TRILLINGHAM: W. Potocki

TRILLINGHAM: Wendy Potocki

Okay, okay, okay! I cleaned off the …. bloo …errrrr … I mean, corn syrup off my machete and put it away early because it’s me offering you up a monstrously good treat on this 11^th day of October! Yes, as your Mistress of Mayhem, I’ll be offering up one of my books for our Daily Book Giveaway. Yeah, and that is hell freezing over! But never mind! Just worry about going numb from trying to read the chiller-diller I’m about to put up for grabs! TRILLINGHAM has a flesh-eating monster that is sure to make you check the locks on you doors at least once.     

I’m offering up five ecopies of my book. For those of you craving a good, old-fashion monster story, this just might pop the weasel and anything else that you have layin’ around. Add in a dark, bone-chilling legend and you have the makings of never leaving your house again!  

And I also got into the October spirit by writing you a little ditty called THE STEP OF THE CAT. It’s a fun tale that’s full of laughs, but what’s comedy without at least one brutal murder? Exactly my point. I love that my peeps get me the first time around! So enjoy the story and then you best be getting around to entering today’s drawing. If you don’t, TRILLINGHAM will surely get you!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR .

W. Potocki lives and writes in NYC. If that isn't scary enough, she writes in the genre of horror. She feels creating good horror is an art form. She religiously devotes herself to pursuing it over hill and dale -- and in the crevices of her keyboard.

Named one of the Top Ten "New" Horror Authors by Horror Novel Reviews, she has eight self-published novels. Book trailers for many of her works may be found on her official website listed below. Her latest frightmare is TRILLINGHAM, a book that'll give you chills faster than you can yell, "Help!" She's currently working on THE RECKONING, the third and last installment in her very popular Adduné Vampire Trilogy.

In her spare time, she loves to go for long walks, drink Starbucks Apple Chai Lattes, and be stilled by the grace, beauty and magic of ballet. Her novel BLACK ADAGIO was written in tribute to the passion of dance.

Mailing list: http://bit.ly/1lGwkDm
FB: http://on.fb.me/1oOawJO
Twitter: https://twitter.com/WPotocki
Website: http://www.wendypotocki.com/
Trillingham Book Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HKYY9xYnewY

TRILLINGHAM

“A well written fast paced horror story. I loved the plot, very original. I feel that those who love a good horror story will enjoy Trillingham.” – Amazon Reader

A monster proves a legend true.

Jen Nichols is living large and ready to enjoy the summer. Riding the unemployment train, a chance encounter with Hillboro’s newest resident alters her plans. While Jen insists the attack could have been fatal, everyone, including her boyfriend Phil, minimizes her claims. Even the police dismiss her account of what they consider a skirmish until a dead body surfaces. Half-eaten and discarded in a ravine, it’s the first clue that someone very evil is hungry. But who or what that someone is remains a mystery and shrouded in folklore.

A vandalized cemetery located hundreds of miles away may hold the key to solving the crime. The digging up of that unmarked grave has awakened more than the creature put to a permanent rest. But only a mother still grieving over the loss of a child understands the implications. As she sets out to stop more murders from happening, the only question for her is, will she be too late.

THE STEP OF THE CAT

by WENDY POTOCKI

The loud whir of the goddamned lawn mower woke me … again. While several hundred centuries of civilization had survived without the noisome invention, my neighbors, evidently, could not live without it. But the Hendleys were special that way. Obsessed with things that make a racket, they used these irritants to perform useless tasks—most often when others were trying to sleep.

I rolled over and hit my pillow more than a few times with my fist, imagining it was the face of Taft Hendley that I was punching into a new configuration. Taft’s wife Doris should have been included in my fantasy, but she wasn’t. I found it impolite to relish smooshing in that gherkin she wore on her shoulders. No, I’d let gravity and age take care of that harvesting.

After tossing and turning for a few more minutes, I gave up—even after glancing at the clock and finding it was only 7:00 AM. So what if Saturday and Sunday were the only days I got to sleep in and that I was a night owl? I suppose that was my problem, or at least that was what the bastions of the community that lived next door would have me believe—damn them to hell. While I didn’t believe it was the final judgment, everyone else in Beaver Falls would. The Hendleys were known to everyone in town. The cooing lovebirds were members of the town council, neighborhood patrol, and judges in the annual flower show, but who the hell was counting? Certainly not me. Besides, it was officially too early to do anything but drool.

