Puddin' writes about books for Cat Lovers

It’s Mum’s job to write about books, but I demanded to be the one to write about the best cat books.  I’m sure you’re aware we kitties read by lying on reading material, preferably newspapers, but a book will do.

My Aunt Lisa gave us my all-time favorite cat book, “The Dalai Lama’s Cat.” It’s my favorite because the cat tells the story, and her beginnings are similar to mine. His Holiness’s Cat, HHC for short, was found with his siblings near a trash heap in New Dehli. As the runt of the litter, she seemed destined to return to the trash until the Dalai Lama rescued her in the nick of time.

Like a food wrapper or beer bottle, I too was thrown from a car window into a bush in Midtown Atlanta.  An angel, who was forever rescuing abandoned kitties and finding them homes, plucked me from the bush. My soon to be Mum was searching for a calico kitty and, luckily for both of us, found me online. So, HHC and I I have our near-death experiences in common.

HHC learns, not at the Dalai Lama's feet, as she says, but in his lap; and she shares her adventures and imparts her wisdom in her sweet book.  I must encourage Mum to get the next two books in the series: "The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Art of Purring" and "The Dalai Lamas' Cat and the Power of Meow."

“The Story of Fester Cat: How One Remarkable Cat Changed Two Men's Lives” is yet another book written by a cat. This “feisty feline,” as Fester’s new housemates describe him, wanders into a Manchester, England backyard and stays. Paul Magrs, one of Fester’s pet parents, is a writer, like my Mum. Strange coincidence, right?  It’s Paul who first encourages Fester to write, starting with reviews of cat books. I guess it was natural for Fester to go from book reviews to the story of his life.

Fester is a grown streetwise cat before he takes up residence with the men, but they take good care of him, and the story of his new life is another sweet read.  As I write about these two books, I realize that must have an affinity for books written by cats, not necessarily books about cats.

 Mum requested I mention another of her favorites.  You may remember Cleveland Amory who for many years was a television critic for TV Guide. He was also an animal rights activist, and his first cat book was “The Cat Who Came for Christmas.” It was #1 on the NY Times bestseller list for twelve weeks in 1987.  Polar Bear, a little white stray, was the star of that book, though Polar Bear didn’t write it. Amory wrote two more books about Polar Bear: “The Cat and the Curmudgeon” and “The Best Cat Ever.”  All three were bestsellers.  Mum says that even though the white kitty didn’t write the story, it too is a heartwarming tale.

It must be something about cats that our stories are always sweet. Mum says that even though we can be demanding little things, we can steal your heart in a flash. Dad agrees and says there’s nothing better than reading in bed with me snuggled against his shoulder with my head beneath his chin. I wonder whether there’s a book in my future, a book written by me, that is.  We shall see.

Princess Puddin’ Penn resides in Georgia with her dad, her mom Kathy Manos Penn, and her canine brother Lord Banjo. Please send comments, compliments, and questions to inkpenn119@gmail.com. 

Lord Banjo's roller coaster summer

Harper and Banjo

No, don’t be silly.  I didn’t ride a roller coaster,  but my summer was jampacked with interesting activities—some fun and some not so much. We kicked off in late June with weekly appearances at Camp Flashback, hosted at a Dunwoody farmhouse. There the kids do old-timey things like making butter, sewing, and weaving. They also get to meet goats and—best of all—me.

Mum and I visited for an hour each week. She told them about me and my book, and the kids drew numbers to see who’d get to wear a costume and read a selection from my masterpiece.  Mum brought a royal robe, several crowns, and a pawprint scarf, and the kids loved dressing up.

 

It’s funny to me that they all wanted to read aloud, but those who weren’t reading never seemed to quiet down to listen.  Instead, they sat with me in their midst and chattered and hugged me. As far as I’m concerned, they can chatter to their hearts’ content as long as they give me belly rubs.

That enchanting routine was cut short when I needed minor surgery to remove a lump on my back leg.  It was no big deal, not life-threatening, but boy, what a pain.  I wore the cone of shame for close to four weeks. Yes, you read right, four weeks—one week prior to surgery because I just couldn’t quit chewing on my leg, and then three weeks after that.

 

That cone was so big, I couldn’t walk through doorways without hitting the doorframe. I was constantly bumping into furniture and people, and I was miserable.  Miserable, you hear?!? It was during this horrific experience that I exhibited a new behavior that Mum and Dad found quite disturbing.  I began wandering downstairs to the kitchen in the middle of the night.  I’d bark until Mum finally came to get me and take me back upstairs.  Then I’d do it again, sometimes four times in a night.

Mum thinks I have doggie dementia, but I prefer the term sundowner’s syndrome.  I’m on new pills in the hopes that I’ll get over it. Dad?  When he takes his hearing aids out at night, he can’t hear a thing, so it doesn’t bother him, except that Mum is a bit cranky.

Mum is now locking me in the bedroom at night, and that helps some.  I don’t bark quite so much, and when I do, she just hollers, “Shush, Banjo,” instead of having to go downstairs to get me.

