Would you like a contribute to my next book featuring pet stories?
- I'm looking for funny stories, anecdotes or essays about your pet. Does your cat have a weird habit? Did you rescue your dog from another country? Did you hit your animal in the head with a golf club? (sorry that one is taken—see my story below)
- You do not need to be a writer. I am just looking for your story—it can be a couple of paragraphs or a ten-page essay. I am not picky.
- You will be credited as the author of your story.
- I will collect and edit the stories and put them in book format.
- If you have a picture that you would like to include, send it with the story and I'll do my best to include that as well.
- By submitting a story and a picture, you are giving me copyright to the story as it would appear in the book and use of the picture in the book.
If you are interested in contributing, I would love to hear from you! Please email me your contribution at email@example.com and I will start gathering.
Here is an example of a story that I will contribute - basically it is me clubbing my cat with a 3-wood. Enjoy.
- - - - -
Fore! Lives by Karl Wiebe
"Wow, my cat is tough!" I hear that once in a while from other cat people and I wonder what they mean. Usually the other cat owners are talking about Mr. Pickles getting into a scrape with the neighbour's dog, or maybe Professor Snuggles fell off the couch.
I know that no one likes someone who is always trying to top the previous story, but I hit my kitten in the head with a 3-wood. Now that is tough.
Here's the story: when I was six years old, my parents bought a cat for me and my sister. My sister was a couple of years older than me (and still is!) but somehow I was the guy who wanted the responsibility of feeding and looking after this cat. He was a little orange tabby and my parents said "hey, name him whatever you want!" Alright! My six-year-old brain went to work and came up with only one option: Brutus.
The cat was about the size and weight of a ballpark hot dog so my parents vetoed the name. We decided on "Sparky" (which is a great name too, but I secretly called that cat Brutus for years).
Sparky had lived with us for about four months and quickly became a part of our family. I religiously cleaned the box and we all took turns feeding him. (Actually, most of us wound up feeding Sparky on the same day, so this cat was chowing down like nobody's business. He wound up weighing about 24 pounds.)
Remember back in the 1980s, there were no computers, the only video games features a sick pushing a ball to another stick (Pong), and rich kids were the only ones who owned the stick-pushing game anyway. This meant that kids used to actually play outside in the "olden days". One day in the middle of the summer, I was out in the backyard. Sparky followed me out and was literally chasing butterflies (well, okay, it was big gross horseflies, but after all we were living in Alberta).
I had found my dad's golf clubs and was learning how to be a pro golfer. I thought it would be great to grab a "big one" that had wood on the side and swing the club at the golf ball. I figured the worst-case scenario would be that I would send the ball flying out into passing traffic, and the owner of the vehicle would probably be so stunned that a six-year-old broke his driver's-side window that he would offer to send me off to PGA school. It didn't matter that such a place didn't exist—I wasn't going to even make contact with the ball. The golf club was as tall I was. I choked up on the handle and started to swing. Because I am left-handed, I was swinging my dad's righties backwards—this meant that the round edge was what was going to make contact with the ball. I was six.
I think we all know where this is going. The only two who had no idea were me and the cat. Swing. Swing! Swing. The cat jumped onto the ball right as I swung the club. Pop! I couldn't make direct contact with the ball, but suddenly I had crushed the cat right onto the fairway. The cat just laid there on the ground, not moving for about two seconds.
Suddenly Sparky jumped back up! He was okay! Then he sneezed, and a bunch of blood came out of his nose.
He was not okay.
For a six-year-old, I feel that I reacted appropriately: I burst into tears and grabbed the cat. I could literally see his face starting to swell up. I did the half "scream-cry" and ran into the house.
My mum phoned my dad (who was at work) and told him what happened. Cat is dying... dad is at work... cat is dying... dad is at work. Dad at work won, but it was close. Dad didn't come home right away, but he did leave early and took Sparky to the vet.
My sister and I (with tears streaming down our faces) cut open a shoe box and put a towel in there for Sparky's grand return.
I was told years later that my parents had a $100 budget for the cat (which was a lot of money back in those days, especially for a free cat). The vet bill came to about $97.
Sparky had a cracked, bruised face and the next couple of months were painful to watch. (I imagine they weren't that great for Sparky either). He made a full recovery and was in my life for the next eight years. Sparky slept at the end of my bed, and at twenty-four pounds that is a big hunk of meat sleeping at the end of the bed. And because I crushed his nose and eye socket, he had a tendency to snore once in a while. I was more than okay with this.