The Red Queen

The highlight of Elsabeth’s day was her final visit with the Red Queen, a mottled black and orange feline who was a master hunter, a highly intelligent and cunning creature and neither domesticated nor feral.

Placing a bucket of cat care supplies on the ground, Bette checked the gloves in her pocket and scanned the area around and behind her. The moon was full and bright, illuminating the otherwise unlit backyard like a spotlight. Scanning the area was an old habit gained during many exploring, tracking and surveying trips into the protected habitats and woodlands throughout the region.

Dealing with truly wild creatures within their own natural environment was Bette’s true love. Time and an aging body had taken that away from her, but the Red Queen brought a tiny piece of it back into Bette’s life. It was the reason why she was both grateful for the company of this particularly difficult cat, and constantly conflicted about the cage the Red Queen currently (begrudgingly) called home.

Carefully checking the area as she opened the door and turned on the shed light, Bette greeted the Red Queen and her jailmates with a cheery hello. All of the cats were present and visible. As expected, each one purred, howled or growled their own greeting in return – with the notable exception of the Red Queen.

The cages were formerly used to rehabilitate birds of prey, so they were exceptionally large for cats. However, the tree-like perches and the ability to clean the cage without opening a door made them ideal for this particular pride of felines.

Cheshire, the most skilled and esteemed escape artist among them, was meowing, pacing and leaning against the bars, trying to entice Bette into scratching his ears and opening the door to the cage for a common domesticated-cat-snuggle. Chuckling to herself, Bette reached through the cage and gave Cheshire a friendly scratch behind the ears, but refused to let him out. She knew better.

Immediately after all food and water were distributed and the litter boxes changed, the Mad Hatter leaped into his food bowl, knocked over the water dish and proceeded to yowl and fight with the scattered pieces of cat food like a crazed creature being attacked by invisible demons. Bette crossed her arms and watched until the Mad Hatter paused and cast a glance in her direction. Bette was not fooled. The door remained closed. Mad Hatter tired of the game and took his usual perch on a wooden tree limb just over the cage door, where he silently watched Bette fill and double-check the water bottle that acted as a backup for the water dish.

Placing a hand on her lower back as she stood up and stretched out tight muscles, Bette paused a moment before packing up the supplies and returning to her own home for the night. The silence was pleasant – and unexpectedly interrupted by the sound of crunching.

Looking in the direction of the sound, Bette found the Red Queen regally watching the nightly routine from the highest perch allowed by her cage, with a mouse in her mouth. It was impossible to shake the feeling that this dead-mouse-crunching was a conscious and clear message to her captor – the Queen was not happy.

Bette smiled wide. This was an animal acting as it should. This was the wilderness, the law of nature and the incomprehensible intelligence that lived within all wild creatures. This was the reality that human beings had ceased to acknowledge and the primary reason why Bette found communication with her fellow humans frustratingly problematic.

“Well played my Queen,” Bette replied. Then she finished packing up the supplies and left the shed feeling both happy and homesick. Damned time and the inevitability of aging, they placed the best of life and adventure just out of reach.

Crazy Cat Lady

 Another cat. The little beasts are everywhere.

Elsabeth put down her binoculars and checked the clock. She was due at the The Four Bettes bookstore in two hours. There were nine cats currently living at the shop and five more in her home. She could temporarily house five more, but that was the limit.

Another look through the binoculars confirmed a few frustratingly common facts: the cat did not have a collar and it was hunting birds. A quick sweep of the area revealed a few common, and at least one endangered, species warily eyeing the potential predator.

Sighing, Bette placed her binoculars on the table and scratched the ears of the feline happily curled in her lap. After decades of work as a biologist and a conservationist, she couldn’t stand to watch discarded pets feeding on already struggling wildlife.

Pets were a wonderful addition to any household – if the humans properly cared for them. Most humans didn’t take their responsibilities seriously, and a precious few were aware of just how devastating their actions were to local habitats. To make matters worse, many people simply did not care about the consequences of their actions. Bette’s last attempt to explain basic environmental preservation to a potential cat-owner had, once again, illustrated this fact. It was infuriating.

