Part Two: The Tale of Bella Tuna Todd's Name

Our story left off with the kitten being brought into the house after 5.5 weeks of wild cat life...

The first night she stayed in the high walled box lined with a soft fleece blanket (courtesy of the sale shelf at my local Rite Aid). I kept as quiet as possible as I prepared for bed. Her green eyes were locked onto me, the strange two legged one, who had brought her in from the white shed nightmare. As she watched me, I hurriedly sent out a number of emails to my colleagues to say that I would not be going to work the next day due to my unexpected pleasantry. The cat needed real kitten formula, not the canned mushy stuff that the Rite Aid had handy. I bought the kitten a fish shaped bowl for her food and water, figuring that it would be cute for a kitten named Tuna to eat out of a fish shaped bowl. Into said bowl went a serving, a large serving, of said cheap can food. It would be a drastic understatement to say that she scarfed it down. As I watched her eat I couldn't help to think of werewolves pouncing on a feast. It broke my heart to think that this was the first cat food she was eating and possibly her first real ''meal'' in over two weeks. My neighbor had done her very best to feed Tuna, but eating straight from a can of human food that had been thrown down from two flights up was a little different from eating actual cat food in a bowl. I would later realize just how much of a difference real food would make to Tuna.

The kitten settled beside her fish bowl after her hearty meal and a good long drink of water, so I did the same by settling into my own bed. Throughout the night I would check on her - I knew that the food I had given to her was too rich for her young kitten belly and that I was likely to see it again. While it was nice to not have the sound of a starving, lonely kitten meowing among the serenade of a Queen's neighborhood, I was worried sick; if anything happened to this kitten, good or bad, it was now entirely in my hands.

The next morning it was my mission to find a pet shop and to get my kitten proper food. As I frantically ran around the neighborhood I came to realize from all the gates still locked over doors that nothing opened until 10am...it was 8am. Two hours, a cup of coffee, a phone call to my sister, and a three mile walk later, I was the first customer in the local pet-shop. Armed with several bottles of kitten formula, a litter box, and the strongest smell-deodorizing litter in the market, I went home to kitten-proof and kitten-ify my room.

The first day she spent in the box. When I returned home from my half day of work, she was in the process of relieving herself. While in the process of cleaning up her mess, she bark-hissed at me, which nearly resulted with me making a bigger mess by almost dropping her waste all over the rug from start. If you've never heard a cat bark-hiss, it's a no joke threat that should probably be taken seriously. I stayed calm and spoke to her sweetly so that she would grow used to the sound of my voice in the hope that I'd never have to hear a bark hiss again.

That night, Tuna watched me as I set up a corner in the room for her. Being that countries need a transitional period between regime changes, it made rational sense that a kitten would need a transitional phase as well. The kitten corner was no five star luxury resort, but it did provide a place for Tuna to stretch her legs and to have some curiosity stimulating distractions. An extra added bonus that the corner provided for me was that I could feed her with less of a chance of losing a finger.

All was going smoothly. Tuna was really liking her new freedom in the corner and she lapped up the kitten formula like a pro. She was beginning to play and clean herself - all very good signs of her settling in. I was headed to the door to make dinner for myself when all hell broke loose.

Tuna started to vomit violently. It wasn't food that she was regurgitating; it was sticks. Her body was rejecting the odds and ends that she had been eating in the shed to survive. The poor dear started to meow from fright as she vomited, so I jumped into action. In a move that was probably the most maternal thing that I've yet done, I plucked Tuna from the floor by her scruff, tucked her close to me, and sat with her in the corner for two hours. Young cats are comforted by warmth, being held close, and hearing/feeling heartbeats. I had not yet so much as touched Tuna, and there we were for a good portion of the evening with her in my arms. I thought that she was going to die. It was horrible, but she made it through. By the end of those two hours she was purring and standing on my shoulder (her favorite spot to this day), playing with my earrings.