By now, the disturbance had bored a tunnel straight through to my last nerve. I surrendered. Lumbering to the window, I peered out at the man riding on the lawn mower that put a John Deere tractor to shame. It was just my luck that Taft spotted the bleary-eyed specter that was in the middle of a wide, tonsil-revealing yawn. In the midst of revving the engine, Taft used his other hand to wave at me, smiling as if he hadn’t just ruined my day off. I grimaced, sliding my curtain closed and wondering how I’d ever pay those bastards back enough.

* * * * *

The rest of the day was swallowed up by tree trimmers, leaf blowers, and Taft starting a new project on his Honey-Do List. The asshole had stopped me just before I’d headed to the store, and announced he was building a new addition to their 1,680 square-foot home. He gloatingly revealed that he was starting tomorrow; the major project assured a summer filled with hammering, sawing, and my getting up at the crack of dawn.

Because of the stupendous news, I bought three cases of beer instead of the soda I was planning on purchasing. The fortifications meant non-stop alcohol pumping into my system. I slugged them down in succession, stacking the metal tabs in an ashtray and wondering how I might sabotage all that pricey equipment Taft was going to be using with them, but it was to no avail. There was no sabotage I could come up with, so at eight o’clock, I gave up and dumped the little pieces of metal into the trash. Zapping on the TV, I selected a channel that featured horror flicks that had gone straight from a director filming in his daddy’s basement to DVD. What can I say? I liked the low-budget fare and the acting out with machetes never failed to get out some pent-up aggression and, believe me, I had plenty.

I’d already watched a couple of slice-and-dice gut busters, losing myself in all the mayhem that twisted minds could conjure up and slap on the screen. The movies, combined with the beer performing a happy dance in my veins, helped the evening slip away. The time was venturing into the magic hour of midnight. I bowed to the spirits of independent filmmaking, but I wasn’t done by a long shot. I clicked off the set in the living room and began watching The Fluffy Demon of Hymen High in my boudoir.

Boudoir is a fancy word for bedroom, in case you didn’t know. I hadn’t. It was Taft Hendley that had turned me on to it … the stupid bastard. But call it what you will, with a single light burning in the bathroom, I stripped down to my birthday suit and covered my family jewels with a sheet. No sense getting them chilled.

The movie was deep, or so it seemed to my alcohol-ridden brain. And the crack I’d made earlier about midnight being “magic”? Well, it turned out to be prophetic. Seems the Demon of Hyman High became the demon through the use of spellcrafting, and goddamn if the flick didn’t give a primer in how to attract what you desired. According to the plotline, you simply had to state your intention out loud.

When you’re plastered out of your gourd, stupid things take on a brilliance all their own. I mean, they shine, and here was this writer spilling out the secrets of the universe to me. Who was I to reject his advice? And it had worked for Hymen. As my pappy used to say, “Son, don’t you diddle with success.”

“I want my mother*ucking neighbors gone!” I bellowed. Following it up with a burp, I figured that ought to do it. I was complacent as hell with what I’d done, but a pair of yellow eyes appeared out of nowhere and made my balls freeze.

“What the—” I gasped.

The jerking of my hand caused some brewski to drip down it. With no time to think, my torso clenched up until I resembled a cobra. What can I say? The glowing yellow eyes held me captive. Mystically floating in space, they were positioned between the raised window frame and the sill. But the shifting light of the TV revealed a secret. There was a furry black body tucked in there and the eyes were part of its construction. Yup, it was a cat that had jumped onto my window sill—a cat that was watching. Before I knew it, the damn thing catapulted straight onto my bed.

“Hi,” the intruder greeted.

To make it clear, it was cat that spoke and not me. Yeah, I know … cats don’t talk. Even blasted out of my skull, I knew that was a scientific impossibility.   

“Cats don’t talk,” I pontificated.

“Au contraire, mon ami,” the furball contradicted. “Felines are fully capable of holding riveting conversations, but it’s against the by-laws of our bible to engage in such discourse with those not a member of the felis catus species.”

“Bible?” I queried.

“Not literally a bible—and this is a perfect example of why we don’t speak. We absolutely hate explaining things,” the cat responded with a sigh.

“Okay, then. It’s a book you’re referring to, but what book?”

“The one all we kitty-witties swear allegiance to. It’s called The Step of the Cat, but I never told you that because it’s against the rules to divulge this information to a human being, and I think that’s what you are?”

