This is, perhaps, more of a silly memory-capture and a descriptive writing attempt than a short story, per se. I’m not really sure where the line is! But one of my main objectives this year is to edit some of the massive memory bank I’m managed to accrue, polishing the penned lines and making them more enjoyable to read, and this is one of those early attempts.
What do you think of it? Please feel free to share comments, especially areas in need of improvement! I welcome critiques! This story is already beautiful and valuable to me because it solidifies in my mind a memory which would have otherwise been lost over time. That’s one of the things I love most about writing. I will consider all comments carefully and I hope to improve my writing because of your input. This goes for any and everything posted on this site! Thank you for reading and commenting. I hope that your day is a little better because you took a moment and dropped in on Interim Arts. I truly am glad you visited!
A Punishment for The Great B’Doo
I leaned last night against Dave’s shoulder as we lounged on the couch and surveyed the house, neatly organized, for once, and swept clean. The rooms were a bit bare, but comfortable. The floors, thick old-style trim, beautiful old sliding pocket doors, table, desk, and several scattered benches were all dark wood. A group of potted plants huddled on an outcropping windowsill. Directly across from them, in the opposite window, our newest family addition, a money tree plant with a beautiful braided trunk and glossy green, cucumber-scented leaves, sat sturdily atop a stair-stepped stack of handsome dark wood boxes housing board games, collector’s editions of classics: Clue, Monopoly, Scrabble, and Jenga.
In the disappearing daylight, the rooms were quietly rustic. From the iMac bubbled a gentle blend of running water and classical guitar. The Beast sighed and shifted slightly in her sleep. The Great B’Doo chose this moment to slyly made her move toward the couch, trying to join us as per her usual routine. She daintily leaned back on her hind legs and poked white mittened paws and sweet little kitty nose over the edge of the sofa. Her amber eyes gleamed against dark fur, jet black but for a clearly-defined snow white mustache and matching whiskers.
“Nope!” Dave proclaimed loudly and firmly, shattering the serene moment. “You’ve lost your sofa privileges.”
The cat immediately scampered off, returning cautiously moments later. Slowly she wandered about the living room attempting to appear aloof and nonchalant while in reality the punishment was driving her crazy.
“I wish there was some way to open up her little mind and make her understand why we’re treating her this way,” Dave lamented. “The Great B’Doo is such a sweet little kitty except for this one thing. I wonder why she even did it. It’s so strange. Hopefully it was just because her whole routine was thrown off since you were gone for a couple days. Maybe that did it. Did you notice I even moved the sofa out of the front window? I know she likes to lie there in the sun in the morning, but I don’t want to do anything to encourage her to be on the sofas. She needs to break this bad habit with swiftness.”
“Well, let’s see if she does it again. Maybe she won’t. Look at her just walking around. Walking on the FLOOR. She hates being on the floor. She always wants to be elevated, sitting on something. But she’s not climbing up on ANYTHING. She’s acting bizarre. I think she knows she’s been bad and she’s punishing herself again. She certainly is a strange kitty, a good kitty, but a strange one. I’ve never had a cat who was trainable. She actually appears to understand and care when we punish her. Cats generally don’t care! They just do their own thing.” I said.
We sat in silence for a moment, eyes on the bland antics of our dejected, moping cat.
“Kitty, you’ve gotta learn,” said Dave.
“Oh, hey, guys,” replied The Great B’Doo. “Just walkin’ around here lookin’ for stuff to pee on. I see you’ve got a floor here and some benches. Ohhh.”
Okay, okay, the cat didn’t actually reply. The nasally drawl filling the air came from the general direction of the couch. It belonged to Dave, but he reserves the voice for the occasional narration of what he deems to be the deepest thoughts of The Great B’Doo.
“Ugh,” the voice went on, tone clearly carrying a disgusted ‘this will never do.’ “You seem to have WAY too much wood and a disturbing lack of fabric in this room. You see, to do my best work, I really do need a soft, porous surface, such as, say, a sofa.”
I exploded with laughter. The Great B’Doo peered up at me, a peeved look radiated from her yellow eyes as if, much to her horror, Dave was actually reading her thoughts.
Casually climbing onto the bottom of a bench beside the circular oak table, The Great D’Boo perched gingerly, for a moment, then awkwardly walk-stumbled, off-balance around the thin strips of wood, anxiously, fearfully as if she was perched atop a two-story building, not four inches, maximum, off the ground.
“Hmmm, perhaps this bench will do the trick. Is this veneer?” The narration continued as The Great B’Doo rubbed against the bench legs, tail shooting up as she rediscovered lost footing. “Let me get myself into position here. I should be able to spray this somehow…”
She dropped unceremoniously off the bench support and circled the table as the unrelenting narration went on and on as. She sniffed one of the two solid oak pillars which hold up the sturdy round table. “Oh, dear, these are FAR too vertical to properly pee upon. I’m afraid I need something much more horizontal…” (1/9/14)
(Originally posted on my old blog, Interim Arts, on June 14, 2014.)