Her playful, mischievous character began to show that night. The following morning, I nearly had a heart-attack because I could not find her. But when I called her name, her little pink nose and calico face popped out of one of my drawers. In the night, she had liberated herself from the kitten corner, thus signaling to me that her transition into my room and into my life was complete in her eyes. The third night, she slept on my throat and continued to pop out of or to chew on things that made me laugh or made me nervous for fear of her getting hurt. She had done something out of spite to me one morning, which made me say, "You're such a Todd!" (I did not yet know if she was a boy or a girl -I assumed that she was the former). The Todd reference is from Disney's The Fox and the Hound. In her younger days, Tuna looked very fox like and acted very much like the protagonist of the movie, Todd the Fox. It made sense and it stuck.

For the following Sunday, I made a date with the vet for Tuna Todd to get checked out to see if she was healthy or if I needed to step up the game with providing her with more nutrition. Tuna Todd is an absolutely gorgeous (then I would have said hansom) cat, so the night before we went to the vet's I said to "him," "If you were a girl, I'd call you Bella," as inspired by the Italians with whom I worked over the summer.

Much to my delight, after registering Tuna Todd at the vet's on pages worth of paper work as Tuna Todd, the first thing that the vet said when she saw my child was, "What a lovely girl!" As it turns out, 99.9% if not 100% of calicoes are female. I laughed to think of the name that my kitten now had; "Bella Tuna Todd." Somehow, it worked. I mostly call her Bella, but when she does naughty things, (such as getting her face stuck in my water cup and then throwing it off, only for the water to land on a live power strip), I'll call her Bella Tuna Todd.

There is no doubt about it - she is my child and I love her dearly. We travel around the city now and then, so if you see a gal on the train with a calico, it is likely to be me. People who see my kitten on the trains smile and ask me about her - they are always struck by how calm she is on the train. She doesn't meow. I like to joke that she used-up all of her meowing allowance in the first weeks of her life. Bella Tuna does have a gift of making people very calm and happy when they see her. When people oo and awe at her, I very proudly think, "That's my girl!" Even if she does bring a bit of mischief, life would be very boring with out my meowing pal.

Your humble writer,
S. Faxon

A Song for Thanksgiving

In regards to the title of this post, I will not be writing my own song. This is a reflection on a song that my friends and I very strongly believe will be the tune that defines our generation. Whether the song writers meant it or not, the song "We are Young" by F.U.N. has assumed deep meaning with the people in my circle. If you have not heard the song, I suggest giving it a listen - I will not be writing out the lyrics here.

My generation grew up with these things on the lighter side:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/daves4/things-you-will-never-see-again-in-your-life
(and hand-drawn cartoons in general)

On the heavier side, we grew up hearing about genocide in Rwanda and in the Former Yugoslavia whether our parents tried to block us from knowing about it or not, we heard these things. We were youth or young teens when the US was attacked abroad and at home. Our perspectives on the world were being shaped while our nation was involved in two wars. Right as we were mid-college or about ready to leave high school for college, the economy went haywire and jobs became scarce. We've been scraping the bottom of the barrel and we've been doing what we have to for rent, so when this song became popular in my circle over summer, nothing felt more right. I'm not suggesting that we all do exactly as the song says, but every now and then indeed we need a night to just be young. To enjoy the lighter things. I'm a huge believer in the blessings that little things bring. Look at the kitten I rescued. She is the best gift I've received this year - if I did not have her, my life would be a lot more studious and dry, but she is constantly reminding me through her rompings around my room that life is meant to be enjoyed. Life is meant to be carried joyfully, even if that joy is brought about by something as simple as a shoelace (we are talking about a kitten, after all).

So in this week when we are surrounded by family and old friends, set aside a moment to realize how good we have it. Take a deep breath and take a moment to be young. No matter how old you are, find your fun.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Your humble writer,
S. Faxon

The Tale of Bella Tuna Todd

So, what did you think? How did you or didn't you enjoy last week's read?

This week will be a much less intense chapter. It's a true story, one from the more extraordinary moments in my life. It is the tale of how I, a die-hard dog lover, found myself with a five week old kitten purring on my desk as I post.