“I see,” I ventured, ignoring the insulting question.  

“You don’t have to and it’s not why I’m here,” he quipped. Padding from the edge of the bed to where my arm ended, he sat down, posing like some Egyptian sphinx.

“Why are you here?” I probed.   

“To fulfill your desire.”

“My desire? But how the hell—”

“I heard you through the window,” the cat explained. Its tail curling around its front paws, it was a mighty fine-looking specimen of fur.

“You can do that? Fulfill my desire, I mean. Obviously, you can hear, since you’re answering my questions.”

“What?” the cat inquired as it leaned its torso in.

“I said that I can tell you can hear because—”

The shit-eating grin appearing on the little pink mouth signaled I’d been had. I pointed at the rosebud of an opening, laughing at my gullibility.

“Got me good … whatever your name is. Mine’s Douglas. Douglas Ryder.”

Swigging down more beer, I waited until the cat stopped tittering.

“I’m Sobriety,” he responded, licking a paw.

“Sobriety?” I snickered as I downed more alcohol. “What the hell kind of name is that? Kinda stupid, if you ask me.” The irony of it all escaped me.

“Really?” he said as he stopped licking his paw. Giving me one of those icy stares cats are known for, if looks could kill, this would have wiped out the entire neighborhood … and Canada … and sustainable everything. “As stupid as Doofus?”

“Doofus? No, my name is Douglas. D-o-u-g-l-a-s,” I repeated as slowly as possible. I was indignant and not shy about letting my irritation show.

“Oh, sorry, Doug Bass.”

Okay, he was being obnoxious, but I supposed I deserved it.

“I get the point and I apologize for hurting your feelings. Now can we move on to how you’re going to help me?” I pressed.  

The sound of rain tapping against the window panes and hitting the bushes lining the perimeter of my house started in earnest.

“Already have,” he said, nodding his head towards the open window.

“You mean, the rain?”

“I do indeed. Weren’t you afraid those losers next door were going to be making noise and wake you tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah, I was,” I exhaled, astonishment prodding my mouth to droop open a tad.

“Well, I guess good ole Taft won’t be building anything in this storm.”

The cat fully enjoyed foiling Taft’s plans. Cracking himself up, he flopped onto his side and indulged in a belly laugh, and goddamn if I didn’t join in.

“You’re good!” I extolled as I cradled next to him.

“You’re not too bad yourself. And as long as you’re down here, would you mind getting that spot right here.”

Moving his head, he exposed the space under his chin. 

“Got it covered, Sobriety.”

Using one finger at first, I moved on up behind his ear and choreographed the other four digits to mete out the pleasure mode. The boy went crazy. As he purred and closed his eyes, I boogied on his left side as well.

“Look, I love your name, Sobriety, but you don’t mind if I call you something a little more mystical, do you? I mean, you did make it rain and that’s impressive.”

“Hell, you can call me Rutger Hauer if you keep this up,” he joked. “Always did admire his acting,” he added as an aside.

“How about Pyewacket? I read the name somewhere. The cat was off the chain—not that I’d ever put a cat on a chain,” I hurriedly explained.

“Pyewacket it is,” he replied, his motor still running a mile a minute. A look of contentment came over his regal features; he was about to doze off. Must be hard work being a cat.

“But one day isn’t going to stop them. There’ll be next weekend … and the weekend after that,” I whispered.

Half opening one eye, he appraised me like a doctor does a third leg. His eyelid shut out the view as his tail began to flick.

“You’re thinking too much, Dougie. I’ve got it covered. You’ll never have to worry about them again.”

My curiosity was piqued.

“What are you going to do?” I pressured.

“Me? Nothing. It’s what you’re going to do.”

“Okay, then what am I going to do?” I tried again.

“You’re going to kill them.”

The thought had never occurred to me, but maybe there was a good reason for that.

“But isn’t murder … well, illegal?” I ventured warily.

“You worry too much.”

With that, he curled himself under my arm and began snoring something fierce. I didn’t dare move and plus, I didn’t want to. I just wanted to let the deliciousness of the idea he’d given me fester in my head.

* * * * *

I had the worst dream of my life. I dreamt some monster was in my room—just staring at me. It was some sort of Biclops; its two eyes enormous and unblinking. I tried to cry out or move, but couldn’t do either. It was going to get me.

I woke up gasping out in terror and found Pyewacket lying on my chest. Drilling holes in my head with those slanted eyes, it was he who had brought on the nightmare.