Gently pushing Buttons off her lap, Bette walked past a recently completed oil painting. The paint was still drying on the artistic representation of her conversation with the environmentally dispassionate would-be cat owner. The art was a physical manifestation of her frustrated anger. There were several dozen similar emotion-induced pieces of art stored in the basement and attic. She was extremely proud of them because, (and only because) they were inexplicably effective at drawing out and permanently containing negative feelings. She called them her calming paintings, but everyone in town just called them ugly. She was OK with that.

Grabbing a pair of animal handling gloves and a pet carrier, she set out to catch the latest visitor to her vegetable garden and the thin strip of suburban woods behind it. By the time she’d gotten close, the cat had made several unintentionally humorous and endearingly clumsy displays of poor hunting skills.She resolved to name this one Robin. The next would be Christopher or maybe Eeyore.

Between the 14 cats currently in temporary care, there was a Winnie, a Pooh and a Bear. All of them had displayed behaviors similar to the collection of characters described in the old Winnie the Pooh stories. The bookstore was filled with lost or abandoned cats named after the Christopher Robin crew.

Cats named after classic fairy tales had stronger personalities than the Pooh Bear crew, but they made excellent pets, just the same. Felines with names inspired by Alice in Wonderland were an entirely different matter and all of them were living in Elsabeth’s house, waiting for an owner with the skills to properly manage them.

While ‘Alice cats’ held the wild end of the spectrum, the opposite extreme was reserved for ‘book cats,’ named after household objects. These fancy felines wanted nothing more than to live a quiet, domesticated, indoor life. This category was dubbed ‘book cats’ in honor of an overweight black and white male named Books who was granted permanent residence at the bookstore, where he proudly demonstrated the weight of meaning behind his name.

Elsabeth was convinced no one knew her found-cats were named after characters in children’s stories and household objects. It was a rare point of self-delusion for an exceptionally practical and fact-driven woman. In fact, this blind spot was so unusual that people unconsciously went out of their way to protect her from the truth. It was as though she was the only one ignorant of an embarrassing facial blemish – no one wanted to be the person who hurt her feelings by pointing it out.

While the entire town immediately noticed the naming conventions, it was the children who started requesting pets named for particular fairy tales – with full intention of changing the name after taking the cat home. The adults, naturally, started asking why and for an entire week the puzzle was the hottest topic in town. It was so much fun trying to figure out what personalities traits went with each story or character that the silence around Elsabeth increased. No one wanted to ruin the game by asking for a cheat sheet.

By the end of the week, the cats had proudly worn their names and demonstrated what they had done to earn the titles, the town had developed a new secret-language for cat personalities and Elsabeth’s status as the crazy cat lady was firmly, fondly and irrevocably established.

As for Elsabeth, her favorite cat was Buttons but Teapot came in a close second. She suspected the rest of the cats knew who the favorites were and she was OK with that.

So were the cats.










“I want to sit next to Ryan.”









“Jeffery!” Their mother scolded.

“Mom! Mom! Mom!”










Mom sent Jeff to his room.


It was going to be a long night.

PB and J on the Swings






Gross Cows

Georgia used a scoop to fill a feed bucket while Bobbi shoveled gross stuff out of a stall in the barn. She’d asked Bobbi why there was so much shoveling and what all of this stuff was and Bobbi had given her usual short answers. Mostly, it was stinky because it was gross and it was being shoveled and dumped someplace else because it was gross.

Looking at the feed bucket and the hay already dumped into the troughs, Georgia decided cows ate gross things, too. She was beginning to wonder why she drank milk, ever, when cows were so completely gross.

“Did you write that story about the tent worms?” Bobbi asked.

“No,” Georgia replied. “I have to write a report on dandelions and cattails. Ms. Becca said I could put it in story form, but I can’t write more than four pages.”

“Only four?” Bobbi replied, wiping something grosser than gross on her pant leg. “Harsh.”

“I know!” Georgia responded with more force than she’d intended.

