Author: Sheri

Before Rocksy even had a name—or allowed me to touch her—she brought me a gift. It was a vole – one of those little rodents that chew through the roots of newly planted trees, leave holes scattered across the yard, and generally make a nuisance of themselves. The poor creature was barely alive when Rocksy proudly dropped it onto the concrete in front of the door, as if to say, “Look what I brought you.”

I thanked her as though she had delivered a treasure. “Thank you for this wonderful present! You’re such a clever hunter, and such a pretty girl. It’s exactly what I’ve always wanted.”

That first gift sealed the deal. In that moment, I knew the little yellow cat had accepted me. She rolled over the dirt, showed me her white belly, and then rubbed against my legs. I would have tried to pet her then, but she was still feral, and I was pretty sure she would have tried to scratch my eyes out for the effort.

I don’t mind Rocksy gifting us with voles. After all, they killed our trees! Since voles sit fairly low on the food chain — somewhere beneath cats — they often meet their demise when they cross paths with Rocksy. She still brings gifts from time to time and now offers them to the man of the house. She has learned that gifts earn her praise and, occasionally, special favors. We still haven’t figured out whether Pebbles brings presents too, although she sometimes eats them.

Some days we walk into the garage and find a critter lying in front of the door as a welcome gift. Sometimes the little creatures are still alive, sometimes not, and every now and then all that remains is a tiny head with pointed ears and a sharp little nose.

Rocksy taught Pebbles to hunt by bringing dazed mice or voles into the garage and letting the little squeakers loose so the youngster could practice catching them. Now Pebbles goes on hunts of her own. She may even be the one leaving the heads behind for us!

One morning, Rocksy came to the front door, peeked inside, and carefully set down a vole. She looked so proud. After we showered her with praise, she picked up the tiny squeaker and carried it away. Later that afternoon, she returned with another gift — a little snake. Thankfully, it was already dead! I made sure to tell her what a good hunter she was then.

The other morning, I found a Savannah Sparrow Rocksy had brought in the garage and let loose. I praised her for not killing the pretty little bird. After I rescued the sparrow, I released it safely in the flower bed. I thought maybe Rocksy listened to my speech to about NOT catching birds, but she proved me wrong when little bird feathers were found a couple of days later.

So if you come to visit and Rocksy brings you a headless varmint, just thank her for accepting you as part of the family!

“Rocksy! Rocksy! Do you want to go for a walk with us?” The first time I asked Rocksy to go with us was shortly before Pebbles was born. At first, Rocksy kept her distance, trailing behind us cautiously. She was still leery about the man of the house. Each time we started out for a walk, I called, “Rocksy!” and she materialized out of nowhere one moment, and the next she would weave between my legs like she had been there all along.

By the time Pebbles was born, our walks were routine. Rocksy was always ready to go, with ears perked and tail flicking. She wasn’t comfortable having Pebbles out of sight, so she stayed close to home for a while. When the kitten got a bit bigger, I said, “Pebbles! Do you want to go for a walk with us and your mom?” She didn’t say a thing but played with a blade of grass. One day she followed us to the edge of the yard, her tiny paws stepping over rocks and tufts of grass. She would go no further so Rocksy took her back to the rock pile.

Some days Pebbles started out with us but for some reason when about twenty feet from the house, she would stop. “Pebbles, are you coming?” But no! She had to stop and do her business – or so it seemed. I saw right through that ruse! Each time we ended our walk in front of the basement door. Guess who waited for us? Pebbles! She played in the dirt and took a nap on the cool concrete. “Where did you go Pebbles? You didn’t walk with us.” She yawned, arched her back then stretched as far as she could, and said, “Mew, mew.” That meant, “Oh, you were going for a walk? Why didn’t you wait for me?”

Over time, Pebbles grew braver. We would start out together and then she would wander into the grass to explore and chase bugs or dig around. Rocksy always waited patiently, then went into the weeds and retrieve her kitten. Pebbles hopped out of the tall grass like one of the mule deer fawns and raced to catch up with Rocksy, and then dart off into the weeds again tracking some invisible thing. Finally, when Rocksy had enough, she would say, “Meow,” look at us, sigh, shrug her cat shoulders and stay with The Pebs until she ushered her kitten home.

The cats still go for walks with us. Well, Rocksy does at least. When we start down the trail, or to the mailbox, Rocksy walks behind us. As soon as we turn toward the house, she runs in front of us and takes the lead. I think Rocksy is part dog. She definitely displays some dog-like characteristics. She could have been the poster child for the cartoon character Catdog.

