Fifi The Cat

 "The other night I had a dream," Milton said. "And as you know, most dreams are hard to believe. It seemed so very real. I need some help to understand it, Doc."

"Go aheadt Mr. Potter," the Doctor said, "I vould like ta hear of dis dream."

Milton moistened his lips and began. "I was in a courtroom standing before a judge, who looked like a cat. Everyone in the room were cats with human characteristics. The judge looked down at me and said, 'It has been a long time Mr. Potter, but we finally have you, the famous cat killer, "Milton the Terrible."'

"'You have me confused with someone else.' I said confidently."

"'No, you are the one. Take him to the line-up.' he commanded."

"So I went to a line-up and there with me was a Dachshund, a Spaniel, and a Boxer. From behind the lights a cluster of cats clamored with heavy Eastern European accents, 'He is da vun. Dats him. How coot I forget? Da years have not changed him. Dat face I shall never forget. Da human, yes da human. I spit on your mudders grave.'

They were old and crippled cats some with head scarfs wrapped tightly about their heads. As they accused me each and everyone pointed crooked and knarled kitty paws at me."

"I was quickly ushered to another room where I was given a battery of tests to classify my psychological profile. I was placed behind an automobile steering wheel and before me was a video simulation of a highway with a dog, a deer, and a cat in my path. I swerved and missed everything but the cat. It was as if the deer and the dog were more important than the cat. An innocent, but fatal blunder. Next, they placed me in a room where a recording of cow jokes, dumb blond jokes, and sick cat jokes was played. I laughed only at the sick cat jokes. I tried not to laugh, but it was just so hilarious.”

“With my profile complete, I was now confirmed as the infamous cat killer 'Milton the

Terrible.' They led me back into the courtroom. Again I stood before the cat judge."

"'What were you doing on the morning of March 19th, 1965?'" he said coyly playing with his whickers."

"'I don't know. That's so long ago.'"

"'Well let me refresh your memory. You were late for school and you were pushing that '56 Chevy for all she was worth down ole Route 25 about a mile from Slabtown Road. Does the name Fluffy ring a bell Mr. Potter or should I say "Milton the Terrible?'"

"'No!' I said."

"Accusingly he retorted, 'Of course you don't remember because you didn't bother to get the name of the cat you ran over! In fact, as you saw the cat squirming in the road from your rearview mirror, you decided to back over it a few times. Didn't you Mr. Potter?'"

"I began sweating profusely. I cleared my throat. "'I just wanted to put it out of its misery.'"

"The judge shoved a picture before me of the accident scene. I saw a chalk outline of a cat that was at least six feet long from head to tail.

“'Wait a minute!'“ I protested, 'The cat wasn't that big!'"

"'It was after you got done with it.' The judge sneered.

"The judge began again, with raised eyebrows. 'Where were you on September 3rd, 1966?'"

"The army, basic training, Ft. Dix, New Jersey."

"'Let me be more specific. You were on the firing range and a certain cat named Boots walked across on the range..’"

"I interrupted, 'But we all shot him.'"

"'Wrong! Everyone fired but you were the only one to hit poor little Boots.' He tossed an envelope before me and said, 'The ballistics report Mr. Potter.' He began once more, "'How about May 18th, 1979?'"

"'I don't recall.' I said with my head in my hands."

"'It seems you had a '67 Simca. You were backing out of the driveway. Do you recall what happened next?'"

"'Yes, yes, I felt a slight bump.'"

"'And what did you discover?'"

"'A dead cat.'"

"'Not a cat Mr. Potter, a kitten! It could have been saved.'"

"'No, no, it was too far gone.'"

"'Wrong, Mr. Potter, we have a cat doctor present in this courtroom prepared to testify that all you had to do was stuff its intestines back down its throat, take your thumb and pop its eyeball back in the socket, give it mouth to mouth, fluff it up and it would have walked away a healthy cat.'"

"'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' I sobbed."

"'If it were not for you who knows one of those cats could have aspired to greatness. You are a condemned man and I sentence you to be tortured by Fifi, the cat.' The judge pronounced."

"From the far end of the courtroom double doors swung open and a white fluffy cat appeared, but when its mouth opened it lost its innocent appearance. The teeth were ferocious and the claws were so sharp they sparkled. I began to plead, 'Fifi, Fifi, please, please, Fifi please.'"

"When my wife woke me I was moaning, 'Fifi, Fifi please, please, Fifi please.'"

"It’s the best I could come up with. She doesn't believe the cat dream story either, Doc. How 'bout you?"

New Byron Lehman Novel; The Big Boon

Recently I released my latest novel, The Big Boon. It is available on Amazon in the Kindle version or in hardback.

Thadeus Storm, a quiet man from Kentucky, looks for meaning in his life through service to his country. He does not find it. However, he finds another way to bring meaning and purpose to his life. First, though, he experiences a lifetime of adventure before settling on a way to help others.