Bobbi shrugged. “It’s good practice. Good stories are about the things that happen in the space you have, not the number of pages it takes to make something happen. I try to force myself to write short all of the time. It’s hard, but it makes for a better story.”

“How do you do it?” Georgia asked, thinking about the six pages sitting on her desk.

“Write until the story is done and then go back and cut cut cut.”

“Cut cut cut?”

“Yep, remove everything not necessary and rewrite with whatever is left, just to smooth things over.”

It sounded like a lot of work.

“Are you done shoveling the…gross stuff?” Georgia asked.

Bobbi laughed. “Yeah, this is the last of it. I’ll just dump it outside.”

Georgia filled the feed troughs while Bobbi emptied the wheelbarrow and then they let the cows in together. This was the part Georgia liked. The cows were always so happy to get into the barn and they never fought over a stall. Just quietly walked to their own spot, started eating their dinner and waited for the milking machine.

Dan followed the last cow into the barn and started attaching the machine to very full udders.

“Does that hurt them?” Georgia asked.

“hurts them more when we don’t do it.” Dan replied. “Their udders get really full and, if they aren’t milked, they get to full, and that hurts a lot.”

“C’mon Georgia,” Bobbi called. “We need to get cleaned up for dinner. Don’t want any gross stuff on your hands.”

Georgia looked at her fingers and made a very emphatic eeeuuuuwww sound as she skipped out the barn door, which made both Bobbi and Dan laugh.

Fictional Problem Solving

Dandelion girl whirled and twirled through the field. Sunlight glittered on her dress.  She danced from flower to flower until she reached the pond. The cattail and the frog were waiting. Cattail was nice, just like dandelion, but frog could be mean. Dandelion didn’t know they were waiting…

Georgia considered her story for a few moments before deciding she liked it. The final version had to include all of the Latin names for dandelions and cattails, and at least three uses for each plant. The rest of the class would be writing boring scientific journal entries, but Georgia had pestered and begged until Ms. Becca relented, allowing her to submit the same report, with the same requirements, in the form of a fictional story.

“No more than four pages, ” Ms. Becca had warned.

Georgia grumbled with annoyance. It was more than the two page requirement given to the rest of the class, but it was less than the 10 she’d asked Ms. Becca to approve.

Tapping her pencil on the notebook, Georgia considered the list of requirements. The latin names would come later. Right now, she needed to explore the environment of the dandelion and the cattail.

“A dandelion can live almost anywhere,” the frog croaked. “But a cattail can only live along the water’s edge. Very restrictive.”

Cattail smoothed her long soft coat and stood as straight and tall as she could. “Frogs must live near the water.” She stated, matter-of-factually, and walked away without explaining herself. Sometimes that was the best way to deal with frog.

“Or other kids,” Georgia muttered to herself. Cattail would find a way to deal with frog and, maybe, that would help Georgia deal with Riley. Walking away hadn’t worked this time.

“CATTAIL!” Frog croaked in his loudest voice.

“Don’t shout at me!” Cattail growled back.

After a moment of silence, frog replied “now that I have your attention…”

Georgia stared at the page. The story was going well, but now she was stuck. Was it possible to say or do something that would make frog change? She very much doubted it.

She chewed on her last conversation with Riley and, briefly, considered using it exactly as she remembered it. The only problem was her memory was full of holes. She was so angry with Riley, she couldn’t remember what was said…exactly.

“…you made me a promise and it’s time for your to pay up.” Frog said, hopping back toward the water. “A promise is a promise.

It was very frustrating when she couldn’t help her characters. It was even more frustrating when she couldn’t help herself.

Summer School

Wild Raccoon school wasn’t like other schools. Georgia had been to more schools than anyone she knew, and this one was nothing like any of the others.

For starters, school was open all year. No summer vacation – at all! Some of the kids were looking forward to taking vacations, going to summer camps and visiting family. But no one was supposed to be gone more than two weeks. Except Riley. She was going to be gone for a whole month! Her little brother Ryan would be gone too, but he was in the blue room, so Georgia didn’t notice as much.