Because of my nighttime barking, my pet parents didn’t take me on our annual trip to the North Carolina mountains over Labor Day.  That was a big disappointment, but I had a pleasant surprise at the Pet Resort.  

Normally, I keep to myself at these places while the commoners mill around and play with each other, but not this time. Harper, a Goldendoodle puppy, wanted to be my friend. I think the little fella was scared so he started snuggling with me.  Yup, he’d climb on my hindquarters and lay his cute little head on my back.  Sometimes, he’d lie in front of me against my tummy so I could put a protective arm over him. We made an adorable duo.

My Aunt says this means I need a puppy of my own. The Royal Parents?  They are hemming and hawing at the thought so I guess I’ll have to make do with Puddin’ as my only four-legged companion. I’m looking at the bright side, though. I now get to sleep in the bedroom with Mum and the cone of shame has been retired.  Things could be much worse.

Lord Banjo lives in Georgia with his Mum, Kathy Manos Penn. Find similar stories in his book, “Lord Banjo the Royal Pooch,” available  on Amazon. Contact him at inkpenn119@gmail.com

Cats know their names

CREDENZA KITTY

This comes as no surprise to me so why is this pronouncement all over the news? Are humans truly unaware of this simple fact? Of course, we cats know our names, but as the many articles note, we don’t always respond when called.  Duh!  Why should we come running just because you say our names? Tell me, do two-legged children always come when called?

It cracks me up that someone took time to research this topic and publish the findings in the journal “Nature.”  Was it necessary to study 78 cats to discover that we respond to people calling our names—when we want to, that is?  The researchers studied cats in homes with only one cat, multi-cat homes, and cat cafes, and they found we’re able to distinguish our names from those of other cats or dogs and from similar-sounding words.

As do I, the cats in this study responded to their names by  “moving their heads, wiggling their ears and meowing.” I, of course, do more than that.  On occasion, I come when called or I leap into a lap or onto the bed to snuggle with Mum or Dad,  but again, only if I feel so inclined.

For example, when my pet parents return home after a trip, I understand them when they call my name over and over, but I’m certainly not going to run to them.  My taking my time to appear delivers the unspoken message that I’m miffed.

My Dad often adds a “G” to the end of my name and places the accent on the second syllable—Pu-DING. No matter, I recognize my name. Other times, my pet parents use different intonations when they speak to me. When I’m eying the rotisserie chicken on the kitchen counter, I can tell by the way Mum says Puddin’ that she means, “Don’t you dare.” The result, of course, is that I wait until she walks out of the kitchen before I leap. I’m no dummy.

Rumor has it that there’s a move afoot to teach cats new words.  Seriously?  I think I can safely speak for all cats when I say we do not care to be trained. We’ll learn whatever words we choose.  As a writer, I know plenty of words, and I’m self-taught.

If you have a cat, you already know that we’re also alert to human moods—no words needed.  That’s why I spent lots of time in bed with Mum when she had surgery this year.  She needed me to help her feel better. Please note, all of these cat behaviors are voluntary.

I also have the amazing ability to note when Mum moves toward the stairs.  I watch from Dad’s lap to see whether she walks past the stairs or up them. If she passes by the stairs, I stay put. If she starts up the stairs, I leap down and dash ahead of her into her office—where kitty treats are dispensed. Again, no words required.

Sometimes, I wait at the foot of the stairs to see whether she turns toward her office or her bedroom.  I don’t follow her into the bedroom unless it’s bedtime when I watch her wash her face and get ready for bed. Then I choose a sleep spot for the evening. I may wander from chair to bed to desk during the night, but I stay close by. Enough said.  No research is required to establish that I know my name and my place.

Princess Puddin’ Penn resides in Georgia with her dad, her mom Kathy Manos Penn, and her canine brother Lord Banjo. Please send comments, compliments, and questions to inkpenn119@gmail.com. She appears in “Lord Banjo the Royal Pooch,” a book that can be found on Amazon, at Books Unlimited in Franklin, and at Highlands Mountain Paws.

What's wrong with my behavior?

            Contrary to the opinions of my pet parents, I see nothing wrong with my behavior. Take this statement from one of my Great Pyrenees Facebook friends: “I roam, I bark, and I don’t always listen, but I’ll guard you and love you forever and always.”

Now I ask, “What more could you want in a four-legged child?” According to the Royal Parents—lots.  First, the powers of my bark collar seem to have diminished, no matter how snugly I wear it, and I am now able to bark whenever and however long I like.

What triggers a bark? It can be something as obvious as walkers on the street in front of the Royal Abode or deer in the driveway. On occasion, a leaf may fall from a tree, or as my Aunt Pam says about her dog, I may bark at an ant crawling on a blade of grass. As a vigilant guard dog, I must respond to all threats, even those unseen by humans. Unfortunately, Mum and Dad don’t appreciate this trait, especially before dawn.

Next, I have taken to “going walkabout” as Mum says.  For my readers who aren’t word nerds like Mum, “walkabout” is an Australian term for a journey taken by young Aboriginal males. Mum read it in one of her gazillion books and immediately saw it as a fitting term for my tendency to roam.  When I learned that young men take this journey between the ages of 10-16, I thought it seemed even more apropos.  I, after all, am twelve.