As a writer, I try to develop stories about people who come upon something good and decide to share it to enrich others. That is a theme I’ve used in several of my novels. It comes from a Bible principle that what we have is ours to share. It’s a gift from God to share. It is sharing that makes us complete. (Acts 20:35)

I hope you enjoy the story and in some small way moved to share just a little of what you have with others.

New Byron Lehman Novel

The novel, A Good Year On Belle Ile en Mer is now available on Amazon. 

It is a part of a larger novel, The Pilgrim’s Return, a Rich Larsen adventure. The reason for publishing it as a separate work has to do with the story; it deviates somewhat from the adventure novel. It is a love story.

There are those who prefer love over action. The love story is so compelling it deserves to stand on its own.

The protagonist, Rich Larsen, sails to an island, Belle Ile en Mer, on Biscay Bay off the French coast. What started as only a stop-over of a few days turns into a year.

He helps friends with a project of remodeling a chateau into a hotel. He gains new friendships. However, and most importantly, he meets Bridgette. This simple farm girl becomes the love of his life.

You are invited to enjoy Rich Larsen’s good year on Belle Ile en Mer.

New Byron Lehman Novel Just Released

The novel, The Pilgrim’sReturn is now available on Amazon. 

It is the seventh novel in the Rich Larsen adventure series.

This novel finishes Rich Larsen’s seven-year journey that started as a fifteen-year-old farm boy in Ohio. At that time, he became perplexed by the events around him with no real guidance on how to interpret or deal with them. Thus, he runs away from home—and his adventures begin.

Rich Larsen’s adventures start on the coast of Maine. He lives there for three years. Circumstances necessitate that he abruptly left. He sets out on his desire to sail around the world.

He first sails to South America, through the Strait of Magellan. He next finds himself in the South Seas. Then off to adventures in Australia. Africa is the next stop.

Here are the previous Rich Larsen novels:

The Desperate Summer of ‘62

The Odyssey Of Id

Sailing Beyond Beyond

Odyssey in Paradise

Ere The Ghan And After

African Escape

The Pilgrim’s Return takes the reader from the intrigue left behind in the novel, African Escapade. Rich visits the Canary Islands, the island of Madeira, and a year on Belle Ile en Mer off the coast of France in the Bay of Biscay.

The novel includes encounters with a former middleweight boxing champ, an international assassin, and unscrupulous treasure hunters. It would be remiss not to mention Rich Larsen also finds love.

The year Rich lives on Belle Ile en Mer is in the novel, The Pilgrim’sReturn, but that year is also a novel on its own. It is titled, A Good Year On Belle Ile en Mer. It will soon be available on Amazon.

You are certain to enjoy The Pilgrim’s Return.

Good reading, my friends.

Bitterness and Beer

(This is an excerpt from a Rich Larsen adventure series novel currently being edited.)

Eighteen days from Plymouth in choppy seas, Newfoundland appeared starboard. He passed within hailing distance of a fishing boat with a four-man crew bundled in heavy clothing. They exchanged waves and shouts.

“I need some land beneath me,” Rich thought, “but I don’t want to be facing another five to seven days more after resting a while.”

He obtained a reading and decided to go on for another four days and find a port on the southwest tip of Nova Scotia. “From there Rockland is a day or two away.”

“I can almost feel it,” Rich said and danced a jig but for only a moment. “This is insanity.”

The weather warmed only a few degrees over the next four days. The temperatures ranged in the twenties to thirties. Rich bundled heavily while on deck; most in the confines of a closed pilothouse.

Rich scanned a map of Nova Scotia and decided on a small port named Clark’s Harbor. It sat on the southern tip of Nova Scotia and appeared easy to navigate.

Rich dropped the sails about a mile from land. Beyond the starboard bow, a small harbor basked in a warm early winter sun. He piloted The Odyssey along a row of lobster boats until finding several empty slips.

He tossed the lines and secured The Odyssey. He walked from the dock onto the shore. He lifted himself up and down from toe to heel a couple of times. “North America,” Rich smiled.

The Odyssey remained stocked and Rich saw little need to buy more food. He had two propane tanks filled at a small gas station not far from the docks.

A bar sat within sight of The Odyssey. It was only about fifty yards away. Rich walked there. He sat at a table and ordered a beer and lobster tail with a baked potato.

Seeing Rich was done eating the waitress walked past the table and stopped. “How was your meal?” she said.

“It was very good, thank you,” Rich said.

“Are you planning dessert?” she said.

“Can you wrap a piece of cherry pie to go,” Rich said, “and bring a coffee with the check.”

“Right back,” she said.

A couple of minutes later she returned with coffee, pie wrapped in cellophane on a paper plate, and the check. “Where’d you drive from?” She said.

