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Bookstore cats

Jackrabbit Hollow is Peabody's emporium of fine tomes and gifts. The chief rabbit went off to Atlanta last week to attend a big gift mart. She is selecting gift items for your shopping enjoyment in the months to come. For those of you who may not know, the Gazette-Bulletin office is in the back room of her store. While we are separate and distinct businesses, it is nicer to have the bookstore open than not, so I will be glad when she gets back at mid-week.

However, there are three really lonely souls who will be more pleased than I to see her return . . . those dad-gummed bookstore cats! Dickens, Scout, and Jane Austin have had the run of the place for nearly a week. The first two or three days were a free-for-all and they took over, did everything they ever wanted to do, and all the things they aren't supposed to do. No one was around to fuss or tell them no. However, now they are just whiny, miserable malcontents.

They don't like me and I am not fond of them. Usually we understand each other. But these days they meow around my ankles when I am trying to work (or just walk). They bawl at the back door to be let out, then they bawl to be let in, only to want back out again. Scout jumped in my lap today as I was typing the community calendar. He must have been desperate.

There is merchandise all over the floor. One of the literary felines knocked over a box of styrofoam packing "peanuts" which have since migrated to most areas of the store. They park themselves on shelves and tables in my office area and watch me as if it is my fault they are lonesome. They are dissatisfied with my presence.

This morning there was howling and hissing coming from the upstairs apartment. I can only imagine what it looks like up there. For animals that are supposed to be so light on their feet, they sound like a herd of cattle running across the floors above me . . . and they run a lot.

Their habits are so peculiar. Late Monday afternoon I went to the front of the store to see if any more news items had been put through the mail slot in the front door. There was Jane Austin, sandwiched spread-eagle between the screen door and the inside door (there is a split in the screen to accommodate them when they want to come and go in nice weather). She was just pasted there, waiting for someone to let her in. She is the weird one. She will go out the back door, but when she is ready to come in, if no one hears her cries or her clawing she will walk all the way around the block to the front door and try to get someone's attention there. If that doesn't work she will walk around the block again to the back door seeking entry. Who knows how many trips she made between her haughty saunter out the back door at noon to that pathetic display at the front door at five o'clock?

If Scout can't get back in he just looks for a comfy spot in one of Baker's buildings and may be missing for days. I am waiting for him to climb into one of their trucks, snuggle in for a nap on a puffy sofa, and disembark in Augusta or Pratt.

Dickens is the smart one. She stays in. She has her litter box, her food bowl, her water, and all the styrofoam peanuts she could ever want to chase. Why mess up a good thing?

I don't know why I am telling you this except that this column is where I usually put the things that drive me crazy. They definitely qualify.

— SUSAN MARSHALL

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