In late July of this year, I moved out from the fast paced city streets of Manhattan into a much more a-typical version of an old New York neighborhood. I was not sure about moving to Queens as it has such an odd reputation, but the charm of my neighborhood had been the selling point for my signing the lease. There is much more of a small town feel here, something that I grew up in, so I quickly became settled and even began to know my neighbors. (I lived in my last neighborhood for 3.5 years and didn't know anyone outside of my circle).

My building is next door to a Greek community center. During the warm days of August, my room would fill with the delightful smokey smell of Greek bbq as the men would grill for hours, rain or shine. They kept all of their drum grills and cooking equipment in a dingy looking shed in the backyard. The shed sat alone in a long yard, bordered by high-walled fences on all sides.

Every now and then I would see a beautiful ferrel calico emerge from the wild mess of vines that reached across the concrete yard. She would play amongst the leaves, roll around happily on the warm concrete and chase butterflies. As an animal lover, it was really nice to watch the cat play. As a child I had a pair of cats named Pepsi and Amy (I was five when I named the first), so it was a delightful unnexpected comfort to have a cat in the neighbor's backyard. Very rarely will I use this cliche, but it could not be more fitting; little did I know that the calico in the backyard would bring the ultimate unnexpected pleasantry to my life.

On a mid-September morning, I noticed that there was an awful lot of meowing coming from the yard, but it was not a cat - it was a kitten. Looking out the window, I could not see anything, but there was a kitten meowing nonstop. For the following week and a half, the kitten would meow in forty minute intervals...all day...all night. I told everyone at work about this ball of fluff who had emerged from the shed and would cry out to the heavens that she was scared, hungry and lonely, hoping for someone to rescue her. Being an humanitarian and animal lover, hearing her cry was killing me. You could hear the sadness in her meow - it was awful and it had become quite clear that the beautiful calico mom had abandoned her. On one Wednesday, the meowing was so bad, I decided that enough was enough. I had called the animal rescue people who told me that unless the kitten was minutes away from death, it was ferrel and that there was nothing to be done. Finding them to be of no help, I went next door and asked my neighbor if there was anything that we could do to save the kitten. Unfortunately, the lady who answered did not have access to the back - she was the second floor apartment. She had been throwing tuna cans down to the kitten in attempt to help keep her alive. She and her roommates had tried to configure all sorts of different methods for trying to save the kitten, everything from luring the cat into a bucket to hoist her 15 feet up to looking into rope ladders to throw out the window and climb down. I too had been trying to devise a method of rescuing the kitten; my friend who lives in London had sent me a drawing on his iPad of his strategic plan for saving the kitten, the picture of which is below. It involved a helicopter, to which, alas, I do not have access.


Another week went by and the kitten was still meowing. She had emerged from the shed and would venture only so far out from the opening to sing her pitiable tune of loneliness. It was so heartbreaking; she was so pathetic and small. I decided that enough was enough - I wasn't sleeping, all I could think about at work was trying to find away to get over the rickety fences to save the kitten. I had made up my mind; I spoke to the neighbor on Sunday night and told her that even though I am not allowed to have pets, I will find away to adopt that kitten.

Then came the rain. The wooden shed's door swelled shut due to the humidity and things were starting to look very grim for the kitten. She was trapped inside. The meowing was never more torturous to hear. I couldn't even imagine the hell that the baby-cat was experiencing.

On that Wednesday I came home after teaching class in the evening to find silence. Usually the cat meowed whenever the light in my room turned on, but on this evening, there was nothing. My heart dropped. I looked out the back and the rickety shed was dark. The door was still closed. I remember thinking to myself, "Great, some humanitarian I am - I can't even save a kitten." I waited about thirty minutes, still nothing, so I decided that the cat was gone. It was tough. I took a shower, had a cleansing cry, and then came back to my room. As a dramatic bid at finality, I closed the curtain over my window. Two steps away from my window, I heard my name shouted out from the back. Of course I went running back to the window to see my neighbor in the yard wearing yellow gloves up to her elbows. The door of the shed was wide open. "They're here! Come on! This is our chance!" she shouted. I hollered back that I'd be down in five minutes. It took me about two minutes to throw on a pair of jeans and tennis-shoes before running out of my room to the front. "It's liberating kitten time!" I shouted to my roommate as I bolted down the stairs.