“I sailed in,” Rich said. “My boat is in the harbor.”

“Where did you sail from?” she said.

“England,” Rich said.

“It must have been bone-chilling,” a man sitting at the bar said.

“Indeed,” Rich said. “My boat has an unusual feature; it has a small canvass pilothouse. It was still cold but I didn’t freeze to death.”

“You must have really wanted to get back to Canada,” the man said. “The North Atlantic this time of year is no easy thing.”

“Actually,” Rich said, “Maine is the end of my journey.”

“Where did you start?” the man said.

“Maine,” Rich said.

“So back and forth?” the man said.

“No,” Rich smiled. “I sailed around.”

“How long did it take you?” the man said.

“Just over four years,” Rich said.

“Well if you ask me,” the man said, “that’s a wasted four years.”

Rich stood and placed his money on the table. “And what did you do for the last four years?” He grabbed his pie. “Fine meal, ma’am,” he said to the waitress.”

“Sounds like you’re a bit of a smart ass,” the man said.

“No, sir,” Rich said, “I’m not that. What I’ve done, what I’ve seen, what I’ve learned, those I’ve met, and most importantly the one I love can not be taken from me. It was worth it all. It is better than bitterness and beer.”

Rich turned toward the door. The man said something however it was muffled and was certain it was not meant to be heard.

Rich returned to The Odyssey.

Sheep Dip and Armpits

“They’re playing some music I can dance to,” Rich said. He sat his glass of wine down. “I spoke with an attractive young lady a few minutes ago; Fifi, Dee Dee, or Wee Wee. I think I will regale her with my exploits at sea while I impress her with my mesmerizing dancing.”

Rich danced one song with Fifi, though attractive and pleasant, had a terrible underarm odor. He thanked her and grabbed an olive from the snack table.

Claude stood away from the crowd and watched the conversation and dancing.

Rich walked up next to him. “Hello, Claude, we haven’t had much of a chance to get acquainted.”

“That is right,” Claude said.

“I’m curious,” Rich said, “how many sheep do you have?”

“Why do you want to know?” Claude said.

Annoyed, Rich puckered his lips and wondered how to reply.

“Honestly,” Rich said, “I don’t care if you have sheep or jackasses, I’m just trying to be friendly and make conversation.”

“You have not succeeded,” Claude said.

“How so?” Rich said.

“I have not told you how many sheep I have,” Claude said.

“But I have succeeded in getting you to talk to me a little bit,” Rich said.

Claude walked away and asked Fifi to dance. He was a clumsy dancer, stiff with no rhythm.

“The odor of sheep dip and armpits," Rich thought, "how romantic to a French sheepherder.” 

Professor Hamilton's Advice To Writers

Professor Hamilton stood before his last class of the semester. 

Hamilton himself was moderately successful as a writer. While a professor he’d slowed down his production, but wrote three novels in the last ten years and a nonfiction work on writing.

Professor Hamilton smiled at his class. “Fifty-two students this semester, some serious, some not, most who are serious show promise. And those who don’t show promise, don’t give up. If you don’t give up, you will likely succeed where those who show the most promise fail?”

“This is the last day of class,” Hamilton said. “What is it you want to hear? Any questions?”

“How long did you write before you published your first novel?”

Hamilton grinned. “Forever, or so it seemed. I wrote for ten years. Finally I wrote something good. Then I wrote a couple of things good. And then I was able to sell all my bad stuff.” He chuckled. “Somebody had to pay for all those years. I had people to pay back.”

The class laughed.

“Another question,” Hamilton said delighting at the opportunity.

“What was the best writing advice you ever received?”

“It was all good,” Hamilton said seriously. “Of course, you can’t use all of it, because some of it is conflicting. So here it is: find your own voice, write your own story, write it honestly, if not sure about grammar make it a quote, bad spelling justifies the existence of proofreaders and nowadays we have spell-checks, and don’t try to be fancy; write simple.”

“Another question,” Hamilton beckoned.

“How much do you take the advice of editors?”

“Listen to them,” Hamilton said. “Then listen to yourself. You are the author. That word eventually becomes an authority. Think of it this way; if you write 500 pages and edit it yourself to 400, the editor will edit it down to 300. If you started with 300 they will whittle it down to 200. If you hand them something less than 200 they’ll say that’s not enough. Write your best. Keep a little in there for the editor to feel good about himself, but if you are sure of something stick to your guns. Remember, editors are jealous of your ideas.”

“Any more questions,” Hamilton said.

That seemed to be all the class had.

“Write good stuff,” Hamilton said. He waved and winked.

The class stood and applauded.

Hamilton stopped and held his hands up to quiet the students.

