Eddie

Alas, our beautiful, surly, mysterious Eddie is gone. We found him yesterday morning under the bed, obviously very sick and almost comatose. I carried him to the back porch to clean him up and suddenly he rallied and scuttled off under the house. 

But by the time John got to him, Eddie was dead.  He had been fine the day before and we suspect poison or snakebite.

  Eddie was in no way a sweet cat but his was a distinctive personality. 

I'll miss him.

Silly Cat Games

Eddie seeks her here...

He seeks her there...

But he can't find Miss Susie Hutchins...

Anywhere.

Eddie and the Turkeys

Sounds kinda like a punk rock band, doesn't it?

But this post is about something that happened a week ago right out by our bird feeder. The pictures aren't great -- I was taking them from a distance and through a window screen -- but if you click on them to biggify (still love that word, Tammy), you'll get a better idea of the cast of characters.

So, it's late morning and Eddie, the ex-tomcat, is crouched by the bird feeder working on his life list. And four turkeys are working on the sunflower seed. (Eddie is the black blob center right.)

The turkeys are pecking and scratching and having a fine old time and Eddie is laying low -- imagining, no doubt, what glory would be his if he could bring down one of these birds.

Finally the turkeys decide to move on to the front yard and they start down the little dog trail. They seem to notice Eddie but don't appear to be at all disturbed by the presence of this fierce beast of prey -- this deadly stalker.

They take their time, looking around to make sure that everyone's in line. Eddie maintains his crouch.

What happened next went so quickly I didn't get a picture of it. As all four turkeys got onto the trail and started downhill, Eddie charged at the last one -- which squawked, made a little hop, and spun around ready to peck at the attacker.

Suddenly Eddie seemed to notice that he was severely outclassed. He dropped, flattening himself against the grass till he looked like a catskin rug.

And stayed that way as the turkeys continued their leisurely promenade down the trail. Only when they were around the corner and out of sight did Eddie break his freeze position and hightail it for the house.

Next time, I think he'll want backup. Or a gun.

What About the Cats?

In my post for the 27th, I revealed that I had promised a reader never to kill a dog in my books. In the comments, Victoria in California was quick to ask that I extend the same courtesy to cats.

It's a kind of unspoken rule among writers of cozies that you mustn't kill a cat -- or a dog or a child or anything cute and fluffy or any likable person.

But I don't write cozies -- I write psychological suspense. Sometimes bad things happen to nice people. . . or their animals. I'm not just trying to set up an interesting puzzle to be solved with some snappy repartee and zany hi jinks along the way --all done with a minimum of emotional involvement. No, I'm trying to make my characters real to my readers -- real people in real (well, except for the occasional touch of paranormal) situations where there is always some risk.
I'm trying to engage my readers' emotions . . . to move them to laughter . . . and sometimes to tears.

By making dogs, especially Elizabeth's dogs, immune to danger, I've lost a potential plot twist. I don't want to tie my hands any tighter by making more promises (next, the squirrel lobby will be pleading for an amnesty. And I like squirrels too; heck, I even like possums.)

I'm also very fond of cats. Ask Eddie and Miss Susie Hutchins. Even so, I've resisted, so far, giving Elizabeth one (in spite of Tammy of Fairlight Farm's encouragement that I do so.) Cats tend to take over mysteries, if given a chance.

In one of my books, there is a reference to a cat (or maybe two, I don't remember) that was killed in the past by one of the characters. Not, notice, a cat that we ever got to know. But I needed that reference to show the nature of a particular character. Remember, adult psychotic types often began by abusing animals when they were children.

I still can't see myself writing scenes of animal abuse. Indirect reference, though -- that could happen. Very indirect.

And, as always, I wonder why I (along with many readers) am more squeamish about the death of fictional animals (fluffy animals, it goes without saying) than the death of fictional people.