Now, again, the only people who had access to the back yard were the members of the Greek Community Center and they were there holding a meeting. In I come, wet haired and looking quite awful after a long day at work to join my neighbor in rescuing a kitten. When I entered the long, brightly lit hall, fifteen Greek men of a range of ages turned to look at me. I smiled nervously and said, "I'm just going out back, excuse me."

"Be careful," one of them warned, "There's a tiger out there."

I laughed nervously and joined my neighbor, crouching in the back waiting for the cat. We had a deep bucket with a can of tuna in it. My neighbor informed me that the kitten had come over a couple of times, but every time the men in the center would make a loud noise and then she would run back. In the two and a half hours that I spent crouched down in that backyard, I can attest to that fact. The men kept coming out and asking us if we had caught the cat and that we were wasting our time trying to save the cat. We had to keep telling them that it was a baby. Regardless they thought we were crazy cat ladies, which all things considered...

At one point, one man came out and said to us, "Why don't you go in there?" To which we looked into the shed and then looked back at him - it was dark and there were large, sharp things in the shed; we were not about to go in. My neighbor replied, "We're not going in there, but you're welcome to."

So, he did. Then came three other men. Two of them went into the shed. Then came five other men and eventually one more straggler. One man held his smartphone as our only source of light into the shed, while three of his companions crawled, climbed and stretched through and within the shed. I have to say, for men with several Heinekens in them, they were quite furtive - I'm sure the cat learned a thing or two about grace and stealth that night. They moved out several of the drumb basin grills, a large ice-chest, shovels, and all sorts of odds and ends. I was terrified that the kitten was going to get squished during all of this. The men kept laughing that we were pulling their legs and were just out for some attention, which was becoming annoying. But then, it happened. The men inside the shed started yelling happily in Greek and then one tall man emerged bearing the cat by her scruff out in front of him, arm proudly extended. To any of you with children or if you were children post 1992, if you've seen the Lion King, think of Rafikki and Simba in the opening five minutes - the whole scene really was not that much different. The experience was certainly like something out of a movie. The nine men could not believe how small the kitten was when we gently put her into the bin that we had. With a small parade following us, we walked the kitten out of the Greek Community Center and to the entrance of my neighbor's apartment. She was going to hold on to her while I went out to the local market to get emergency kitten supplies. I had nothing prepared for this kitten. I was in and out of the market within 10 minutes, loaded with fleece blankets, cat food (they did not have kitten food) and a heart full of excitement. I had no idea what was going to follow, but I knew that I had a real chance to bring this cat back to health, for she was quite small. We thought that she was only a couple of days old.

I returned to the neighbor and was ready to take this precious little fur-ball into my apartment. Before she bid goodbye, the neighbor made me promise one thing, to name the kitten Tuna, as that was what she had been calling her and that had been the only source of food getting down to the kitten for the last two weeks. I made the vow and brought the little ferrel cat into my apartment, which feels much more like a home now.

In the following weeks I'll continue the story of Bella Tuna Todd - the explanation of her name will be the next chapter in her tale to follow. It's really remarkable how much warmth and life an animal can bring into one's home. If you have any furry-friend stories that you would like to share, leave a note in the comments - we've all some pretty fantastic stories to share - that's one of the things that makes life so miraculous, wouldn't you agree?

Your humble writer,
S. Faxon

Chapter 1

We have reached the second Saturday of the month, so, dear readers, I present to you the first chapter of my published works The Feasts and Follies of the Animal Court, © 2012,  available on Barnes & Noble Nook and Amazon Kindle. Enjoy:

“It is because we are brothers that we are enemies.”

Chapter 1 ~ Lost

March 19, 1356

Gertrude was relieved to finally be rid of all the well wishes, the “I’m sorry,” and “he’s in a better place now” gestures. Her room was a wonderful retreat in which to hide, for no one would dare enter the royal chambers without having received permission.