“Cheesh, thought you’d never get up,” he admonished. “What time’s breakfast, Dougie? Or does the fact it’s almost noon make it lunch?”

While he was being a little abrasive, he had let me sleep … unlike some neighbors I could mention.

“Uhm, either or, Wackety,” I assured as I stroked that shiny fur that was more than a tad wet. The tongue bath he’d performed made him feel like he’d been put through a car wash.

After falling out of bed and stumbling into the kitchen, I stripped a drumstick of leftover flesh and piled it in a small dish, setting it down on the floor. Filling a coffee cup with water, I placed it next to the vittles and let him chow down. By the time I’d finished preparing the eggs, toast, and coffee for myself, he was in the midst of performing his toilette—diligently going to town on his genitals.

“Cheesh! Do you have to do that at the kitchen table?” I reprimanded.

“Dude, you got more to worry about than me licking my balls.”

“Really? And just what am I supposed to be worried about?”

“The Hendleys, you yutz!” Giving a heavy exhalation, he went back to doing what cats do best.

“Yeah, Taft and Doris. Hey, you really gonna help me? I mean, you didn’t lie about that rain, did you?”

“Whatever are you insinuating?”

 “Well, have you ever watched that guy on TV that used to paint? He’d draw trees in cut-out circles that he’d pull off at the end of the show and—”

“Bob Ross? Oh, Christ, I loved him!” Wackety shouted.

“Well, if you’ve seen his shows, you should be familiar with what he called happy accidents. Was the rain one of those?” I pestered. “Did it just happen to rain and did you unfairly take credit for causing the shower?”

When he stopped to flash me a sorrowful look, I could swear there was a tear in his big yellow eye.

“Dougie. I am hurt. It’s against our rules to lie. And if you think I’m lying about that, just ask me what I think of you.”

“I think I’ll pass,” I quipped as he went back to sterilizing his erogenous zones.

I sipped some coffee, needing caffeine to get my brain firing.

“Okay then, I have another question for you.” Noting that he was giving me that look again, I added, “On an entirely different subject.” It seemed to do it. “If I do kill both of them, will that make me a serial killer?”

“Mmmmm, no,” he reasoned.

“But it’d be two? How many do you have to kill?”

“It’s not how many. It’s if they’re consecutive.”

“Well, they would be. I’d pop Taft first and then Doris. Boom … boom, no?”

Pausing, he halted and studied me with a look of utter superiority.

“No, it’s timewise. You’d have to do the Hendleys today. Then, in another week, it’s the guy that lives in the brick stucco. In another month, it’d be the woman across the street.”

“TODAY? DID YOU SAY TODAY?” I shrieked, honing in on a fairly important detail. “Christ, I thought it’d be next week or month! Shit, shit, shit!”

“In the first place, cats do not like loud noises, so do not yell. Second, you were the one that wanted quiet. And third, watch your language, you barbarian.”

“Then I’m really killing them today?” I squeaked.

“Yes.”

“But when? How?”

“I’ll tell you when it’s time,” he responded. Jumping down from the chair, he sauntered across the kitchen.

“But when’s that gonna be?”

“Look, dude. I’m exhausted. I got up, ate breakfast, and cleaned my entire body. I’ve reached my max, so you’ll just wait until I finish my nap. Ciao.”

* * * * *

You have no idea how time flies when you’re contemplating murder, and the fact that I wasn’t the violent type didn’t deter the thoughts from proliferating. Did you ever live through a really, really hot summer? And did someone ever come along and bust open a fire hydrant in the middle of the sweltering heat? Well, that was a little like what happened to me. Wackety had turned on the tap and GUSH! And I’m talking all over the place. I didn’t even notice that the little guy had slept five hours straight.

He stretched, blinking lazily. I knew this because this time, it was me perched on the side of the bed staring at him.

“Anxious much?” he quipped as he shook out each of his four paws.

“Well, it’s not every day I get asked to participate in a double homicide. I’m still wondering how I’m going to get away with it.”

He rose up, putting his paws on my shoulders and locking eyes.

“Look, we cats do it all the time and I’ve yet to have somebody say anything about any of the mass murders I’ve perpetrated. In fact, in eight out of ten situations we kitties confront on a daily basis, The Step of the Cat recommends murdering the other party as the definitive way to solve the dispute.”

“So if someone is giving you problems?”

“Oh, hell yes! Game on!” he extolled.