From the time I arrived at the Royal Abode at age two, I have had a tendency to wander. With our backyard electric fence, I’m able to go in and out our side door and contentedly roam the woods. My older adopted sister Tinker was well behaved enough to be allowed in the front yard with Mum and Dad even though there was no fence out there.  She’d sniff and smell and stay close. 

Not me! I’d go out the front door and stay close until my parents looked the other way.  In a flash, I’d set sail out of the yard and take off down the street. Mum says that despite my rather large size, I seemed to jog up the embankment and float over the bushes. Hence the term “set sail.” I enjoyed those adventures.  Dad?  Not so much. He’d chase after me, calling “Banjo, get back here right now; Banjo, come.” He said a few other things that can’t be printed in a family paper.

It only took a few of those episodes before I was banned from the front yard. My good behavior and failing eyesight, though, have recently earned me the privilege of visiting the front yard with Mum and Dad after dinner. I really don’t like going out the side door when it’s dark and prefer the well-lit front door. All was fine until I started expanding my boundaries and taking my sweet time responding to the come command.  My exploring the neighbor’s front yard was the last straw for Dad.

Now the debate at the Royal Abode is long and loud. “Do we drag him out the side door with a flashlight? Do we put a leash on him and walk him around the front yard? Whatever are we going to do with him?” My answer? Whatever makes me happy because “I roam, I bark, and I don’t always listen, but I’ll guard you and love you forever and always.” End of discussion.

Lord Banjo lives in Georgia with his Mum, Kathy Manos Penn. Find similar stories in his book, “Lord Banjo the Royal Pooch,” available  on Amazon. Contact him at inkpenn119@gmail.com

Health tips from Princess Puddin'

As I stand on Mum’s desk chair typing this column on her keyboard, it’s only fitting that she’s here in the office huffing and puffing through a workout with her exercise ball and weights. Once she’ finished with her ball wall squats, situps, bicep curls, and such, she’ll want her computer back so I need to hustle. It’s possible she’ll decide to add a walk to today’s workout, but you never know.

My health routine combines huffing and puffing with relaxation techniques and doesn’t involve props. Some might say I lean more to the stress relief side of the equation, but I also find time to exert myself daily.

I was prompted to write about this topic when I read a column in our local paper: “Bird-watching might mean better health, less stress.”  Humans are so funny.  They had to conduct a study to establish this fact, while we kitties have long known about the health benefits of bird-watching. 

I will grant you that my kitty friends who go outside sometimes do a bit more than watch, as in chase a bird here and there.  Me?  Confined to the indoors, I either watch the Outdoor Channel from the kitchen and living room windows or in warmer weather from the screened porch. It’s Dad’s responsibility to keep all bird feeders stocked so that I have entertainment in living color—bluebirds, cardinals, goldfinches, you name it.

The study conducted by the University of Exeter in Great Britain “[f]ound mental health benefits—less stress anxiety and depression—when people can see birds shrubs and trees around their homes.”  Well, duh!  “The researchers conclude: ‘Birds around the home, and nature, in general, show great promise in preventative health care . . .'"

I, being the intelligent kitty I am, try to begin every day watching the birds.  It’s my Ohm moment, followed occasionally by a calm purring spell in Mum’s lap as she drinks coffee. At some point thereafter, I stretch and then dash upstairs to do my sprint workout.  Mum and Dad wonder why I seem only to sprint upstairs, not downstairs.  Isn’t it obvious?  I have an uninterrupted running track from the far wall of the guest bedroom, down the hall, all the way through Dad’s office—from one end of the house to the other.

I sprint back and forth over and over, while my parents are downstairs laughing at the sound of  “dunt, da-dunt, da-dunt, da-dunt.”  With that routine complete, I choose between napping on Mum and Dad’s bed or getting several treats in the office—when Mum is available to place them in my cute kitty treat dish, that is.

My interval workout along with leaping atop tables, beds, and the backs of couches keeps me in super aerobic shape; and my relaxation routines like bird-watching, meditating on Mum’s yoga block, and of course, napping ensure I’m stress-free.  Mum has a lovely purple yoga block I’m partial too.  I fold my paws on it and close my eyes just like a yogi. 

Mum practiced yoga for years but gave it up when her long-time yoga teacher quit. She said it was her only calm time of the week because she focused solely on holding her poses without interference from a gazillion thoughts.  Personally, I think she could benefit from finding a new teacher. Barring that, she could assume the lotus position and join me as I meditate. Repeat after me … Ohm.

Princess Puddin’ Penn resides in Georgia with her dad, her mom Kathy Manos Penn, and her canine brother Lord Banjo. Please send comments, compliments, and questions to inkpenn119@gmail.com. She appears in “Lord Banjo the Royal Pooch,” a book that can be found on Amazon.

