Oliver the Great Writer

"It was a dark and stormy night." Bob's voice read over my shoulder.
"Hey, stop reading over my shoulder!" I screeched as I quickly slammed Miss R.'s netbook shut.  "If I wanted you to know what I was writing, I would've shown it to you!"  I continued.
Ignoring my complaints, Bob began to critique my work.  "You do know that's the most cliché beginning ever, right?"
"Of course, I do.....duh." I retorted.
"Oliver, do you even know what cliché means?" Bob asked. His voice was kind, but I was miffed.  Miffed, that's a new word I learned from Bob's Word of the Day app on his smart phone.  It means annoyed. "To be cliché," Bob continued without waiting for a response, "is to be the opposite of original. In other words, it's not a good thing.  You don't want to be cliché in your writing."
"Oh," I responded.  I worried if I said anything else it would come out cliché. 
"Oliver, tell me about your story." 
"Well, Young Authors Day is coming up at Miss R.'s school and I was thinking if I wrote a story and it was good enough then maybe I could join the celebration."
"I see."  Bob said.  "Well, now I know why you're writing, but I still don't know what you're writing."
"Well," I hesitated.  "I don't really know what I'm writing either.  I thought I would just start with a stormy beginning and see where my story takes me."
Bob paused for a moment and I could see he was trying to think of how to break down his advice for me so that I would understand it.  After an awkward and uncomfortable pause, he cleared his throat and began."Oliver, I don't think it's a very good idea to ramble your way through a story.  The best writers compose their stories with an end in mind.  They know where their story is going and they make sure that each sentence moves them closer to that goal."
"Oh," I said again. I had run out of original responses.  It seems this writing thing is tougher than I originally thought.  
"I think I can help," Bob said and he disappeared into his apartment.  When he returned he was carrying a piece of paper in his mouth.  He hopped onto my deck and dropped the paper at my feet.  "This is a story map," he explained.  "See, there are blank spaces for you to brainstorm your ideas about who the main characters in your story will be, and what sort of problems they'll face, and how they will solve those problems, and what they'll learn as a result of it all.  See, there are more places for you to jot down ideas for the main events and such."  I must have looked confused because Bob tried again.  "It's like a skeleton.  This story map will give shape to your story.  Once you know what all the important parts are then you can begin fleshing out the details."
"A skeleton," I said.  "I like the sound of that. It's spooky and exciting.  I'll do it." I said.  
Bob grinned and said, "You'll do great, Ollie.  I'll leave you to create your magnum opus." I didn't ask him what a magnum opus was.  I didn't want to give him the satisfaction.  "It means your great work." Bob offered anyway. 
"I know that," I lied.  
All right, boys and girls.  I really do find story maps rather intimidating.  Are you using story maps for your Young Authors Day stories?  What are some things you've written in your story maps?  Do you find that using story maps have helped you write your stories?

Bald and Beautiful

"All right, Oliver.  I pinkie swear promise not to laugh," said Bob but under his breath he added as if cats even have pinkies.  I ignored that.  "Tell me again why your tummy and, um, your rear are shaved smoother than a baby's bald head?"

"Well, there are quite a few reasons one would have to shave one's belly, " I retorted somewhat miffed.

"Really?  Name one."

Drat! He called my bluff.  "Well, to begin with, it's a fashion statement, very trendy. I predict cats everywhere will soon be shaving their bellies and their bottoms." I returned.

"Indeed," murmured Bob.  Sometimes he can be so smug!

"Also..." I paused, "...the vet needed to shave my belly so the radiologist could perform an ultrasound to determine what was wrong with me.  I was very sick." I tried my best to look pathetic.  It must've worked because Bob's expression grew softer.

"I am glad to see you back to your old self, friend.  You know, I was pretty worried about you."

"Thanks, Pal.  I am better.  The people at the Sunset Pet Hospital were really nice and they helped me to feel a lot better."

"I told you there was nothing to worry about.  Vets help animals." Bob smiled again and added, "So, what was wrong?  Did you ever find out?"

"Ummm.....yeah....it was....." I hesitated.  It was kind of embarrassing.  That's what it was.  "I was...ummm....that is to say.....Iwasconstipated." The last part came out in a rush, like it was one long word.

"Constipated?  Did I hear that right?"  Bob tried to hide a smirk but I could see it playing about his whiskers.

"You promised you wouldn't laugh," I reminded him.  "You promised."

"I'm not laughing.  I'm ummmm......coughing....that's right....I'm coughing."