“I don’t know. I’m feeling kinda funny about this,” I whimpered.

“Funny? You mean ‘wussy,’ don’t you?” He sat back down on his haunches, treating me to an expression of abject disgust. “My best advice to get you over this hump is to think like a cat. If you do, you’ll be fine.”

“How do I do that?”

“Have no regrets and move like a ninja. I’ve seen those videos on YouTube and at least you humans got that right. Now, are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be, but how’s this gonna work? If I walk over there in this rain, I’ll leave tracks. I’ve watched CSI. They’re big on matching shoe sizes and ridge patterns.”

“That’s why you’re going to wear galoshes and take them off before you enter.”

“And fingerprints?”

“Gloves, Sherlock.”

“Oh, duh!” I said, hitting myself in the forehead. “I should’a had that one.”

I pulled on the boots, but Wackety spotted my rain slicker. He suggested I wear it to protect my clothing from blood splatter.

Blood splatter?

Fantasizing about the murders seemed way better than the reality, but I trailed behind the four-legged mastermind anyway. His tail was held up in the air. I took this as a good sign, but then, I was looking for omens. The rain hadn’t stopped, so the ground was good and puddly. Good call on wearing the boots. Wouldn’t want to be caught for something as stupid as muddy footprints, but then I didn’t want to be caught at all.

“Pssst,” Wackety hissed. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

We’d only made it into the garage, when the wily kitty spotted Taft’s expensive deconstruction equipment. The blades on a newly-purchased chainsaw had a lethal shine. They’d make one hell of a weapon.

“Done,” I said, feeling the weight in my hands.

“I’ll do some reconnaissance and determine where the victims are,” Wackety offered. I opened the door a crack and he slinked in just like he was made of rubber. Back in no time, he had good news. “They’re in the kitchen, fixing dinner. They’ve got their backs to the door and no one else is in the house.”

Me liked. I opened the door a little wider to accommodate my bulkier frame and saw the two freaks peeling potatoes. Even the back view of those heifers got my blood boiling. All those weekends shot to hell because of these dweebs. Man, were they going to get it.

The chainsaw started up on cue. I loved the panicked faces – Doris even screamed, but it didn’t matter. I was following the wise counsel and making like a kitty. Slashing every square inch of flesh, I enjoyed the slaughter. In fact, it was the best five minutes of my entire life. I wanted to thank my mentor, but when I turned around, my bud wasn’t around.

“Wackety?” I called out after cutting the motor.

“Hey,” he answered. Peeking around the corner, I found that he was in the garage. “Didn’t want to get myself all messed up, but I watched what I could and it was very feline.”

Very feline? That was the best damn compliment I’d ever had in my entire life.

“Thanks, Wackety. Now what?”

“Now you go home.”

“That’s it?” I queried.

“Not unless there’s someone you want to impress. Then you leave a body part on their front porch for them to find.”

I thought a moment.

“Nope! Don’t have anyone I care about at the moment, so it’s adios, Hendleys!”

* * * * *

Wackety and I had some dinner and good times reminiscing about my one and only crime. He added flavor by telling me about some of his more insidious deeds. Guy was a gangsta. No doubt.

I left the dishes in the washer and was flipping through some channels when a whole slew of cop cars showed up. I got kind of a sick feeling, but Wackety impressed upon me the need to just let these kinds of tensions go, so I did.

I settled on a movie we could both enjoy and opened a brewski. Kicking back with Wackety at my side, the opening credits had just finished running when my doorbell was a’ringing. I exchanged a hard stare with Wackety, but he hunched those little shoulders and mouthed, “Shake it off,” but it wasn’t that easy.

Some surly cops were demanding that I open the door. There was no use playing the “nobody home” game, since I’d left the blinds open and they could see me on the couch. I waved to show no hard feelings about the interruption. The next thing I knew, the bastards broke down my door and cuffed me, saying some bullshit about arresting me for the murders of Doris and Taft Hendley … yada ya ya ya.

I wasn’t interested in my Miranda rights, so I tuned out the recitation of it. There was only one thing on my mind and it was the tiny creature known as Wackety. Where was that little dude? He’d get me out of this—just as soon as I could find him, that is. In the meantime, I exchanged words with the big ape who’d cuffed me. 

“How the hell did you know?” I asked Luke Wescott, the arresting orangutan … I mean, officer.

