The Adventures of Spike the Cat

SPIKE THE CAT LEARNS TO FLY It was a dark and stormy night… “Spike, get off that computer and give me that candy. You get your own treats to eat.” Please excuse this interruption, dear reader, particularly at the beginning of The World’s Greatest Novel (working title). Spike wants to write it, of course, but he’s not going to—I am. He means well, but the world’s greatest writer he ain’t. Now, where was I? Oh, yes… It was a dark and stormy night… “If you served better meals, I wouldn’t eat your candy.” “Spike, I serve you the best cat food money can buy. I serve it on our best china, and by candlelight. What more do you want?” “It’s… it’s cat food. I don’t want cat food. How would you like eating chicken guts and horse hooves for breakfast?” “If I were a cat, I’d love it. After all, cats love cat food.” “Did you forget what your doctor said?” “No, Spike, I remember perfectly well what she said. She said that if I didn’t stop having these ‘looney’ conversations with you, she’d have me committed, so buzz off. Go away. You’re just a fat, gray tabby that can talk. That doesn’t mean I have to talk to you.” “Look, Bob, you said we were going on a plane ride today. If you get stuck in that pre-primer book you’re writing, we’re not going on our trip.” “Okay, if you let me write this novel, I’ll take you for a plane ride. Deal?” “Okay, deal, but at the rate you’re writing that novel, I’ll have to use up six of my lives before I get that plane ride.” “Spike, please—puhleeze—get out of here. Look, there’s hair on the keyboard. Just go away so I can work.” It was a dark… “You know, that’s not very original. My litterbox is filled with papers that begin ‘It was a dark and stormy night…’ Come on, Bob, let’s go for a plane ride. Puhleeze?” “Spike, you’re the reason I can’t fly. The doctor says I’m in great health and my vision is perfect. So, do you have any idea—even the faintest notion—as to why I can’t fly a plane?” “You talk to a cat?” “Good. Now get out of here so I can stop talking to a cat!” It was a dark and stormy night… Hi, it’s me, Spike, again. Bob is a little frazzled right now and hasn’t been able to type for two days. If only he could think like a cat, he’d stay nice and calm and sleep a whole lot more. Oh, well, that’s life. But you might be asking yourself, “Did you ever go for that plane ride?” Boy, is that a story! Let me tell you all about it. The day after our spat, Bob had calmed down a bit. He was still a little jerky, but his eyes focused again. He told Sue that he had writer’s block. That’s like a baseball player who goes into a hitting slump. The only difference is that a hitter usually works out of his slump. With Bob, there was no chance. His best writing would be a slump for an illiterate termite. Besides, how could he be stuck? How can he not know what to write next? He’s writing my life story, and he can’t come up with another word when there’s so much to tell? Just ask me what happened, and the story writes itself. I think this just proves my point. I mean, I like the guy, but a writer he ain’t. Fortunately, he is a pilot. A very good pilot. In order to get his creative juices flowing and hopefully break his writer’s block, I pushed him to go on the plane again. I told him that “going up in the plane again might clear the cobwebs,” and he bought it hook, line, and sinker. Which reminds me of the time we went fishing. I caught the biggest fish… oh, wait, this is the story about how I flew a plane. Let me get back to that. Bob was eager to get to the airplane, and so he hopped in his car and took off. But ho, ho, ho, guess who was under the seat? Right—me. By the time we got to the airport, he was really psyched and ready to go. He listened to the pilots talking to the control tower on his portable aircraft radio all the way to the airport. When we got close to the airplane garage (called a hangar), we could hear the air-traffic controllers talking to the pilots. Bob even made believe his car was an airplane and radioed in to the tower to let them know what he was doing. I can see why is doctor is worried about him. Maybe he is crazy. Anyway, at the airport, while Bob unloaded his flight gear, like earphones, maps, and all sorts of metal and plastic stuff pilots use to figure things out, I slipped out of the car and slinked over (I’m a cat, what can I say? I have a way of being sneaky) to the hangar. I don’t know why it’s a called a hangar, though. It didn’t see any planes hanging there. I also didn’t see Bob’s plane. It was parked somewhere in the middle of the garage… err, I mean hangar. I guess in order to work at the airport, you had to be really good at puzzles because the planes were parked all over the floor, and not too neatly I might add. To find your plane, you had to be really good at mazes. I finally saw Bob’s plane when they brought it out. They only had to move five other planes to get to it. Sheesh!