Coughing?  I don't think so!  I guess I can't blame him for laughing, though.  I do look pretty silly all bald in places.  I have no one to blame but myself.  Maybe it really is time to start....uggghhh....I can barely say it.....dieting.  It wouldn't hurt to start eating a healthier diet, lose a few.  I don't know where to start.  Boys and girls, I need some healthy yet delicious recipes to help me get through this ordeal.  What's your favorite healthy recipe?  I need your tips.  I can't handle any more constipation jokes at my expense!

On Poetry

A little bird told me that Miss R.'s students are going to be hosting an International Poetry Potluck on December 15. In preparation, they will be learning to write all sorts of different kinds of poems AND they will memorize a famous poem to recite in front of their parents at their classroom potluck. Talk about your lucky loons (Bob tells me that is an example of alliteration, whatever THAT means.) My neighbor Bob considers himself a jack-of-all-trades.  I don't really know what that means either since his name is Bob, but I do know he is pretty good at poetry.  In fact, at night when our humans are sound asleep in their beds, the cats in our building like to hang out on our decks and converse.  Sometimes, though, we just listen as Bob recites poems.  Some of the poems he recites are from famous writers but others he has written himself.  Last night he taught me this poem.  This one was written by Bob's favorite writer, Anonymous. It's about a cat who owned a human named St. Jerome.  I don't know why the human was called a saint.  Seems to me, we cats are the saints putting up with all their crazy human antics.  Whatever.  Here's the poem. 

St. Jerome's Cat
St. Jerome in his study kept a great big cat,

it's always in his pictures, with its feet upon the mat.

Did he give it milk to drink, in a little dish?

When it came to Friday's, did he give it fish?

If I lost my little cat, I'd be sad without it;

I should ask St. Jerome what to do about it.

I should ask St. Jerome, just because of that,

for he's the only saint I know who kept a kitty cat.

Anonymous

Tell me boys and girls, do you have any favorite poets?  Have you decided which poem you will recite?  Better yet, have you written any poems?  I'd love to read them if you have.

Freedom

"And so you see, Oliver," Bob said in his professor's voice, the one he uses when he's lecturing me about something he believes I need to know. "What you and I and the rest of the animals living in the United States perceive as big and scary noises, booming sounds if you will, are really just joyous outbursts, expressions of gratitude that humans living in America feel for the freedoms... the liberties... they experience as citizens of this great nation. Does that answer your question?"

"Huh? What was that?" I grunted. I'd completely forgotten that I'd even asked Bob a question. Bob and I had both been drawn out onto our respective decks by the delicious smells of bacon, and ham and other fine edibles wafting up to our balconies from the barbecue pits in the nearby park. Now, normally I like nothing better than the smell of bacon frying on a griddle, but food smells coming from the park this early in the morning, and on a summer morning at that, can only mean one thing. Those terrifying booms and flashes of light are coming again tonight as soon as the sun goes down. Oh, how I fear those loud noises and those bright, fiery lights. Yet, humans, Miss. R. included, seem to enjoy these monstrous night lights. She actually walks out onto the dock near our apartment so she can get a closer look at them. A closer look! Can you imagine? That's what I had asked Bob. What was with those loud, scary light shows that happen every year around this time and why do humnas try to lure me to outside with the tantalizing smell of hotdogs and hamburgers? That's when Bob had launched into a totally, as far as I can tell, unrelated history lesson about the War for Independence and the Constitution and other such things. I tried to follow along at first, but I was sidetracked by the sight of potato chip bags being carried past my deck and into the park where they would be sadly out of my reach.

"Oliver, I asked you if my explanation answered your question," repeated Bob.

"Um, yeah, sure it did," I lied, more confused now than ever. "You know, Bob. One word you used really did catch my attention. Independence. That means freedom, right?"

"Indeed it does." Bob sounded pleased with himself, as though he were responsible for my learning something new.

"Well, if this holiday is all about freedom, why did Miss R. put up that insulting gate in our front door?"

"You mean the 'Baby Gate,?'" Bob snickered, clearly enjoying himself. "Well, that gate is meant to keep babies, ummm I mean, mischeivous felines, from escaping places. You see, Oliver, it gets hot this time of year, but Miss R. can never open her front door to let the cool air from the air-conditioned hallways into her apartment because you always shoot out of there like a fat, orange bullet. Now with the Baby Gate in place you are safely confined to your quarters. Brilliant! I must say, it seems your human is capable of some logical thoughts after all, my dear friend."

"Well, if you ask me, it's totally iconic....being trapped in an apartment by a Baby Gate on the same day the rest of the country celebrates freedom."

"I think you mean ironic, my friend, but then do you really want to be let outside. After all, I think I see someone about to light one of those fiery things now."

"Later, Bob," I said as I squished my puffy self through that too tiny pet door and ran for cover under the safety of Miss R.'s bed.

