The Adventures of Caterwaul the Cat
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Authors: Damon Plumides
Tags: #JUV012030, #JUV001000, #FIC016000
The Adventures of Caterwaul the Cat
Feline Pie
By
Damon Plumides & Arthur Mark Boerke
The Adventures of Caterwaul the Cat: Feline Pie
© 2010 Damon Plumides and Arthur Mark Boerke. All Rights Reserved.
www.caterwaulthecat.com
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.
First edition.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously.
Published in the U.S. by BQB Publishing Company
www.bqbpublishing.com
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-937084-19-6 (p)
ISBN 978-1-937084-20-2 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011940285
Book cover and interior illustrations by Daniel Edwards
Book interior by Robin Krauss, Linden Design,
www.lindendesign.biz
Dedication
T
his book is dedicated with love to the memory of Ann M. Boerke, Michael George Plumides Sr., and Diana Boerke. We miss you all. We'd also like to dedicate our work to Arthur's recently passed mentor, Dr. Owen “Mike” Connelly, who stoked a fire in Arthur to create and become both a professor and a writer. Last but not least, as they say, this book is also dedicated to the newest addition to our Caterwaul family, Michael Damon Plumides, a.k.a. Wiggles Paisan.
~ Arthur & Damon ~
Acknowledgments
W
orking on this book was a labor of love for the both of us. It was a true collaboration that neither one of us would have been able to produce without the other. For some parts, Damon would come up with the basic plot and characters, and Arthur would flesh out the story and the dialogue; in other parts, Arthur would cut loose with a run of storyline, and Damon would swoop in to help polish it off and tweak some of the humor. When all was said and done, however, the end result proved to be a story woven with heart and soulâoursâand of which we are extremely proud.
Some of the wonderful people who either helped us directly in bringing this work to light or by inspiring us creatively include Daphne Aycock and John Fuller, without whom we might still be dreaming of finding an outlet for our creative expression; our publisher, Terri Leidich of Boutique of Quality Books, whom Arthur met at a book convention in Columbia, South Carolina; as well as Lisa Schindler, our daily contact with the publishing company, who helped keep us on track and connected us with other creative people. Our thanks also go out to Lori K. Lee and Jeff Plucker of BQB, who are parts of the great team dedicated to bringing this book and all BQB authors' works to the general public.
A very special thank you goes out to our editor, Martin Coffee, who helped us polish off this manuscript while leaving our voice and vision untouched. Martin, we will work with you anytime! Special thanks go out to Dan Edwards, our cover and interior illustrator, for doing such a fine job on the artwork. We would also like to extend our gratitude to Patrick, Psychonaut13, Coffield for designing our web page for us.
Our great appreciation goes out to our friends and family, who were so supportive from the beginning. These include in no particular order: Roger Skaw; Derek Chiarenza; Michael George Plumides Jr.; Rhiannon Hendren; Anne Saunders; Kat Taylor; Lauren and Sophia; George Plumides; Ali Plumides; Justin Kates our photographer; Jack Boerke; Scott Moore for some inspired interpretations of our hero Caterwaul; Robert “Robbie” Lewis for his constant encouragement; Fred Bisogno Sr. for the Italian lesson; Fred Bisogno Jr. for more than thirty years of friendship; Donna and Ken Reese; Anastasia Hendren; Robin Penley Jones; Brett Jones; Robin Sharpe; Jeremy Hendren; Kim Gallant Revels; Katherine Gallant; Tonya Douglass Beth Stevenson; Louanne Smith; Stacey Steifel; Kevin “Mickey” Boerke; Tracey Waters; Tonya Kelly; and Megan and Ben Magri and the Magri Family for their support very early on.
The authors also want to acknowledge anyone who read part or all of the manuscript in its evolving form, who offered suggestions or support in any way, and anyone who has watched this project grow from an idea into the novel that is in your hands now. There is no way that we could possibly list you all and, for that, we apologize. Just know that the authors appreciate all the support you have given us along the way, and we hope that you enjoy the story.
The Tale of the Tail
I
first met Damon Plumides many years ago when he was the singer in the Myrtle Beach-based, hard rock band called Dead Cut Tree. At the time, I was an owner and talent buyer for the legendary Columbia, South Carolina, nightclub Rockafellas'. I used to book Dead Cut Tree to play shows at Rockafellas' on a regular basis. Over time, we became the best of friends.
Years later, we would share a house together in Charlotte. I was now a university history professor, while Damon worked as a wine consultant. Both of us still had our creative juices inside us, but needed something to get them flowing again. Then one day Damon came to me with a few pages hand-scrawled in pen on yellow legal paper. Busy with grading or some such chore, I at first wanted to shove the pages in a pile. Boy, am I glad I didn't, because what he had written on those several pages was a rough outline of a fantastic children's story. He wanted me to help him to turn it into something much more. This was the beginning of the collaboration that would give rise to
The Adventures of Caterwaul the Cat: Feline Pie.