There weren’t enough kids on the farm to split everyone into regular classes, so they mushed a whole bunch of grades together. The young kids were in the blue room. The middle kids, like Riley and Georgia were in the green room. Teenagers were in the red room.

Most of the time, Georgia was trying to understand things that were either at or above her grade level. Sometimes, when the class was covering stuff she already knew, she got bored.

Like right now.

The sun was to bright. The windows were open and a light breeze came into the room, filled with the smells of early summer. If wishing could make magic happen, then Georgia wished to be outside.

“It’s time to turn in your assignments.” Miss Becca announced.

Georgia reached inside her desk and pulled out the report on dandelions. Frowning, she stared at the report for a few moments before looking back out the window.

“Georgia,” said Miss Becca, “your report?”

“This one is on Dandelions,” Georgia said, dropping the report on the pile. “But I’ve decided I don’t like it.”

Miss Becca paused. “Oh?” She responded.

Georgia had a feeling her teacher didn’t really want to ask that question. Reaching into the backpack on the back of her chair, Georgia pulled out a second report. “I like cattails better,” she said, dropping the report on the pile.

Miss Becca’s eyes narrowed and a small smile grew on her face. “I will look them both over,” she conceded. “If both are appropriate, then the choice is up to you.”

Frowning while pressing her lips together, Georgia nodded. It was hard to stay silent when her teacher guessed a trick. It was just a small trick, but it could have gotten her some time outside.

“Get ready to go outside!” Miss Becca announced, while dripping the reports on her desk. “We’ve got plants to collect!”

Alone. Outside without the rest of her class.

“You were trying to run away again, weren’t you?” Riley whispered.

“I don’t run away,” Georgia hissed in response. “I go exploring.”

“Same thing,” Riley teased.

Georgia liked Riley – most of the time.

Summer Solstice Mourning

Summer solstice crept over the horizon like a cat stalking a cricket. Move too fast and the moment will jump and flutter away on noisy wings.The sun peeked over the trees and hills on the far side of the neighboring farm. The driveway momentarily moved from night-shadow grey to a deeper black as the entire world adjusted to the flow of light.

Georgia sat on the porch, glancing over her shoulder from time-to-time. Searching for adults had become a habit so ingrained it seemed more like a reflex. Watchful vigilance was something akin to blinking or breathing.

She was supposed to be in bed, like all the other children, but today was the first day of summer and Georgia intended to see it from beginning to end. She’d told her mother this over dinner the previous night, but the only response was a long sigh and a wordy lecture about things ‘they’d talked about.’

This was important. Her mother didn’t agree, but Georgia was convinced she knew better. Besides, what was so wrong about watching a sunrise and a sunset? There was no school and chores were always the same.

The first day of anything was special because it was different. Summer was special because it was…summer! The first day of summer? That was something extra special and Georgia was going to see every last minute of it. Even if she couldn’t convince a single adult to bake a cake with the words “Happy Summer!” in green and blue frosting.

The sun rose higher in the sky. The birds began their songs long before the sun showed her face, but now there was a loud chorus. It was the bird version of a traffic jam, with all of them fluttering about, chattering away, and occasionally diving down after a bug or a worm.

The last star was still visible in the sky. The smell of coffee floated out on the air from the nearest Wild Raccoon neighbors. Lights were slowly flickering on in different windows across the community.

A buzzer went off in her mother’s room a few moments after Georgia watched the last star disappear from the sky. As quietly as she could, Georgia slipped back into the small house she shared with her mother and younger brother.

It was a small building, much smaller than the one they’d had when daddy was alive, but the Wild Raccoon farm was an entire world just bursting with things she’d never seen before. Safe in her room, sitting on the bed and watching the sky through the open window, Georgia closed her eyes and remembered her daddy. Remembered everything. His voice, his smell, the way his face turned red when he was angry and even more red when he laughed.

“Good morning daddy.” She whispered. “I miss you.”