The last few months Pebbles has gotten better about walking with us. Sometimes she actually goes all the way to the mailbox and back, but more often, she stops close to the house and waits, or is perfectly content to take a nap then pretend she didn’t know we were going anywhere. She even has the nerve to suggest that we didn’t let her know!

The next time we went to the mailbox we called, “Rocksy! Pebbles! Are you ready for a walk?” Rocksy was already at my heels. But Pebbles? Well…. She had more important business to tend to.

Cats are funny critters. Rocksy and Pebbles are no exception. Their personalities are very different. Rocksy is staunchly independent and very territorial. Pebbles? Not so much. I told you that Pebbles liked staying in the garage. She became quickly accustomed to a life of luxury instead of having to catch mice and voles. She has been called a “bum” on occasion by at least one person in this family – and that would be me.

The man of the house thought the cute golden cats should stay in the garage at night during the cold months. Pebbles thought that was a great idea but not Rocksy. After all, Rocksy had spent winter outside and knew how to survive. The first night the door closed with the cats inside, Rocksy went berserk. She clawed and scratched, squealed, and somehow managed to open a window and escape out the top of the screen. She’s an escape artist, I tell you! And Pebbles? She just yawned, crawled up on the steering wheel of the tractor, and took a nap. After some discussion, the man of the house installed a cat door so Rocksy wouldn’t tear up everything in the garage and so the cats could come and go as they wanted. That arrangement continues to work well. Pebbles comes, and Rocksy goes!

Though Rocksy is somewhat tame, her feral nature is still strong.  Every few days she has the urge to go on a walkabout. She feels the need to patrol her territory and perch herself atop the rock pile so she can keep an eye on things. She can’t help it! That is part of her inherent wild nature. Pebbles does not feel that need. She is satisfied to mosey along the deck or close to the house and find a good resting spot. She occasionally steals a look up to see what is going on, twitches her ears, then takes another nap.

Rocksy is sensitive to noises and is always on alert. She can tell from the sound of our footsteps or from the style of shoes we are wearing that we are headed out. If she hears the garage door open, she scoots out the cat door. Pebbles couldn’t care less. It doesn’t even seem like a minor inconvenience to her. She just sneaks a peek and raises an eyebrow as if to say, “Ho Hum.” The garage is her territory while the rest of the world is Rocksy’s.

One night both cats disappeared. That isn’t uncommon for Rocksy but for Pebbles it is out of the ordinary. Later the next day, Pebbles slowly came through the cat door into the garage. She walked with a limp, had some clumps of fur missing, and was bleeding. We tended to her wounds, and I pampered her a bit while I scolded her for being out all night apparently fighting. I don’t think she liked it much either. Maybe that was a good lesson for her to learn that outside guard duties are part of her mom’s domain. Pebbles has her own territory. She guards the garage. After all, she is Pebbles the Garage Cat!

Enough time passed for Rocksy’s kitten to be old enough for surgery to “get fixed.” I guess you know what we had to do first? Yep. We had to give her a name. So, what do you name a cute little non-feral yellow cat with gold eyes? Nope – not Goldy! It had to be a unique name that in some way described her. When my grandmother was born, she was just called “Babe.” In fact, she was called that all her life. She didn’t get a name until she was a few years old and then she was named for two of her nieces. In olden days, some kids weren’t given names until their personalities emerged and then their names reflected their characteristics. Well, Rocksy’s kitten was old enough to get her own name! So what would it be? Hmmmm. A light bulb lit up in my brain. “I know what we’ll call her. She will be Pebbles because she’s a chip off the old Rocksy.” The name described her well. So, Pebbles it was – and sometimes Pebs.

She had a name, so we could take Pebbles to the Vet. That would be no problem, right? It would seem so. As with Rocksy, we put the kitten in the garage the night before her surgery. Since the kitten was not feral, she would come right to us. We wouldn’t have to worry about trying to catch her. And we didn’t. We put her in the cat carrier and off we went to the Vet. All the staff thought she was sooooo cute, and she was. They said they would call when she was ready to go home which would be before lunchtime.

When I got the call, the lady said, “Pebbles came through her procedure just fine, but we need to keep her a few hours longer. She’s still a bit groggy from the anesthesia. We’ll give you call when she is ready to go home.” That was fine, but I thought something was up.