On becoming a star: Part 2

First I got a spiffy velvet robe,  and then Mum threw me a party. You can't believe how many oohs and aahs and belly rubs I got. Well, actually, if you know anything about me at all, you probably can believe the attention I got. After all, the Royal Pooch is hugely popular and handsome and sweet.

 Even though Mum is well known locally because of her columns, she joked that folks would be more interested in seeing me than they would be in seeing her, and you know what?  She was right.  We caught one person on camera saying, “We didn’t come to see the Royal Mum, we came to see Lord Banjo!” Proof positive, I’d say, that I’ve won the popularity contest.

You would have no doubts about my popularity if you could have seen my fans throwing their arms around my neck or neck or kneeling at my paws as they gazed adoringly at me. My loyal subjects came to the Royal Bash bearing gifts!  That’s right; I received a plush purple rug, several squeaky toys, and even brownies.  I hardly got a peek at the brownies before Dad snatched them up. Maybe best of all was the cute little boy who brought his toys to share with me. We two had a grand time playing on the floor together.

If my Great Pyrenees ancestors could see me dressed in my royal robe and crown, I'm convinced they'd be proud of me.  Louis XIV may have declared those gentle giants the Royal Dogs of the French court, but I bet they didn’t have a Royal Bash or a Royal Seamstress. To complement my royal robe and crown, the Royal Mum wore a tiara, and Dad donned a purple robe. The entire family looked spiffy that day—except, of course, Princess Puddin’.  

We didn’t invite my calico sister to the party, and I’m sure she’d have thrown a little fit had we tried to dress her up. Do you think the term hissy fit comes from kitty behavior?  Puddin’ is a sweet girl, but she throws a spectacular fit when Mum brushes her. On those occasions, the entire neighborhood knows the Princess is not happy!  I can only imagine how the fur would fly if Mum attempted to dress her in a tiny velvet cape. Me? I love my new duds and wish Mum would let me wear them more often.  She insists they’re only for special occasions. The rest of the time I must make do with the sporty bandanas the Royal Groomer gives me. 

After the hoopla of the Royal Bash, the Royal Abode seemed unnaturally quiet. I got my usual belly rubs from Dad and a few rubs from Mum as I dozed beneath her desk, but having only two people to make over me was no longer enough. “Hey Mum,” I barked, “You need to fill my schedule with weekly appearances to ensure I continuously get the respect and belly rubs I’m due.” Suffice it to say, those words resulted in a snippy response from Mum, and she proceeded to educate me on the difference between polite requests and rude demands. 

Eventually, Mum calmed down and proceeded to fill my schedule, and I have been enjoying the nonstop adoration ever since. This week I have my third appearance at a local summer camp where twenty-five young campers will hug me and love me and read aloud from my book. Yes, life is good.

Lord Banjo lives in Georgia with his Mum, Kathy Manos Penn. Find similar stories in his book, “Lord Banjo the Royal Pooch,” available on Amazon. Contact him at inkpenn119@gmail.com.

Lord Banjo on Becoming a Star: Part One

Once upon a time, before I gave any thought to writing a book, I spent my days by Mum’s side . . . well, mostly at her feet. Whether she was on a conference call for her corporate job or quietly working on her newspaper columns—yes, Mum’s a writer too—I could be found snoozing beneath her desk.

I might take a walk with Dad, but when we got home, I’d wander upstairs, get a treat from Mum, and settle beneath the desk to snooze—until, that is, Dad mentioned lunch. I managed to join him in the kitchen for a bite of ham while he fixed his sandwich, and then it was back to Mum.

Writing a book meant I spent more time awake at her feet, dictating my story while she typed. By then, Mum had retired from her full-time job and could devote her every waking hour to typing my book and writing her columns. After we put in a good chunk of work time, I’d accompany Mum downstairs where she’d fix dinner while Dad and I watched the news.

It’s hard to say how we established our daily routine, but I’ve always stuck to Dad in the evenings. I lie beside his recliner with his hand all but glued to my belly. If his hand leaves my side, I give him a tap with the royal paw, the signal for him to put his hand back where it belongs.

I may now be known as the Royal Pooch, but our weekday routine has remained pretty much the same. Sure, the royal revelations in my DNA results made me swell with pride and put a bounce in my step; and, sure, I made a few teensy-weensy demands as befits a descendant of French Royalty.

I must point out that the only demand my Royal Parents met was that they now occasionally refer to me as Lord Banjo. They have yet to give me table scraps, and they’ve never invited me to sleep in their bed. My life remained pretty much the same, until, that is I finished my book “Lord Banjo the Royal Pooch.”

I thought it was great fun to bark my story as Mum typed and had no idea that writing about my privileged life was only the beginning. They—whoever they are—say we dogs live in the moment, and I guess that’s what I did because I never gave much thought to what would happen after my book came out.

First came the new wardrobe. In preparation for my debut as an author, Mum enlisted Miss Beth as the Royal Seamstress to make a robe and crown. Those two laughed and laughed over Mum’s sewing skills or lack thereof. It was Miss Beth who put in Mum’s zippers way back when they were in high school Home Ec class. Mum learned to cook but never took to sewing.