This novel is in every way a dual effort with the characters, jokes, and plot scenarios created by both of us. The sum reward of our creative partnership on this book would never have been possible for one of us without the participation of the other. We sincerely hope that you enjoy reading about our world as much as we enjoyed creating it for you.
~ Arthur Mark “Art” Boerke ~
Table of “Cat”tents
6. While the Queen's Away the Cat Will Play
8. The Poison Dart Frogs of Bug Stool Creek
17. The Party at the Old Windmill
T
he black cat tiptoed silently as he slid past the green glowing globe. His furry body hugged the cave wall as he moved. It appeared as though the sheen of his coat absorbed the pale light as he went, preventing the casting of his shadow in the dimness.
Caterwaul planned his escape more than a year ago, moving slowly and methodically to avoid suspicion, learning about anything and everything he might need on the outside.
Funny that he chose the expression “on the outside.” He thought about it a moment and allowed himself a sort of half-smile. After all, he hardly remembered what his life was like as a kitten, before she'd gotten hold of him, so he really couldn't know what to expect.
Peering back over his shoulder, he saw the old woman who had been his companion these last few years. She was frail and ancient-looking. She sat, as she often did, asleep in her favorite rickety chair. Her head slumped back against the broken mesh of woven grass, mouth open to reveal a collection of yellowed and missing teeth. He was sure she was asleep because her left eye was open and completely motionless. A cloudy, white film worked to obscure the eye's natural brown pigment. Occasionally, a high-pitched snore would escape her open maw, and every so often, she'd make a gurgling sound before resuming her routine.
Over time, Caterwaul learned quite a bit about conjuring from watching the old woman work. A lot of it was what might be put down as simple garden-variety stuff, but there were some spells among his gleanings that could only be called sorcery.
He had filled a pack with whatever he imagined he might need: spells he'd written down, potions and powders, roots and reagents, tokens, and talismans. Once free, he had no plan of ever returning to that cave.
Arriving at the entrance, he noticed that the door had been left slightly ajar. The cat squeezed his frame through the narrow space between the door and its jamb and sprinted up the earthen ramp in the direction of daylight. What luck it was that the rat left it cracked as he had. His heart began to race, and he unconsciously increased his speed as he approached the cave opening.
He caught the eyes of several small cave creatures, but they were too involved with their own business to cause him any trouble. The one potential problem was the rat. The rat was unpredictable.
Caterwaul prayed the filthy bugger was off in a ditch somewhere, intoxicated, sleeping off the effects of some over-fermented hunk of fruit he'd been saving for a special occasion.
Luckily there was no sign of the rodent, or any other resistance, as he emerged into the cool of the early evening's breeze. “So far so good,” he whispered.
Now outside, his best course of action was to follow a shallow creek leading away from the cave. As he crept along the stream, a small turtle popped his head from the water and sneezed. This startled the cat, and he slipped, his forepaws ending up in the muddy water.
“Sorry about that, chief,” the small turtle said apologetically. “I know your kind doesn't usually care for water.” He swam toward the creek's edge and sat down on a slab of water-polished slate. He had a face that was painted with yellow and black stripes and a lacquered, orange underbelly quite intricate in design.
“So you're headed up along the creek, eh?” he asked Caterwaul. “Not sure if that's such a good idea at the moment.” The turtle put a claw to his lips as to signal for silence. “Something, or someone, has those frogs up in arms again.”
“Frogs?” Caterwaul asked him. “What frogs?”
“What frogs? . . . You're joking!” The turtle was laughing. “Well then, it's a good thing that I just happened to sneeze when I did. Because, my friend, you'd be skewered like a shish kebab before you walked even another fifty feet in the direction you're going.”
The cat cocked his head slightly to show that he clearly did not understand.
“Ol' Fairfax is on maneuvers, mate. Haven't seen âim this riled up in a long time either. This,” he said paddling at the water, “is Bug Stool Creek. Everyone knows that Bug Stool Creek is guarded by that blighter general and his army of poison dart frogs.”
Just then a high-pitched whizzing sounded above Caterwaul's head. Looking up, he saw a sharpened quill, as if from a porcupine or hedgehog, sticking out of a tree trunk.
“Well, they know you're here now, mate. Sorry . . . but you're on your own.” The turtle dove off his rock and disappeared beneath the water.
Another dart flew by Caterwaul and then another. He ducked down just in time to dodge a fourth dart that actually parted his fur as it sailed over his head.
After that, he took off like a thunderbolt. He could see them, forming ranks all around him. They were everywhere, small frogs with colorful markings, armed with what he thought looked to be . . . wishbones? Were they actually using bows made out of wishbones?
Whatever they were, they were dangerous. Each of the frogs seemed able to reload and launch a minimum of three or four of the poisoned quills per minute. Caterwaul was in serious trouble. He had to get away . . . now! He pumped his legs faster than he thought possible. There was no way he was going to die here in the mud next to some filthy stream called Bug Stool Creek.