As long as she could remember him, he was here with her. That was what they said at the funeral – and every opportunity for many weeks after. Georgia practiced remembering every time she found something amazing or beautiful. She wanted her daddy to share it and she wanted to make sure she never forgot.

The Wild Raccoon had many things to discover and, as long as she kept finding little things like he sunrise, she would never lose her daddy. Not for real. Not for forever.

Science Fiction Bugs

A full home-work day and Bobbi was making frustrating slow progress on her projects. Deadlines were loose, distant or non-existent, so the crisis existed only within her own mind – yet, there it was.

The conversation with Georgia kept running through her mind. Magical tent-worms living in a world of sentient bugs. Or, maybe, it was a universe populated with sentient insect and insect-like creatures. The more she thought about it, the more she liked the possibilities this science fiction, alternate universe presented.

Georgia’s ideas were firmly rooted in fairy tales and fantasy-genre ideas, so Bobbi was reasonably confident she wasn’t in danger of stealing her student’s work. Opening her idea journal, she sketched, wrote and played with the idea while sitting on her porch, watching the flies, wasps and bees buzz through the thick almost-summer heat.

After a while she settled on one strong character, returned to her computer, opened a new document and let the character and her world unfold in whatever manner they wished.

Worm Magic

“Do you have plans for the summer?” Bobbi asked as she walked through the orchard with Georgia following.

“Not really.” Georgia replied. “Chores. Homework. The usual.”

“Homework?” Bobbie asked. “Isn’t school out?”

“Wild Raccoon school is never out.” Georgia shrugged.

It’s not? Bobbi was certain this was something she should already know. She did her best to cover both surprise and confusion. “Anything new or fun at school?”

“We go outside more.” Georgia replied. “I have to write a report on weeds you eat.”

“Any favorites?”



“Oh,” Georgia gave this some serious consideration. “I like cattails but I think I’m going to write about dandelions.”

“Interesting choice,” Bobbi replied while walking a slow circle around one of the oldest trees at the far end of the orchard. Tent worms. Everywhere. Crap.

“What are those?” Georgia asked.

“The forces of evil incarnate,” Bobbi muttered without thinking. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed Georgia’s full attention was now on the worms. “They’re caterpillars.” Bobbi revised. “Native to North America and fond of eating ALL of the leaves on fruit trees.”

“All of them?” Georgia replied, eyes wide.

“Well, most, anyway,” Bobbi sighed.

“Are they going to eat the entire orchard?”

“Not this year.” Bobbi replied. “I thought I got all of the nests but, obviously, I missed one. There will be a lot more next year.”

“How do you get rid of them?”

“Locate the nest, cut the branch off the tree and burn it.”

“What does the nest look like? Do they turn into butterflies?”

“Like a giant, out of control, spider’s web and they turn into moths.”

“Are they magical?”


“I think they must be, if they live in a spider web house when they’re babies and then become caterpillars that turn into moths.”

“Ok, I’ll give you that, but…” Bobbi paused a moment, considering.

“But what?”

“They can be magic in stories. They are not allowed in the orchard. Our trees need their leaves. Bringing them back here, to create a secret home, is not OK.”

Georgia looked like she’d just be caught with her hands in the cookie jar.

Bobbi laughed. “They also live in other kinds of trees. Probably crawled over from the forest.” Bobbi waved in the general direction of the wildlife preserve bordering this end of the farm. Reaching into her backpack, she pulled out a package of sticky bands and started attaching them to the infested tree.

“What are those?” Georgia asked.

Bobbi explained how sticky bands worked and let Georgia attach a few to neighboring trees.

“Well, that’s that.” Bobbi said, picking up her backpack.

“That’s it?” Georgia asked. “That’s all we’re going to do?”

“For now.”

As they walked along the outer edge of the orchard, examining the trees, Georgia watched for worms and excitedly pointed out at least a dozen other kinds of bugs, only three of which Bobbi knew.

By the time they were finished, Georgia had a list of bugs she intended to look up,  determined to bring a bug jar on their next visit to the orchard and was already knee deep into developing a story about magical-worm-something-or-other.

It was a good afternoon.