Happy St Patrick's Day

Bob and I were sitting out on our decks this morning hoping for a little sun. Kitty, Bob's Valentine's Day "gift" from his owner, was no where to be seen. She refuses to come outside if even a single cloud dots the sky. "I don't want to get my fur wet," she whines. That's just as well. I've been a little embarrassed about running into her ever since I gave her that Valentine's Day poem last month. I'm not sure she liked it as much as I thought she would.

"Bob," I began. "I was pawing through Miss Rotz's shopping bags the other day and saw she bought a green T-Shirt. I wondered if maybe it was for me because she doesn't usually wear THAT shade of green."

"First of all, you shouldn't be pawing through your human's things, Oliver. It gives us felines a bad name," Bob warned. He's always telling me what I should or shouldn't be doing. I needed to change the subject fast.

"How do you think I'd look in a green shirt?" I asked.

"I doubt it's for you," replied Bob. "I suspect your human intends to wear it tomorrow in honor of St. Patrick's Day."

"St. Patrick's Day. What's that?" I wanted to know.

"Well," began Bob, "In the 5 century ...."

Oh bother! Why did I even ask? I could tell Bob was getting ready for one of his really long lectures so I just tuned him out and watched a butterfly twitter about on my deck. I briefly entertained the idea of chasing the butterfly, but realized it would take way too much energy. I returned my thoughts to Bob who was muttering something about a voyage to Ireland. Hmmm. I thought maybe I should at least try to pay attention to what Bob was saying about St. Patrick, but decided to watch the jet skiers on the lake instead. It seemed kind of cold to be out on the lake today but.....

"ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO A WORD I'M SAYING," shouted Bob. Yikes! He caught me.

"Yes, of course," I lied. "You were talking about....oooh, Miss Rotz is home. I better see if she brought anything good to eat. Later, Bob!"

"I'm on to you!" sreamed Bob from his deck as I tried to squeeze my way through the cat door on my deck. So much for a quick getaway. "Next time we meet I'll be expecting you to tell me five things you remember from my well-researched lecture on St. Patrick. Five things. You hear me, Oliver?!?!"

"Five things," I gasped as I at last heaved myself through the cat flap. Honestly, I do believe that thing is shrinking in size!

But, oh man, I'm in trouble now. I wasn't paying any attention to Bob at all. That's why I'm posting this today, kids. I need you to do some research and find out some facts about St. Patrick so I have something to share with Bob. Do any of you out there know anything at all about the St. Patrick or the holiday or anything? Help me! I need some answers quick or Bob is going to be lecturing me all over again about the importance of staying focused and paying attention and.....ooh look...another pretty butterfly.....

It's SNOWING!!!!!

When those first few flakes first floated past the windows, I couldn't contain my excitement. I galloped (I use that verb because Miss R. says I sound like a horse when I try to run) to the pet door in my bedroom and squished through the pet door out onto my deck. "Hey Bob!" I screamed to my neighbor. "Bob, get out here! It's snowing! It's SNOWING!!!!"

"Indeed it is," Bob commented in that calm voice of his that never sounds excited.

"Aren't you excited?" I screamed.

"Indeed I am," Bob commented again. Hmmm. If you ask me, he didn't sound very excited. "I've been watching the snow fall and trying to remember a favorite winter poem of mine." That's Bob. He never gets excited. He just quotes poetry.

Pudgie Little Snowman

A pudgie little snowman
had a carrot nose
Along came a bunny
and what do you suppose.
That hungry little bunny
looking for some lunch
Ate the little snowman's nose
Nibble, Nibble, CRUNCH!

"Who wrote that?" I asked. Bob is such a well read cat. He knows so many interesting facts.

"One of my favorite writers," Bob replied. "Anonymous." Oooh, him. He must be a good writer. Bob quotes him often! I settled down on the table on the deck and asked Bob to teach me the poem. Watching the snow fall and listening to Bob recite his poem again, I couldn't help but think how much I love this time of year and how much I love the snow!

Thanksgiving

Can I just say it? Thanksgiving is the BEST holiday EVER! My neighbor Bob, that's him in the photograph posted on Halloween, and I spent the afternoon sunning ourselves out on our decks while our humans busied themselves in the kitchens. While Bob and I waited for our respective feasts to begin, we discussed our favorite dishes. Bob is partial to the potatoes and stuffing, and while I don't mind those tasty tidbits even one bit, I LOVE the turkey. Turkey, turkey, turkey. Imagine! A holiday that celebrates eating. Bob kept reminding me that there's more to this holiday than just food. He insisted it's really about stopping and reflecting on everything for which we're thankful. Hmmm. I'm thankful for.......turkey, turkey, turkey turkey.....