THE RETURN OF FRANK JAMES

         The cat had it cornered under the breakfront. On her haunches, her tail swishing, she faked poking her paw into the opening, then pulled it back again into her body. Knowing my ferocious feline, this siege would go on for a long time. I went to add wood to the fire inside the cast iron stove. On my return upstairs, I felt a cup of tea was in order and made a move toward the kitchen.

         Bad move, David. With the chance for a more immediate meal, Wonder Kitty left her post and took up a new one, in front of the refrigerator. "It's yogurt time, Wise Master." She only talks like this when she wants something from me. Her normal mode of speech is more on the line of "Tote that litter, fill that bowl." I must admit I lost a little of my patience.

         "Hey Stupido, your prey is going to escape. Why do you take so long? Why don't you simply stick your paw under there and drag it out?"

         "Who's doing this hunting, Pops, me or you?"

         "It takes you so long, and then I end up killing them anyway. I'll double your yogurt ration if you catch it now. Get hunting!" I often feel that sometimes a little bribe will help, but my cat will not be corrupted. She sang out,

"Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men."

         A mouse is on the loose in my house, and my cat is spouting William Allingham. I was about to say something when I caught sight of the hunted making a dash toward my office. If this was a mouse, it certainly looked peculiar. It ran upright on two legs and was wearing

“Green jacket, red cap,
and white owl's feather."

         I grabbed the broom and went to head it off at the pass. My helper noticed that I had refilled her bowl with Friskies that morning and paused for a snack.

         There was not a living thing on the floor of my office, but perched on the keyboard of the laptop was a familiar, if unwelcome, sight. It was Pippi Longstocking, my three-inch tall muse. "What are you doing here? You said you were leaving for good last summer when I guessed your name. And where did you get that outfit?"

         "David! It was ten below zero last night. I had to get out of the cold. You wouldn't have wanted your muse to freeze to death."

         "I'm not sure I would be adverse to that, and what about those clothes, Ms. Longstocking? What are they supposed to be?"

         "I no longer use that name."

         "Let's not start playing guessing games again. Who are you now?"

         "Call me Ishmael or Frank James; call me what you will, but don't call me late for dinner." She broke into a soft-shoe, doffing the ridiculous cap as she bowed at the finish. "As for the raiment, the minute I crawled out of the firewood you'd piled downstairs, your wonderful cat recognized me. We decided to play this joke on you. Do you like my attire?"

         "Good old Cretin Cat! Nothing much has changed with you, has it Muse? You steal from others while insulting your host."

         She leaped up to the top of the printer. "Your daughter loved 'The Fairies;' that's why kitty and I thought it would be the perfect costume. We knew you would like the literary reference. You and Morgan read that poem to Lixie many times."

         "It bored Lixie; it was too old fashioned, but it was one of Morgan's favorites. I'd forgotten all about it until Tuna Breath opened her mouth."

         She shook her head. "Be nice to your cat, and do tell me how you are doing. Do you continue to masquerade as a writer? And how about that poor woman Pamela, is she still fooled by you?"

         “Oh, you are so sweet, Muse. I do not 'fool' her, and like me, she ‘masquerades’ as a writer. We are closer than ever.”

         She scratched her head. “A writer, huh? Closer, huh? Who’s her muse? How much closer, David?”

         I’d heard this third degree routine before. Soon she would start jumping on my keyboard if I tried to evade her questions. My friendship with Pam is a very private part of my life, but I knew I wouldn’t get my personal midget off my back without giving her a few details.

         “I’m in love with Pam and she reciprocates my affections. We help each other write. Surely you have noticed she has become the leading actress in my stories. As for her muse, I can’t give you her name, but I can assure you she was a real person, and taller than three inches.”

         “I’ve grown a quarter inch!” She grinned. “Reciprocates!’ Such a legal word. Are you borrowing from her work yet? Don’t answer that, David. It’s impossible for you to write an original word. To put up with you, that woman has to be a saint.”

         I always thought a muse was supposed to inspire the writer. “Muse, your name must be Eleanor of Aquitaine, because like Henry the Second, I am always jousting with you. I thought you were sent by the Writing Gods to help me.”

         “I am not Eleanor, she is a bigger pain than I am, and I am helping you, poor fool. I am teaching you to ‘know thyself.’ Is there some other way I could help you?”

         Did she see the bulb light above my head? I noticed a twinkle in her eye as I began to sketch my problem.

         “Pamela and I each entered a writing contest sponsored by a radio station. Yesterday both of us received this same letter, signed by Bridget O’Hanlon, Contest Manager.
         ‘Thank you for your entry in our competition. We are sorry to inform you that your story was not selected. Furthermore, do not darken our mailbox again with such tripe. And I mean it, I know where you live.’

I think she is trying to tell us something, don’t you?”

         “She’s only saying the same thing that I have been trying to say to you, but I bet you want me to do something about this meanie, don’t you David?”

         “I do think it is right up your alley, and I can’t think of a more miserable curse to inflict on her, but you mustn’t tell Pam.”

         By now my muse was smiling. “Perhaps I could help judge the contest. Bridget? Nice name!

‘They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back
Between the night and morrow;
They thought she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.’

How’s that sound? We little people can do things like that, you know?”

         I smiled and nodded my assent. Sending her off to bedevil the unfortunate Bridget would get her out of my life. Anything for that! She put her cap on and began her descent into my floppy drive, but she stopped halfway.

         “David, I must warn you that if your motives aren’t pure:

‘By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite?
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.’

Goodbye David. Be good to your cat, and to Pamela. Don’t steal her ideas; your own mistakes are out there, just waiting to be made.”

         Her red cap disappeared into the computer. I thought of calling Bridget O’Hanlon and cackling into the phone. Then I remembered that last rhyme. Better to call Pam and see if I could sleep at her place.

Valatie February 8, 2003

**********

The lyrics are from "The Fairies", by William Allingham. This is the third appearance of my muse. She came on the scene in ""WHEN THE HURLYBURLY'S DONE""  I thought I vanquished her in "WRITER'S BLOCK"  but now I see that I shall need a wooden stake to drive through her heart. Meanwhile I am gobbling up garlic.