I went about my routine and went to my meeting that day. In conversation, something came up about pets. One lady said, “I called the Vet’s office today to make an appointment. I don’t know what was going on but there was a lot of noise.” She questioned the staff and was told there was a kitten there for a procedure that woke up like a wild lion. They had to give her more medication to sedate her. Uh-oh. I said, “That’s what was going on! That was my kitten, Pebbles!” It wasn’t long before I got the call. Pebs was just fine when we got there to pick her up. You never would have known there had been any trouble. I had expected it from Rocksy but not Pebbles.

Pebbles had a busy day. She got a name and she got “fixed.” We kept her in a cage for a day or two so she wouldn’t bust her stitches. Rocksy was able to let Pebbles nurse and tended to her little one with great motherly care.

Something else happened at that time, too. Pebbles kind of liked being in the garage. Hmmm. I wondered how that would work out!

“Let’s go for a walk,” said the man of the house. “Okay. Let me put on my snake boots and grab my camera.” Off we went through the tall dry prairie grass. We went over the hill and walked around the dead fallen cottonwood trees. We stepped over logs that made good homes for little critters and looked for wildflowers scattered among the weeds and grasses. On the horizon the mountains still had a bit of snow in some of the valleys and high peaks. In a fallen tree was a hollow space, or it would have been had there not been a yellow cat peering out of a knot. She (we assumed) was small, dressed in golden yellow fur, with a white neck and belly. After eyeing us warily, she quickly ducked down with the tips of her ears showing above her eyes of gold.

Sometime later, the little cat appeared in our rock pile. Somewhere under the pile of big rocks she made a den. Whenever she saw us, she immediately disappeared. There were days she peeked out of the rocks, and for days at a time there was no sign of her except for some paw prints in the dirt.

Winter was well on its way. I worried about the little thing surviving the winter and being able to find food. Did we want a feral cat living in the rocks and populating the countryside? No. Did we want a good mouser to keep away prairie mice, pack rats, voles, and gophers? You betcha! Since we had an issue with some nasty packrats and voles, I made a decision – I would start feeding her on occasion.

Every evening I put food outside the basement door. She was skittish and would not appear if there was any human sign at all. As I fed her each day, I chattered away at her just like she was a person. After a while, I wore her down and she crept a bit closer each day. One evening, she walked toward me and gently brushed against my leg. This went on for some time until I got brave enough to try and touch her tail. Talk about a wildcat! However, she started her own routine. She would tiptoe a few feet from her rock house, lay down in the dirt and roll. Progress!

I refused to be defeated. Even after she had started playing with my feet I still had to put on a suit of armor and heavy leather gloves in my attempt to pet her. One day I was feeling quite optimistic.

I scooped her up being sure to hold her front legs so she couldn’t claw me. She didn’t like it even a little bit, but I just talked to her, “How are you today little cat? You look so pretty today. Did you see the meadowlarks and hear their pretty song? Now you don’t bother them! Did you see the deer in the yard? What’s on your agenda for the day?” She never answered.

Stay tuned for the rest of the story…….

My ears perked up anytime Daddy or one of the “old timers” told family stories.  I have always had a passion for the history of our ancestors and intricate connections to other families and old pioneers. Anytime they started one of their tales they had my complete attention. I wasn’t quite as quick to listen when my mother spoke. She didn’t tell many family stories but when she did, they didn’t have the same pizazz of a storyteller as my dad, grandparents, aunts, and uncles.

One day when I was at my parents’ house, Mama took me into the sewing room and showed me a box. She opened the lid to reveal quilt blocks, taking each one out and talking briefly about each of the patterns. Each one looked like a miniature quilt. In the box was also a large piece of fabric she had selected for the backing. I’m sure she told me more about the finished squares, and I’m also sure I didn’t listen, and I’m sure that I wish I would have heard her tale.

Just a few hours before Mama’s death as I sat by her bedside, though I don’t know if she knew it, I told her I would finish the quilts that were left undone. There were at least two quilts for grandkids’ graduations to be finished, another box with a partially completed quilt, and a few unfinished projects.

One day while looking through some of her fabric and items in her sewing room, I found a little box containing 30 quilt blocks. Upon further thought, I remembered Mama showing it to me. What had Mama said? I didn’t remember the story of the individual squares, but I did remember that she wanted it made into a single quilt. Daddy knew nothing about the blocks – he didn’t listen to Mama either since he had selective hearing.  How I wish I had listened! It might have revealed the secret of the mystery quilt.