This had been the day in which she helped to prepare her son’s body to rest, as was tradition in her culture. She was in no mood to be entertained. Her body would not cease its persistent trembling, nor could she dam her tears. However miserable she currently felt, Gertrude was proud of her ability of having not shed a single tear before her remaining children when she kissed them off to bed. She could not permit herself to be seen crying in front of her babes. They needed their mother’s strength to keep them whole.

Yet, now that she was alone, to whom could she turn to absorb bravery?

Where was her husband? His absence was troubling, but Gertrude’s routine was not disrupted. The great lady did not even pause to change from her day clothes – feeling comfortable seemed impossible at such a somber time. She proceeded to the large bed, driven by nothing more than the urge to lie down and rest. However, before her wish could be granted, a puzzling sight caught her eye. Upon the bed she saw her son Peter’s button-eyed teddy bear. Falling onto the bed, she clutched the soft bear tightly to her heart.

On the other side of the room she heard the door swing open and slam shut. From years of love and exposure, she immediately recognized the soul who entered.

Breyton did not immediately notice the curled up figure of his wife lying on the bed so he continued the cursing fit he belted throughout the castle’s halls. “That mad-ass gilded slave! Damn him!” Breyton hurled his cane half way across the room where it landed with a snapping clap.

“Please bottle your temper, dear,” Gertrude’s soulless words barely echoed past the frame of the bed in response to her husband’s anger. He had dismantled her peace.

The lady’s words were softly spoken and would have been easily missed by one not tuned to the softness of her voice, but Breyton obediently noted and minded her command. The scarlet that had raged in the gentleman’s creased forehead and long cheeks faded. The anger in his voice was checked at the door. Breyton sighed, scratched his forehead, and as he started for the bed’s side he cooed to his wife, “Oh, my gentle Gertrude, forgive me, I did not see…”

“Oh, dear husband, do not fret,” she whispered into the pillow’s soft and cradling head, “You have every right to be upset; the same as I have every right to rip out my heart.”

His wife’s conduct over the past few days greatly concerned him, and this comment last only added to his worry. Breyton rushed to join his grieving wife on the bed. He noticed as he made his position next to her more comfortable that within her clutches was the favorite bear of their youngest son. “How did you come by this?” Breyton pointed to the bear with one hand and he stroked the side of his wife’s hip with the other.

Her husband’s touch was soothing after so long an absence of any such attention. His presence was precisely what Gertrude’s spirit needed. She pulled the bear closer to asphyxiation then whispered, “It was on the coverlet. Perhaps one of the children left it here, Ivan…maybe Anya, but I doubt that Oleyesa or Soph would have dared to enter Peter’s room, let alone remove his favorite play thing…” her voice waned and her soul filled with a bitter chill. She sought comfort from her husband’s touch, but found in vain that it was not helping. So what better way to avoid tears than to avoid the subject producing them entirely? “How’s your back, Brey?” she asked out of the blue. It was a proper question that any dutiful wife would pose after a night-full of her husband’s complaining.

Breyton chuckled mildly, being not a bit surprised by his wife’s digression. “Well, it’s seen better days.” He kept at petting his wife. It pained him terribly to see her so sad, not as though the past few days were not wearing on the both of them. “How’s that heart of yours?”

Gertrude could no longer retain her grief. Her eyes blurred from tears and through her sobs she mumbled, “Barely beating.”

With his long fingered hands, Breyton gently rolled his wife onto her back. He pushed aside the teddy bear, and laid his head between her breasts. His act yielded Gertrude’s tears, for curiosity was the stronger chord controlling her.

“Ah, my dear queen,” Breyton ran his fingers up and down his wife’s sides as still his tanned faced used her chest as a pillow. “This evidence proves you wrong. I hear loud and clear your heart beating brilliantly.”

“Oh, my loving king,” Gertrude’s fingers tenderly rubbed the side of Breyton’s face. She had missed his physical attention for so long. As bitter sweet the moment was, Gertrude found distraction as she stared at the top of the king’s head where his hair had thinned considerably. Though of course he knew better, Breyton blamed his hair loss upon it having been worn down from years of wearing a crown. Breyton rubbed his head against his wife’s chest. He raised his torso, leaning up on his forearms. His intense, round blue eyes looked lovingly at his wife. “Your bravery inspires me.”

