Copyright © 2006 by Billy
[Editor's note: Bill writes:
I've just been through a box labeled "archives" and didn't find a "Cats in the Cellar" story. Maybe that's just an anecdote that I've told over the years. Actually there was nothing at the top of the stairs to explain the cats hisses. I was all alone in the house but eventually had to work up my courage to check the upstairs for monsters.
I did find a couple Ginger and Pudding stories that are probably all fiction and exaggeration - perhaps only a typing exercise. I'll attach them to illustrate the naiveté of a young country lad in a small town. Only the misspellings have been corrected. They are in Word 6 format. Let me know if you want them in simple text format.
And I cleaned up a few other problems, like "are" for "our" etc. etc. It is a gripping tale, and it's not that long, so if you don't like it you won't have wasted too much time.]
One night we were all settled peacefully in our beds when we all heard a very loud silence. Since the cats sleep all day this is approximately the time they start tearing the house down and make a mess out of it. Finally our memories come back and we remember that the two whirlwinds were left out to freeze in the cold blackness of outdoors. With this thought on our consciences I am quickly nominated to let the poor suffering creatures in the house. But these sweet little fiends save me the trouble of going clear down stairs to find them; they simply climb up the screens on the bay window and jump on to the roof proceed to tear up the screen on mother's and Dad's room till mom lets her in the window. As soon as they are in they go down to the basement and play. In the coal bin till they are black enough to add color to the scene. Since the kitchen is the first room to come to they start their fiendish deviltry by making a general mess of things in the cupboard while appearing to hunt for mice. Their main amusement in the kitchen is to knock down the pots and pans for they make a wonderful din. Of course they have a little fun sliding the best fiesta dishes to the floor and then look around as if to say, "Who did that?" When they get tired of this sport they don't do like good cats do and sit on their chair and sleep. No sir, they dash madly to the piano and both leap to the key board as hard as possible followed by a relay up and down the keys which is not to wake us up for they know that by now we should be awake. For an encore they scramble to the living room where our nice freshly cleaned and pressed curtains are and have a race to see who can pull down and make the best mess of their curtain. The winner has the privilege of pushing all the vases and ash trays she can find. Usually the loser passes the time away by taking apart the radio with cat-like glee. Finally the worst thing happens. All the noise stops but the tramping of delicate cat feet coming up the stairs. Both dash to my room and Ginger, who is ahead, jumps on my stomach, bites my nose savagely and dives headlong through my window and lands with a thud out side on the sidewalk. Pudding repeats this process but she pauses to make mess of everything unfastened.