the country girl that I am I buck up, hold my nose and head on over.  Now we all know how you “gain” ten pounds on camera or in pictures, well, it would seem, so do skunks in the dark.  My ever so huge skunk of terror, the trauma of my nose, the de-freshener of my house, the trophy of my Dog, was nothing more then little, pint sized handful of fur and stink. 

Think your cat is harmless? Just an animal? Just a family friend? Listen to my story, and judge for yourself. Oh, and by the way, you may want to remove Fluffy from your lap while reading this; he may catch a glimpse and get ideas of his own.

Being the softhearted person that I am, I fell in love with a homeless, skinny tomcat from my local Animal Protection League. He looked so kind, so helpless.  What choice did I have? I had to take him home. What real harm can a cat cause anyway??   

My husband and I recently achieved one of the goals most people strive for.  We purchased our first home. So now we have two point five children, a dog, and now a cat.  Finally! Living part of the American dream! Perfect!  Or, perhaps I should say Purr-fect? 

I have now realized we didn’t do any of this for ourselves.  We did it for our cat. Remember that sweet, helpless stray? (I believe the cat act may only be a ploy to make me believe he really is a cat and not an alien in guise set on world domination.)

I named the newest furry member of our family Hunter. Due to the fact that within his first twenty-four hours in our home, he proved to be quite apt at rodent termination, it seemed rather appropriate.  However, I found under his food bowl this morning what appeared to be a ransom note.  It said my new sleigh bed would be turned into a scratching post if his name were not changed officially to “Boss” and, it reminded me I had not straightened the blankets yet this morning and it was approaching his nap time.  This unnerved me a bit. 

He’s also decided he would be the hairdresser of the house.  While I attempted to place pony tales in my daughter’s hair, he pounced on the fluffy hair ties and carried them away.  It looked deceptively cute, but I know otherwise.  These things always start little. Perhaps it’s payback for that whole neutering thing; maybe he’s upset about putting on those few extra pounds since the “procedure”. 

I even noticed my dog acting differently.  Whenever Boss enters a room, the dog stops whatever she’s doing, even eating, and leaves.  It too me two years just to teach the dog to come when called, what powers does this “cat” hold??

My children have succumbed to his hypnotism, they spend hours brushing him, making little cardboard houses for him, and begging me to buy kitty treats at the grocery store. Even my husband, the “I don’t like cats” man has resigned that his home, bed and his lap belong to Hunter. OUCH! STOP! CLAWS! I MENT BOSS! I MENT BOSS!

Hunt…. I mean Boss is watching me right now. Yes, there he is, looking nonchalant, eyeing me. I think he’s sizing me up, trying to decide if he can take me out or not.  He must have decided my computer chair belongs to him as well; I’ll have to type quickly. I’m not completely sure, but I believe he just winked at me.

Herein lies my warning, I found him lying on the keyboard earlier.  It all looked innocent enough, but I’m not so sure.  I think he may have been emailing his co-hearts in crime, getting ready to execute the full coup on my home.  Be forewarned, keep your “cat” away from your computer, I’m not sure how extensive Boss’s address book is, he may have already been in contact with your keeper, umm… I mean cat.

While my home is already in the late stages of takeover, maybe, just maybe, we can prevent it from happening to you.

Her little chin bounced against her chest several times as she woke from her nap.  Small bits of drool trailed from her lip to the dirty t-shirt she wore.  Sweat had matted her white-blond hair to her head, and the back of her thighs had stuck to the old vinyl seats.

“Mommy,” she called toward the front seat of the car, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes with her fisted hands.

She mumbled for her mother again, there was still no answer.  She pulled herself up on her knees so that she could see out the window.  It was streaked with dirt and fingerprints, but the little girl could see her house, it was right there, just outside the car door. 

She banged on the window with her crusty little hands.  “Mommy!” She called as loudly as she could. Why isn’t anyone coming for me?  She wondered as panic crept into her young mind.  It was so hot, and the tears began leaking from the corners of her eyes. 

She wiped the tears from her reddened face with the back of her hand.  Dirt smeared across her cheeks and into her eyes.  Snot oozed from her nose, resting on the edge of her upper lip. She used the back of her forearm as a tissue leaving a smear of mucus from her nose to her ear. Her hands were hurting from pounding on the glass.

“Mommy! Daddy!” She shrieked again and again, her little voice cracking.

With her chest heaving, she moved her attention to the door handle.  She pulled as hard as she could, over and over again but the heavy door of the old Ford wouldn’t open to the arms of a three year old.  Tears came faster now, he throat was tight from her sobs, and her face a streaked mess.

She collapsed back onto the vinyl seat, her hands covering her eyes, rocking herself back and forth.  She fell back asleep.

I lay here on the ground next to the bus stop, alone, helpless and scared.  People are walking by me, yet no one will stop to see if I’m okay.  Doesn’t anyone realize I’m not where I belong?  I feel as though I’ve been discarded, left out for the garbage truck to take me away.

 My mate is gone,  I have not see him for several days.  We were a pair, I’m no good by myself. Why would anyone want to separate us?  I’m cold, wet and soggy now that I’ve been on this sidewalk for three days. The rain last night soaked my insides completely and chilled me to the sole.  I have nothing inside of me to fill me up like I should. 

When will someone at home notice that I am missing?  They can’t possibly go through another day without realizing that I’m gone.  Perhaps they thought I was hiding in the closet, playing a game of hide and seek, or maybe that I am playing with the dog out in the yard again.

There are so many people here, one of them is bound to trip over my laces and stop to check on me. How could they just keep stepping over me? Ouch!  That man just kicked me, I think he may have broken my heel.  I would have yelled louder if my tongue were not tied.

Oh, wait, someone is bending down to look at me!  But, she’s not my owner!  What are you doing with me? Stop! No! I don’t want to go in there!

Well, here I am, in the rubbish container.  Soon, the truck will come, and I will be smashed like the rest of the garbage. Trash, that’s what I am now.  What did I expect, to return home happily? No, that was not my luck. No one will remember me, because I am nothing more than a shoe, easily replaced, quickly forgotten.

“You know I will eat you,” mused the cat, “right?”

With a sigh, and a rolling of his eyes, the canary replied, “Yes, yes, you’ve been saying that for years.” The bird paused to adjust his wing feathers. “If you’re going to do it, I wish you’d hurry up and get it over with.

“The timing is just all wrong my feathered friend,” the cat explained, “you just don’t look, well, ripe to me yet.”

“Ripe?” the bird said, his feathers ruffling, “I’m nearly overdone, I’ve been standing on this perch since you were a fur ball playing with dust bunnies under the sofa!”

“And that was what, two, three years ago?” purred the cat as he stretched himself out across the arm of the chair.

“Well, I see time nearly crawls to a halt when all you do is sleep all day,” he said with a tweet, “it’s been nearly nine years!”

“Really,” he yawned, “how many more years do you have in you then?”

“Oh, I don’t know, one, maybe two,” the bird replied as one of his bright yellow feathers floated to the floor, “or maybe less.”

“Hmm…I see,” said the cat lazily, dozing off to yet another nap, “then perhaps tomorrow, for breakfast.  I will eat you then.”