I Want Buxton's Cat

I stared at the screen in horror. The Writer's Cramp was turning six and, as I'm prone to do [ask my husband, son, and my mother-in-law (advised only if you have titanium ears) for proof), I forgot. I wanted to write an ode so sweet and honest that my computer would melt. Instead I chicken-pecked, smoked a cancer-stick, popped my knuckles (twice), and picked at some goo stuck up under the desk.

Finally, I had an idea. I would steal an idea! Okay, not really; but, I would fish. So I read through the other entries -- a talent pool both deep and refreshing. What I came up with was less than useful. Not for lack of fine examples, but rather too many.

I want Buxton's cat! All I have is a stupid dog. In the fifteen years I've sheltered and fed the beast, not once has he "mewed" advice. Nor has he hacked up anything noteworthy. Stupid dog. Votre Dame cornered the medical angle all too well. Were I to try and improve I'd just look like a quack. I liked the idea of just giving Gps or an Awardicon, but, like IdaLin, I live on Broke Bank Mountain. (Julianne and I apparently shop the same Wally-World -- so, sorry, no green balloons!) Rebecca's faultering holiday spirit cost me an hour. I tracked down my "Thank You" cards, then built a fine roaring fire upon their burning husks. The fact I didn't return the items in front of the giver is thanks enough, right?) While doing so, I started to hum a little ditty. Something about a birthday and Buxton's cat. But, alas, Pig Lit had stolen my song.

Robbed of another forty five minutes (fantasizing of Jessica's thief), I came across KHM's entry: "I'll write my best for you" (Well, that pretty much takes the wind from any sail, doncha think?! What finer gift could be offered?) Still, I soldiered on. Metal Tiger had me roaring with laughter. Bianca's tribute followed after. (See how that rhymed, in honor of Ms Poetry herself) Jacaranda, though, did it better, touching on many forms, down to the letter. (Still rhyming) I finally gave up. I would have used the excuse, "My muse ate your present", but Brit Girl deserves credit for that wonderful line . . .

So, here I sit, staring in horror at the screen. Being unable to compete with such a fine group isn't what bothers me. It's the thought that came after fishing through their works: Writer's Cramp isn't A person . . . it's many. Even if I were to spin a fury of words into splendid verse who do I send it to? SophY, Shaara, Demon Squirrel, (This is sounding like an Academy Award speech isn't it?) Diane, Robert, Tigger, Buxton's Cat, Jay, Brit Girl, Just Moo . . . Just to name a few. The Cramp is both judges and writers. I can't possibly send a birthday present to all those who have contributed in the past six years. So, I sit here, staring at the screen in horror, wondering "What would Minna do?"




(Minna is, of course, Buxton's Cat.)



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