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Kittenstein and Frankenfur, the Gambling Cats
Kittenstein and Frankenfur, the Gambling Cats
Kittenstein and Frankenfur, the Gambling Cats
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Kittenstein and Frankenfur, the Gambling Cats

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When it came to pets, Bruce Dalwhinney was a cat-person—a rabid cat-person. But he didn't bite, or foam at the mouth, or lurch around London, Ontario menacing animal-haters or those of a different pet persuasion. Not at all, Bruce just really, really liked cats. After his much anticipated retirement dream of hand-raising two purebred, grand champion Siamese kittens is unexpectedly shattered, Bruce sinks into deep depression. When his well-meaning wife tricks him into adopting two common, barn-born tabbies, feline hoi poloi, from a low-rent animal shelter, Bruce is near-suicidal. Are Kittenstein and Frankenfur mini-monsters from kitten hell, or Bruce's last hope of salvation?

LanguageEnglish
PublisherDavid Floody
Release dateMar 5, 2013
ISBN9780991900404
Kittenstein and Frankenfur, the Gambling Cats
Author

David Floody

David Floody is a writer and novelist living and working in the village of Tofino, on the Wild West Coast of Vancouver Island, Canada, immersed in the awe-inspiring natural beauty of Clayoquot Sound, a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve, home of old-growth forest, wild salmon and lands sacred to the Nuu-chah-nulth People for 5,000 years.David is a member of the Clayoquot Writers' Group and the Performance Anxiety Collective, a cabaret group taking their words from the page to the stage. As the impish impresario of Implosion Press, he is dedicated to producing good writing with bad attitude. His YA novel, The Colour of Pride, set in Windsor and Detroit in 1968, will soon be available in ebook and print formats. Storyline: A year after the Detroit race riot, a Canadian teen confronts a young black girl, a racist bully and his own values at the 1968 World Series.David is currently revising a near-future, science fiction novel sequel to one of his favourite sf movies, the 1950s' classic, The Day the Earth Stood Still, fan fiction without the heavy breathing (No sex please, we're aliens). "Klaatu barada nikto." (photo D. Baswick)

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    Book preview

    Kittenstein and Frankenfur, the Gambling Cats - David Floody

    KITTENSTEIN AND FRANKENFUR

    THE GAMBLING CATS

    By David Floody

    Copyright 2012 David Floody

    Smashwords Edition

    Cover design by Marion Syme

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    ISBN 978-0-9919004-0-4

    Published as an ebook March 15, 2013

    Chapter 1

    Bruce Dalwhinney had his pet peeves. Not those petty annoyances we all experience in daily life, but the animals we dote on.

    For instance, Bruce just didn’t get guppies. How in the 19th century, Trinidad clergyman, the Reverend R. J. L. Guppy, could have been so deeply moved by the sight of this small, freshwater denizen giving live birth to her pin-sized progeny. Yet Goodman Guppy was inspired enough to send the first specimens home to the British Museum and is immortalized by the popularity of his namesakes in contemporary aquaria around the world. But a baby guppy? They’re so small and helpless out of water, Bruce thought, and it’s hard to tell if they’re really returning your affection.

    No. When it came to pets, Bruce Dalwhinney was a cat-person—a rabid cat-person. But he didn’t bite, or foam at the mouth, or lurch around London, Ontario menacing animal-haters or those of a different pet persuasion. Neither was he a twisted Typhoid Larry, intent on infecting others with his enthusiasm in some ruthless quest to create a global pandemic of cat-lovers or bring on feline Armageddon. Not at all, Bruce just really, really liked cats. And Bruce would be the first to raise his rum glass in salute to the resourceful Reverend of yore and his sincere interest in the gravid guppies of Trinidad.

    Thus, Bruce was completely tolerant of dogs and dog-persons. But set down this: when in the privacy of his own home, his sanctum sanctorum, Bruce worshipped only at the altar of the cat goddess, Bastet. And as for the servants of the jackal-headed god, Anubis? Well, live and let bark, he said. They were welcome to bring their doggie offerings of soup-bones and chew-toys to His temple next door.

    Now Bruce was recently retired from teaching while his wife, Doris, was toiling in the bowels of the London Life Insurance building and making a truly heroic effort not to resent him—as long as he continued to be responsible for all cooking, cleaning, shopping, yard work and oil changes, and kept up his end of the more pleasurable conjugal duties, duties for which he should have had a renewed interest and energy.

    Alas, Bruce did not, as did so many of his retired compatriots, speak golf, the apparent lingua franca of most of his fifty-plus age-cohort. As well, their last cat, a sweet-natured but aged Calico which he and his wife Doris had taken in as a stray, was called to the after-life by Bastet some five months before his retirement.

    This had left Bruce HOME ALONE, bereft and deeply depressed.

    When retirement struck, and he was home and so

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