“There’s one more thing,” Hamilton said. “Some of you will write and sell. Likely my words will go unheeded. Careful what you write. Your writing may awaken demons in people or make goodness arise. When I was young my mother had me read nothing but good. That’s why I always tell my students to write good stuff. Don’t allow your minds to wander into the perverse and call it creativity. Write a story that is good rather than one that will titillate. Write about virtue, character, principle, and goodness. Your work influences people. If you have that special gift to write well, write about good stuff.”

Hamilton nodded politely and exited the side door.

Looking For Kindness

Henry opened the door to the lobby for the old lady. She was neatly dressed, lightly perfumed, recently to a salon and serene in appearance.

She smiled. “Thank you, young man.”

He walked faster than she did and got to the open elevator door. He stepped in, turned as he was about to push the button for his floor, and noticed the old lady was walking toward the elevator also. He held the door for her.

“Thank you again,” she smiled.

“What floor,” Henry asked.

“12^th,” the old lady said.

Henry pushed 12.

“You are so kind,” the old lady said.

“I suppose you find that people aren’t as polite as they used to be, there‘s a lot of rudeness nowadays,” Henry said as the elevator slowly moved up.

She smiled. “You have been very kind to me this morning, may I share a kindness with you?”

“I’d like that,” Henry said.

“A long time ago I used to think the same thing,” she said, “and I began to count the acts of kindness compared to the acts of rudeness. To my surprise when I looked for kindness I found it. In fact, it outnumbered rudeness 10 to 1. I just rechecked my figures a couple of days ago and nothing has changed.”

“Thank you,” Henry said.

“Here’s where I get off,” she said. “Have a nice day, young man.”

“You too, ma’am,” Henry said, “and by the way that’s kindness, one and rudeness, zero.”

Almost

“When can I pick up my laundry?”

“Any time after five PM on Thursday.”

“What if I show up at midnight?”

“No problem, we’re open 24/7.”

“24/7?”

“It means we’re open 24 hours 7 days a week.”

“Why didn't you just say, all the time?”

“Because that’s what 24/7 means.”

“Not really. It doesn’t tell you what happens after seven days. After being open 24 hours a day for seven days you might close up for a week and where would my laundry be?”

“I assure you we will always be open.”

“Why not say for eternity?”

“Well, I suppose it’s because this place won’t last for eternity?”

“You seem so sure. Can you at least give me a time-framed beyond seven days and eternity.”

“Everyone assumes 24/7 means all the time.”

“Everyone doesn’t.”

“I didn’t.”

“Okay, almost everyone.”

“Than why not at least give yourself some leeway on your hours? Almost 24/7.”

Bus Route

For six years Charley rode the same bus. It traveled the same route for 45 minutes where he got off at the same stop and walked two blocks home. Nearly the same people occupied the bus every day.

A curious little old man; with a cane, a three-piece suit, and a smile climbed onto the bus at the same stop. Charley and he got off at the same stop. They never spoke.

The old man had a routine; every Monday. Wednesday, and Friday one week and only Tuesday and Thursday the next. It never varied. 

“How could he smile?” Charley thought.

After six years the old man sat next to Charley and smiled. “Milton Harper,” he said.

“Charles Marshall, but they call me Charley.”

“Pleased to meet you, Charley,” Milton said.

“Likewise, Milton,” Charley said.

“I know you have a question,” Milton said. “I can tell by the way you look at me and you look away and wonder.”

Charley smiled. “You have remarkable powers of perception. Excuse me, but I mean no offense. You are considerably older than me. You have been riding this bus route probably longer than I’ve been alive. How do you do it? I’ve considered buying another car for myself just to take my own route to and from downtown.”

“You no doubt note I alternate days on alternate weeks,” Milton said.

“Yes,” Charley said. “I know when you’re scheduled to ride this bus.”

“You too are a keen observer,” Milton said.

“What else is there to do?” Charley said chuckled.

“On the day you don’t see me on the bus I ride another bus that takes me to within three blocks of this stop,” Milton said. “It’s a little further to walk, but a pleasant walk. There are a few shops and cafes on the way. I sometimes stop for a coffee or a snack to tie me over until supper. There is also a fine bookstore on the way. And there is something of particular interest to you.”

“What could that be?” Charley said.

“A flower shop,” Milton said. “You have a wedding band. Wives like flowers. You know how they like those little knick-knacks and frilly things. There are a few of those places too.”

“Do you mind if I walk with you tomorrow?” Charley said.

“Certainly,” Milton said. “That would be fun. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

“Why don’t you go that way every day?” Charley said. “It sounds like you could never get bored by walking that way.”

“Some days I just want to get home early,” Milton said. “But lately I’ve been watching you. You just seem to stare into space. That’s why I sat next to you today. I wanted to know what was bothering you.”

“You’re never bored are you, Milton?” Charley said.

“There are so many people to worry about,” Milton said. “How could I possibly be bored?”