“Huh, bravery,” Gertrude, the proud raina, the queen of the country, scoffed and curled her lip with disgust, “What a useless trait for a mother who could do naught to save her babe.”

“Gertrude, you mustn’t blame yourself for Peter’s illness,” the king pleaded, but no warmth returned to his wife’s blue and brown eyes. “Our son is gone, but my dear lady, you’ve still five other babes to tend.”

“Our seven year old is dead, Breyton! Our baby!” Gertrude’s burst of anger swelled and growled in the gloss of her eyes. “How is it that I and countless others lived from the epidemic, but our beautiful boy, our innocent baby was slain by that fever? And that damn doctor, that witch-man, he claimed, he said that Peter was improving!”

“I know, I know, but don’t worry, that man will haunt our castle no longer. I’ve just relieved him from his duty here, to put it delicately. I wish your mother could have been here to tend to Peter…she’s the most superior physician that any of our kingdoms can claim.” Breyton started to sit properly, but he was grabbed by his wife and pulled back down beside her.

Gertrude wanted nothing more than to be embraced by her husband.

The husband and wife, the country’s king and queen, clutched onto each other and openly displayed their mourning within the privacy of their bed’s embrace. The funeral for their youngest child was to come on the morrow’s rise. The impending hour of that black ceremony drained all monarchical duties, expectations, and mannerisms from the royal couple. They were mortal again.

Hidden within Gertrude’s sobs, the woman uttered, “No parents should have to suffer the death of their child. None. I don’t care who they are, this suffering is too cruel to bear.”

         The couple continued in such a manner for some time until the gentle Gertrude succumbed to sleep. Her rest came to her husband’s great relief. She had not slept since the night before Peter died. As he delicately pulled the thick fur coverlet over himself and his wife, all of the burdens that his lady had borne in her lifetime that somehow molded her into the gentle soul she was today, flashed before his eyes, blinding him from the present, and dragging him back into the searing past.

Foreward

Let's start with a proper E-introduction. Whether you're reading this on a train platform on your way to work or in the dreaded line at the DMV, we'll be spending some time together, so allow me to tell you about myself. For you San Diegans, you're reading the words of a fellow native who drove the lanes of the 8, the 5, and Morena Blvd more times than imaginable. For you New Yorkers, you're reading the words of an individual who equally suffers with you in the morning commute on the 4, 5, 6 line. The distance of space between my home lands and my current residence should cover the majority of everyone in between for relating.

So what do I do? What business has brought me to writing? Well, my time as a human rights activist and participant in developing democratic systems can become a bit heavy. Writing is my escape from the harder aspects of life and as such, I hope that my works will provide similar escapes for my readers. My career in international relations was not where my writing began. Prior to my eyes being opened to the needs of the world, feeling the tip of a pen to the page was my preferred get-away. In the last eleven years I have written thirteen full length novels, with one thus far being published. This book will be first featured in the blog.; I will post a section of my published work, The Feast and Follies of the Animal Court. If you just can't stand the wait for the next part, take comfort in knowing that the book is available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Feel free to read ahead, but please, no spoilers!

In the weekends in-between I will publish other smaller works to keep you entertained, as is the purpose of this page. If there are ever any questions about writing, human rights, or anything at all, please feel free to drop me a note.

Keep an eye out for next week's first book post!

Your humble writer,
S. Faxon

Back Cover

In our daily lives, living in a systemized world of 9 to 5, it is sometimes difficult to find an escape from the daily grind. In this, the first week after Hurricane Sandy, it seems like now more than ever people are in need of an escape. Hopefully, in these blogs to follow, my readers will be able to forget their worries and woes by entering my fiction stories, poems, and abstract prose.

I work in the field of human rights; trust me when I say that I understand that there is a lot out there for which we should be worried. But even the strongest hearted of heroes need a couch and a good piece of fiction in which they may loose themselves for a while. So dear reader, curl up on a couch, wrap yourself up in a blanket, and within my stories we'll all make it through this upcoming winter a little easier.

Your humble writer,
-S. Faxon