No worries; we spent the day with the Royal Seamstress as she designed and produced a magnificent robe—purple velvet lined with lavender satin, topped off with a white fur collar and gold clasp. How was I to know the robe was only the beginning? To read the rest of the story, be on the lookout for my next blog post.

Lord Banjo lives in Georgia with his Mum, Kathy Manos Penn. Find similar stories in his book, “Lord Banjo the Royal Pooch,” available on Amazon. Contact him at inkpenn119@gmail.com.

Lord Banjo's parenting tips for pet parents

I consider Mum and Dad to be pretty good in the parenting department.  They love me; they feed me; they walk me; they give me belly rubs, and they take me on trips.  I have a dog bed in every room--though they’re often occupied by Princess Puddin’.

Thanks to Mum, I’m also a well-dressed boy. I make quite the fashion statement in my lovely purple velvet robe trimmed in white fur with a purple collar to match.  I guess I could be a tad more fashionable if I also had a coordinating leash, but I think the red ones Mum likes are spiffy.

In the healthcare department, much to my dismay, my parents are vigilant about me getting annual everything: shots, senior bloodwork, and dental cleanings.  I visit the groomer every six weeks unless I’ve gotten into the creek or something like deer “you know what”—then I go asap no matter how recently I may have visited. 

Though the Royal Parents don’t have any two-legged kids, Mum likes to read the weekly parenting column in the paper. As she smiled and shook her head at a recent one, I asked, What’s so funny,” Mum.

“Banjo, this one’s about mistakes that parents make, and I’m wondering whether we make any of them with you and Puddin.”

We both agreed that Mum and Dad were not guilty of the first mistake—paying too much attention to the kids.  Sure, they talk to us and pet us, but they don’t stop everything they’re doing to tend to us.  They don’t “idolize” us as the article mentioned; they just love us. Mum and Dad do things without us, like ride their bikes, go to plays, and, goodness knows, they take plenty of trips without us.

When they’re home reading, watching TV, cooking, working at their computers, and all the other things parents do with their time, they’ll tend to us if we need something.  Lots of the time, though, they’re quick to say, “Stop it, Banjo, you don’t need to be touched every minute.” I disagree with them on that point, but I take it in stride. 

I did LOL when Mum read that one mistake was “squatting at the level of a two-legged child “ to speak with one. The writer thought this made the parent seem servile. Mum occasionally gets down on the floor to snuggle with me but only because she won’t let me in her lap or on the bed. To talk to me, she stays in her chair or stands upright. I do not require either parent to bow at my feet, even if I am a Royal Pooch so I say they’re not guilty on that count.

The article didn’t mention that it was bad to play favorites, but I think that’s an important point.  I think I’m the favorite dog and Puddin’s the favorite cat, and I’m OK with that.  I do think Puddin’ has a slight edge in the snuggle department, though.  I don’t ever hear Mum or Dad say, “Get down Puddin’; I don’t want you in my lap.” Mum may fuss a tiny bit when Puddin’ gets in the bed and positions herself on Mum’s chest blocking the book Mum’s reading, but the fussing always comes with a smile.

Despite a slight downgrade in the favoritism area, I give Mum and Dad an A in parenting.  They can earn an A+ by allowing me to sleep in the bed with them.  There’s plenty of room for me to lie in the middle as long as Puddin’ stays snuggled on someone’s back or tummy. Wouldn’t you agree that’s a perfect plan?

Lord Banjo lives in Georgia with his Mum, Kathy Manos Penn. Find similar stories in his book, “Lord Banjo the Royal Pooch,” available on Amazon. Contact him at inkpenn119@gmail.com.

Do you know all the Cat Holidays?

Why am I just now finding out there are cat holidays?  You’d think my mum would have known there were special days dedicated to us felines, but if she did, she’s kept it a secret.

Spring and summer are filled with these special days so cat lovers will want to mark their calendars.  First up is National Hug Your Cat Day on either May 3 or May 30. According to the website catological.com, no one can agree on which day it is so if you missed May 3, you can celebrate May 30. TBH, I don’t much like to be hugged, so I’ve told Mum she can rub my ears and tickle my chin, but no hugging no matter which day she chooses. Banjo loves to be hugged, so maybe she can hug him instead.

In June, we get a whole month for shelter cats as it is officially Adopt a shelter-cat month.  I’m a lucky kitty who never had to go to a shelter.  A kind lady rescued me after a man tossed me from a pickup truck into a bush, and she kept me at her house until Mum saw my photo on Petfinder and came to meet me.

The closest I’ve come to living in a cage is when I’ve had my teeth cleaned at the vet, and that’s as close as I ever want to get.  The darned pet carrier for that trip is confining enough. If you don’t have a cat, I hope you’ll visit a shelter in June and find a cat to make your own.

National Cat Day or World Cat Day falls on August 8. This holiday began in 2002 as a way to raise awareness of the plight of homeless cats.  I don’t know what it is about cat people that they can’t agree on which days these holidays should occur.  Some European countries celebrate this holiday on Feb. 17, and others celebrate it on October 29. Go figure.  On the other hand, having three days spread throughout the year may be the way to go.