I had no idea how she intended to put the blocks together, so I began piecing them with black strips. But there was something odd. Fifteen of the blocks were a little bit smaller than the others.  That puzzled me especially since my mother was a perfectionist and would never intentionally make her blocks two different sizes. 

Now what? It required more time and effort, but I knew Mama wanted it completed and she had all the pieces just waiting to be finished. The bigger blocks couldn’t be cut down because it would mess up the individual designs. My only option was to “frame” the smaller blocks to make them bigger. After making the small blocks the same size as the larger ones, I added two strips of fabric pieces and sashing to sew the quilt squares together. I ironed the quilt top, grabbed the backing, and headed to the quilt shop to get the whole thing quilted. When I got it back, I decided to finish the edges with prairie points and binding. The mystery quilt looked good as it hung from the loft railing.

Since I couldn’t show the finished quilt to Mama, I decided to send a picture and the story of the mystery quilt to my aunt who was Mama’s sister and best friend. About two weeks later, I received a response from my aunt along with a photo of a quilt she had made. I was totally surprised to see her quilt contained identical blocks to Mama’s and she used black stripping as well.

Her note contained the rest of the story: The sisters decided to make a “sister quilt”…  well if the truth be told, I’m sure that Mama decided…… Both sisters were to make two identical blocks of 15 different blocks. Each sent their duplicate 15 blocks to the other. That way, they would have the exact same 30 squares and have matching quilts. The reason the blocks were different sizes was because one made theirs an “unfinished block” which is the size of the block plus the seam, while the other made a “finished block” which is the size of the block minus the seam. That information made the quilt take on a different meaning. The mystery was solved!

The quilt I put together, on the left, looks busier than my aunt’s. I added two rows of strips so the quilt would fit a bigger bed. If Mama would have had the opportunity to make the quilt, it would have looked just like my aunt’s – I’m sure of it! Look how neat my aunt’s quilt (on the right) looks. Those two sisters are expert seamstresses!

The shelves along the narrow aisles were crowded with stuff. Some stuff was junk to some, but treasures to others. I took one last look not finding what I wanted and weaved in and out of the crammed rows as I headed toward the front of the shop. About that time a pleasant looking man accompanied by two other people came through the door of the junk antique store. The gentleman looked up at me, flashed a big smile and said, “hello.” I returned the smile and the greeting. He walked toward me and asked me where he might find a particular item. My mind said one thing, but I responded with quite another.  “Well, I’m not sure, but if you ask the lady at the desk who works here, I’m sure she can help you.” He smiled again and said, “Oh, I thought you worked here.” My mind said, “I might look like an antique, but that doesn’t mean I work here.”

What’s up with that? It happens to me all the time.

I was in Wal-Mart a few weeks ago looking for anti-biotic ointment. A guy in obvious need of medical supplies walked up and stood beside me. He, too, was eyeing the multitude of choices of ointments, liquids, and creams. I looked at his arm dripping with blood and said, “It looks like you got in a fight with a chain saw and it won.” He proceeded to tell me his story and then asked me which product he should get. When I told him I was just looking myself he said, “I thought you worked here.” “Nope, I don’t work here, but I can tell you about some of this stuff. This is the original… this one tends to leave more of a scar… this one is better for deep cuts… use this one if it is a burn… and this one if it itches… this is a good brand of band aids…” In the middle of my Wal-Mart anti-biotic discourse, a lady walks up on my other side. She got in the conversation, “Oh, do you work here? I’m looking for….” My mind said, “What? Do I look like the Wal-Mart lady? Do I have on a blue vest? Do you see me wearing a name tag?” Instead, the words that came out of my mouth said, “No, I don’t work here. I just act like I know a lot. I was telling this gentleman about the anti-biotic ointment I would get and why.” She was satisfied and I helped her find what she was looking for.

These are not just random happenings. It seems that many places I go, someone thinks I work there. I’ve been in grocery stores where people ask, “Do you work here?” I usually answer, “No, but I’ll help you find what you need.” If I know where the item is, I will direct them or even go with them to look. I have helped ladies find the right makeup or shampoo, several men find items in the grocery aisles, and the list goes on. I really like being mistaken for “working here” in the fabric store. Many times, I just help someone and never tell them I don’t work there. I wonder if any of those people have gone back to store looking for the lady who helped them.

So, when you go in a store try to look smart and maybe someone will ask you, “Do you work here?” Don’t tell them any different. Just help them. They will think the establishment has upped its service and it will make your day!