“Let’s see. There were footprints leading directly to and from your house. Oh, and there was that slicker that’s hanging outside on the clothesline, dripping blood. Then there was the fact that you dropped one of your gloves in the Hendleys’ kitchen and that we found the matching one in your backyard. Is that enough or should I go on?”

I hated smart asses, so I curled my lip just the way I’d seen Wackety do. And speaking of Wackety, since it had stopped raining, he was sitting on the porch, waiting for me to round the corner.

“Wackety, buddy! What the hell?”

He used his hind leg to scratch behind his ear.

“In retrospect,” he began, “I should have told you turn on the faucets and flood the kitchen. And drag the rake on the ground to obliterate your tracks. And get rid of the slicker … or at least not hang it outside for the police to see.”

“But how could you forget all that, buddy?!!!”

“I was hungry, dude. And it’s not good to hold grudges.”

“But they’re charging me with murder one and it’s all your fault! What do I do about the death penalty?” I pleaded.

“Death penalty? Oh, I got a sure-fire antidote for that,” Wackety answered.

“You do?” I shouted as Luke and his partner tried to push me in the back of the squad car. I put up a struggle, since I had to hear what he had to say. “Tell me … quick!”

“Sure,” he responded. “Just use up one of your nine lives.”

I froze … just staring at him. What the hell? I mean, what the hell? Luke and company stopped trying to manhandle me. I guess my going passive brought on some sort of truce, but it didn’t explain why Wackety gave me that answer. Didn’t he know people only had one life? If I used it up, I’d have none left. The smirk stretching across his symmetrical features signaled he did. Yes, the little buzzard had driven the stake through my heart. He burst out laughing at his joke. Flopping over, he slapped at his haunches with his paw.

“You son of a bitch!” I screamed as I lunged for that friggin’, no good varmint. He was going to look mighty good stuffed and mounted over my fireplace. My violent twisting kicked up a firestorm as Luke and what’s-his-face tried to subdue me. “You let me go! I gotta a puddy cat to kill!”

“You want to hurt that cat? The sweet one that isn’t doing anything but sitting on your porch? You are a sick bastard!” Luke growled.

“But he’s the one that got me into this! He thought this up! HE’S A MASS MURDERER!” I shrieked.

All through my tirade, Pyewacket continued to look adorable. Most especially when he flipped over and went belly up. Damn! What is it about kitties’ stomachs that is so irresistible?

“Oh, the kitty cat made you do it!” Luke said, rolling his eyes. “Public defender is gonna love that defense.”

I ignored the droll aside and honed in on that flea-bitten bag of bones.

“BUT WHAT ABOUT THE BOOK? IS THERE EVEN ONE, YOU LITTLE SON OF A BITCH?”

“There is no book … wink, wink,” he answered, still laughing hysterically. “Have a nice life, loser! Think of prison as one big kitty shelter. It’ll take the edge off it! But me? I’ll be livin’ large!”

 “WAIT!!!! YOU DID THIS TO GET MY HOUSE? YOU SET ME UP!” I shouted as I battled in earnest. Luke and company had their hands full.

“Yeah, well, I have my choice now. Yours … the Hendleys’? Yours … the Hendleys’? Which should I make my furever home?”

It was too much too take. I’d been conned out of my house, my life, and my food because that fridge was about to get raided—no doubt. And me? I was hurting from all Luke’s punches landing on my jaw.

“YOU LITTLE BASTARD!” I shrieked. “YOU TOLD ME WHAT TO DO!!! IT SHOULD BE YOU GOING TO JAIL!”

“Hey, Doofus!” he mocked. “If you’d been a cat, it would have worked, but there’s a difference between being a cat and being a puss—”

“See!” Luke commented to his partner. “Now this guy thinks he’s holding a conversation with that kitty.” Turning his attention to me, he had some wise counsel to impart. “Okay, pal! You just earned yourself a psych evaluation and this.”

When he tasered me in the leg, I went down like a gazelle with a lion attached to its neck. Luke and his partner threw me in their prisoner escort service vehicle. I was caged and there was no escape. The brittle sounds of Wackety’s laughter drove me insane, but at least I’d never hear the Hendleys again … and I did have Wackety to thank for that.

“Touché!” I screamed with joy as I joined in the kitty’s laughter and let the men in blue haul my ass away. But it’s what happens when a cat enters your life. You’re never, ever the same.

CONTEST CLOSED -- WINNER'S NAMES POSTED ON FB!

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GOOD LUCK!!!