I’m not sure I want to celebrate National Take Your Cat to the Vet Day August 22.  I don’t like shots, and it was August last year when mum took me to have my teeth cleaned, a most unpleasant experience.  Perhaps if I keep quiet about this one, Mum will skip it.

I can get totally onboard with September being Happy Cat Month, and I have a great idea.  I’ll leave a note on Mum’s desk every night in September telling her what will make me happy the next day.  When she sits down in front of her computer, my note will be the first thing she sees … well, after she sees the pens and pencils I leave on the floor every night.

I know I want continuous dabs of wet food in my dish throughout the day, treats every time I jump on the desk, birdseed in the birdfeeder so I can watch the Outdoor channel from my little footstool by the window, Dad’s lap available whenever I want it, and fresh typing paper with crisp corners that I can chew on.  Oh heck, now that I think about it, Mum can do all of these things every day in September and all year long. I’m a deserving little thing, don’t you agree?

Princess Puddin’ Penn resides in Georgia with her dad, her mom Kathy Manos Penn, and her canine brother Lord Banjo. Please send comments, compliments, and questions to inkpenn119@gmail.com. She appears in “Lord Banjo the Royal Pooch,” a book that can be found on Amazon.

The Dogs' Space Program

Inspired by a Wumo Comic 

Tinker and a BIG ball

“Omigoodness, Banjo, this is hysterical,” exclaimed Mum.  “I’ve got to show your Dad.”

“Huh, what?” I murmured.  I’d been in the midst of my Sunday snooze on my dog bed beside Mum’s chair until her chuckling woke me up. “What is it?” I asked.

“This comic strip reminds me of Tinker when she was in her prime.”

 Hmm, since Tinker went to Doggie Heaven years ago, I was intrigued. “What’s it about, Mum?”

“It’s about dogs and balls, silly boy, stand up and come see.”

I lifted my head but couldn’t quite catch a glimpse of the newspaper in Mum’s lap.  Of course, with Puddin’ purring in her lap, it was especially difficult to see the paper.

“Sheesh,” said Mum, “You’ll have to stand up to see this, and you wonder why I call you a lazy lugger.”

There was that word again—lazy--mostly used when I was being compared to Tinker.  Because Tinker chased balls in all sizes and drug sticks around the yard and played with toys, my pet parents seemed to think she was special, much more special than I.

I showed Mum.  I got to my feet and stuck my nose in the paper, dislodging Puddin’ who leaped down with a sharp meow. My take? Only pet parents with ball obsessed dogs would find the comic funny.  Something about dogs having a space station with one purpose—to catch the moon, or as they called it, the big tennis ball in the sky.

“Mum, do you really think Tinker saw the moon as a humongous tennis ball?” I asked. “I mean, I always thought Tinker was pretty smart, despite her obsession.”

“It’s a joke, Banjo. Though Tinker did like beach balls, which were pretty darned big.”

“I like finding her racquet balls all over the house, under the couches and beds,” Puddin’ piped up. “They’re fun to roll around the house. I don’t really get why you don’t like balls, Banjo. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I huffed.  “Now, Mum, can you please go back to quietly drinking your coffee and reading the paper, while I carry on with my nap?” That got a laugh out of Mum.

“Why, yes, son, please resume snoozing.”

Tennis Ball

I thought of Tinker and smiled as I recalled her antics with balls.  As long as I wasn’t expected to play with her or her gazillion balls, I was happy watching her and dozing nearby. Suddenly, something tickled my nose. I opened my eyes, and there she was—Tinker—nudging me.  How could that be? “I thought you were in Doggie Heaven, frolicking in the creek and chasing balls,” I yawned.

“Shhh,” she said. “That’s what Mum and Dad think, but I snuck off to join the Dog Space Program. They needed my expertise on the best way to bring down that giant shiny ball in the sky.”

I rolled over and blinked, not believing my eyes … or ears. I stuck out my paw and touched her. She was solid.

“We’re recruiting dogs of all shapes, sizes, and dispositions to help with our research, Banjo. We ball obsessed kinds thought maybe having a different perspective—a more laid back one—might be beneficial. I told my fellow dog scientists that you were a perfect candidate, oblivious to balls and known as a relaxation expert. Are you game to help us?” asked my big sister.

“Umm, I guess, as long as I don’t have to leave Mum and Dad,” I said. “But wait, what do I have to do?”

It was nice to see Tinker, but I wasn’t sure what was going on and wasn’t planning to leap before I looked. Rut-ro, I thought, too late. When I took a long look around, I saw that I was no longer on my soft bed next to Mum.  Instead, I was in a brightly lit room, complete with white walls and bright white tile. A lab looking room, as in scientific, not as in Labrador Retriever.

The tiles were cold, just the way I like ‘em, but what was with the bright lights.  And, wait a minute, now Tinker was wearing a white lab coat.  I’d never seen her in any kind of coat before. Her name was embroidered on the coat, and she was wearing glasses.  Whoa, there were lots of dogs in white coats, all busily studying charts and looking through telescopes.

‘Tinker,” I exclaimed, “Where the heck are we?”

“It’s really cool, Banjo,” she said. “Our lab is on a star right outside Doggie Heaven.  We have a great view of the moon from here, the better to study it and figure out how we can catch it and play with it.”

Uh-huh, I thought, this was getting “curiouser and curiouser,” as my Dad likes to say. I realized that Tinker and I were in a pen separated from the other white-coated dogs, and then I noticed there was a large Great Pyrenees lying in the far corner.

“Who are you,” I called

“I’m Sirius,” ruffed the big white dog.  “This group seems to think that since my name is used to refer to the Dog Star, I have some special knowledge. All I want is to get back to guarding my herd of sheep, but these nerdy dogs don’t want me to leave. They keep asking me to chase balls and give them feedback on how I like it.  Like it?  I have important guard dog work to do; why would I like chasing balls?”

Well, I had to agree with Sirius on that score. I don’t have a herd of sheep to guard, but I have Mum, Dad, and Puddin’.  They depend on me to keep them safe. I have several spots around our house where I can stretch out with one eye open and bark when anyone threatening approaches.

Tinker was listening to our discussion so I said, “Hey, Sis, I’m with Sirius. Thanks for the invitation, but I want to go home.”

“Now, now,” said Tinker. “That’s really not an option.  We need your input before we can send you on your way and that could take some time.”

“Time,” I yelped, “Forget it.  I want to go home now.  Get me out of here.”

That’s when Sirius whispered in my ear. “Banjo, there’s no reasoning with these ball dogs. The only way we can get out of here is for us to join forces, charge the fence, leap it, and run as fast as we can out the door to the earth elevator.”

None of this was making any sense to me. Run? Leap? Earth elevator?  On my best days, I don’t run or leap. And what’s an earth elevator? But since I’m part Great Pyrenees, I felt a kinship with Sirius, and I trusted him.  At this point, I trusted him way more than my sister Tinker. “Lead the way,” I ruffed. “I’m with you.”

With that, Sirius gave a deep growl and hurtled toward the fence. As he gracefully leaped over it, I did my best to get up a head of steam and follow him.  Lo’ and behold, I soared over the fence and sprinted after him to the earth elevator. I hadn’t moved that swiftly ever. Safely inside, we hit the Down button, and whoosh, we tumbled back to earth.  Or at least that’s what it felt like.

Wham! I found myself on my cushy bed with Puddin’ looking at me and pawing my nose.

“Banjo, Banjo,” she meowed. “Wake up. You’re growling and moving your legs. Are you having a bad dream?”

“Huh, bad dream? Where’s Tinker?  Where’s Sirius?” 

“Well, Tinker’s been gone a while, Banjo.  I was just a kitten when she left us, and who’s Sirius?” 

“Sirius, the beautiful white dog right over …” Where was he?

“Shhh, Banjo, you were definitely dreaming.  There’s no white dog, no Tinker, just you, me and Mum.”

“But Puddin’, Tinker took me to some kind of Dog Space Lab with white walls and bright lights, and she wanted me to chase balls, and … and that’s what happened to me. I swear. She had me and Sirius and wouldn’t let us go. I had to run to escape.  Sirius and I galloped, we sprinted, and even jumped a fence! ”

Now, that cracked Puddin’ up.  The thought of me running was too much for her. She laughed so hard, she hiccupped. “Banjo, you never run, you silly boy.  You’re known for meandering and snoozing, not running.”

Truth be told, the idea of me running is pretty unbelievable even to me. “Puddin,” I ruffed, “I had to get home. A boy’s gotta do what a boys gotta do so I ran, I tell you! I don’t plan to make a habit of it, but that’s what I did.”  

I could tell from the smirk on her little cat face that she didn’t believe me, but that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Lord Banjo lives in Georgia with his Mum, Kathy Manos Penn. Find more stories in his book, “Lord Banjo the Royal Pooch,” available on Amazon. To contact him, please email inkpenn119@gmail.com. (If you received this blog via email, please do not hit reply--messages to that mailbox unfortunately go into a Black Hole.)

Kitty sues pet parents for neglect

Reprinted from the Highlands Newspaper

Princess Puddin'

Did you read about Lord Banjo’s marvelous vacation to Anytown, USA?  The Royal Pooch got to accompany the Royal Parents to a mountain town in March, and I was left behind.  Not that I “wanted” to travel; I just didn’t want to be abandoned.

Sure, my pet parents occasionally take off for a long weekend, but when they’re gone longer than that, a critter sitter usually appears.  Sometimes the sitter stays at our house with us and takes care of both Banjo and me; other times, when Banjo goes to stay with a friend or, like this time, goes with our parents, some sweet little girls show up to check on me.

This time, however, none of these things occurred.  I don’t think it matters that the sweet little girls have to hunt me down if they want to see me when they visit.  Do you?  Mum has alerted them to all my hiding spots, so they can find me.

Likewise, I shunned the last critter sitter who stayed with us for three weeks when Mum and Dad went to England.  We have two couches, and I chose to sit on the one she wasn’t occupying.  I never slept with her either.  Could that be because she took up way too much time with my canine brother?  Heck, she even took him jogging. Still, me being standoffish is no reason not to have someone take care of me.

This time around, my parents left me an extra cat pan, my automatic dry food dispenser, a humongous bowl of water and my automatic water dispenser.  I was in no danger of starving or getting dehydrated, but several things were amiss.

First, I got no wet food the whole time they were gone.  You know I’m accustomed to dabs of wet food all day long. Also, I got no milk in the morning.  Worst of all? There were no treats.  I hang out in Mum’s office most of the day, except for my several hours curled up on Mum and Dad’s king size bed.  I get treats from the desk drawer pretty much any time I look at Mum pleadingly or jump up on the desk or stroll into the office meowing.

Is it any wonder that I talked and talked as I came yawning out of Dad’s office when everyone came home? Yes, Dad has an office too, and I’m partial to his desk chair and the dog’s bed in that room.

Mum and Dad were amazed at how talkative and how affectionate I was.  Typically, I snub them when they first come home, but this time I was starved for my special food and treats, and yes, affection.  Mum was further amazed that I slept with her every night for a week. I’m not usually that consistent, especially as the weather warms up. I’m more of a snuggler when it’s cold. I even got in Mum’s lap each morning when she drank her coffee in her comfy chair.

I was sticking close to her so she wouldn’t want to leave me again, but I’m already hearing talk of an upcoming weekend trip and a week out West in the summer.  Will she and Dad never learn that there’s no place like home? It just may take a lawsuit to get their attention.  Does anyone know a good kitty lawyer?

Princess Puddin’ Penn resides in Georgia with her dad, her mom Kathy Manos Penn, and her canine brother Lord Banjo. Please send comments, compliments, and questions to inkpenn119@gmail.com. She appears in “Lord Banjo the Royal Pooch,” a book that can be found on Amazon.

A Spring Trip to Anytown, USA

Reprinted from the Highlands Newspaper

Mum and Dad have a friend who has a cabin in a mountain town, and he invited us to use it for a week.  That’s right; he invited me too.  Now, it’s taboo for me to mention other mountain towns in the Highlands Newspaper, but I had so much fun that I just have to tell you about it. Let’s just say this cabin was in Anytown, USA.  By the way, if anyone wants to offer us a free stay in Highlands, I’ll be happy to write about that experience too.

First, our friend cautioned Mum not to let me roam outside at night because of the bears. After hearing that, Mum was vigilant about standing outside with me at all times of the day, and she was quick to cut short any attempts at wandering. No sooner would I pick up a good smell than I’d hear, “Banjo, come back here right this minute.”

 

Still, I enjoyed the cool, crisp mornings and the walks I went on with Mum and Dad.  New places and new smells put a spring in my step. Indoors I rotated between protecting Mum and Dad in the top floor master bedroom and warding off invaders by holding down my dog bed in the living room.

During the cool mornings and evenings, we hung out in front of the fireplace, but when it warmed up in the afternoons, the front porch rockers called to us. Mum and Dad and their friends would rock and read, and I’d lie around and attempt to wander off, but you know I couldn’t get far without hearing, “Banjo, where do you think you’re going?” We never did see any bears in Anytown, so I don’t know what all the fuss was about.

Besides not being able to wander freely as I do in our woods at home, what I really missed was Puddin’—well, mostly I missed Puddin’s food. I get to lick up any dabs of wet food the Princess leaves in her kitty dish, but she didn’t come on this trip, so no wet food for me.

I made up for that by sneaking into the garbage. I know, I know, that’s against the rules, but desperate times call for desperate measures. There was no lid on the tall kitchen garbage can, and I could easily dip my nose in.

 

When Mum and Dad came home to wet coffee grounds on the floor, they fussed and laughed and said, “Guess Banjo’s wishing we’d cook so there’d be something better in there.” They put a cookie sheet on top of the can to keep me out, which worked fine until they forgot to put it back.  I was on full alert for garbage opportunities and scored a few tasty tidbits that way.

When Dad started loading luggage into the car, I hopped right in without an invitation. I was more than ready for cat food and an extended exploration of our backyard.  I don’t typically stay outside too long, but I took my time inspecting my domain when we reached our house. Dad watched as I sniffed and meandered up and down and through the trees. My coat was yellow with pollen when I barked at the kitchen door to be let in.

After a few dabs of cat food, I settled down beneath Mum’s desk to dictate the tale of our trip to Anytown, USA. As a reminder, I’m available to tell the tale of a trip to Highlands, NC if only some kind person would offer me a cabin. And, of course, the Royal Parents must be invited too.

Lord Banjo lives in Georgia with his Mum, Kathy Manos Penn. Find similar stories in his book, “Lord Banjo the Royal Pooch,” available on Amazon. To contact him, please email inkpenn119@gmail.com. (If you received this blog via email, please do not hit reply--messages to that mailbox unfortunately go into a Black Hole.)