Pele's Big Adventure
Our cat, Pele, has asked me to post a letter he wrote a while ago (don't worry, I'm not psycho - just cat crazy!). When we moved to our new house, about 10 miles from our old house on Grey St, he ran away for 3 months and lived in the 'bush' (woods, you Americans) where a man named Bryan took pity on him and fed him jelly meat (gooey, gross meat in a can!) twice a day. Since Pele is a 'fraidy cat' it took Bryan three months until he could get close enough to see our number on his collar and phone us! Here is Pele's account of getting acclimated back to life with us (the wardens) and a new arrival, Mitzer the cat. He is writing Bryan a letter of 'thanks' for taking care of him. Pele escaped and travelled back to Bryan's three times (one mile away) before we confined him indoors for many months! He's very happy and settled now.....
Dear Bryan,
It’s been several years since I escaped the Northern Hinterlands for the green gullies of Harrowfield. I thought it apropos to pen…well type…you a note now that I’ve been back in captivity for 8 full, long, arduous months.
I really never got the chance to even tell you about my original escape from the Flagstaff Penitentiary:
It was just coming on to summer and the nights had lost their chill. So, I thought it was high time to make my move back to Grey St. I had had enough…the old bush was calling and I missed the routine…the familiar neighbours…and of course the Pizza Hut across the street. So, who could blame me? Besides, the wardens were away for a long weekend. I knew this was the chance. So, I was off.
The first night of freedom was more than euphoric…it was like un-endable buckets of catnip. Travelling along the flax-lined boulevard, I quickly realised I was a fugitive without food. I thought, “This bush is where I belong…but with food.”
You should know, in Hillcrest, I was often referred to as ‘The Fat Cat.’ I took no offence. I just appreciated fine food (Iams). Of course, I hadn’t yet experienced the delights of your jelly meat.
As I meandered toward the old Grey St abode with these thoughts in my head, I rested for the night near a lovely little gully. I awoke in the morning…a chill in the air and a drizzle in my coat…and had second thoughts, until, alas,…the smell of something delightful. I followed my nose, through flax, through ponga & ferns, over streams and under urbanised decking toward the faint smell of residual paint, when there you were. A saviour, really. Pink can in hand…spoon in the other…spooning out into that wonderful red dish what soon I came to know as the ‘sweet nectar of 6am and 5pm’…jelly meat. I can’t tell you how much of a full life I’d have missed without tasting that drug. But enough about that.
I also never really got the chance to say ‘Goodbye’ and how much I enjoyed your manicured gardens…thus my three trips back to express my appreciation, always thwarted by the dreaded wardens. I’ve now again grown to quite like them.
I’ve finally realised that there’d be no more escapes…There’d be no more jelly meat…There’d be no more summer afternoons under the ponga trees. No rainy afternoons under the grill cover. These wardens are just too good….and I had just become too addicted to the jelly meat. They knew where I’d be. I suspect that somewhere, someone actually rang them and informed them of my whereabouts. I know that couldn’t be you, of course, but if I ever find out, I’ve been sharpening my claws for the occasion. I suspect it might be that small blond person I saw there several times during my stay, who screams a lot and liked to try to chase me away, but I will never be sure.
After my last escape, I was confined to close quarters for 3 whole months. Not only was I confined, I had to deal this latrine the size of a small mat, and filled with what can only be described as ‘sandpaper grit.’ I screamed…I cried…I wandered from window to window until I had no tears left to wet the carpet. There was no sympathy.
Besides that, there was this bouncy, black wannabe of a ‘Bush Gang’ inmate, who had since been incarcerated, and strangely seemed to get on very well with the powers that be. In fact, he was often confined to another cell and I know he had in-and-out priveleges. I could smell it on him through the cell wall. They call him Mitzer….I call him ‘Meowzabub’.
During those 3 months in confinement, something happened to me. And…I must get this out in the open, for I’m not sure what rumours might be circulating amongst the ole’ ‘Bush Gang’ buddies. I’m afraid they might have heard the rumours. But, they’re not true. As you know, there are certain things that happen in all-male prisons. Suffice it to say, one must watch his back while eating one’s breakfast, if you know what I mean. A few months after the extended confinement, I was particularly feeling low one day reminiscing about the bush life, when ‘Meowzabub’ jumped up on my bunk and began licking my ears. I wanted so hard to resist, but I’d always wondered, “How the hell do you clean the inside of your ears?” Here was the solution! And, oh, the ecstasy! I returned the favour. It was the least that I could do, for I was sure that he’d never had that experience either. And therein began a relationship that transcends bush and city cats. But, I must say, I see it no differently than you would see getting someone to clean your chimney...a spot you just can’t reach. Whew! That’s such a relief getting that one out in the open. Please pass that on to the old gang to dispel any rumours.
Finally, 3 months ago, I was allowed in-and-out privileges to the exercise yard for 10 supervised minutes at a time. One day while walking the perimeter, looking for a new escape route, I heard this gurgling growl from across the fence. I peaked through the gaps in the prison walls, only to see what would keep me here. Often at night from the cell, I could hear their wet jowls flapping in the night breeze…they’d never let me out. Actually, I grew to become thankful that I was in here and they were ‘out there.’ As my privileges became extended, however, I became accustomed to their grumbles and growls. Although still quite dangerous, now, my new friend, Meowazbub and I, enjoy sitting across from their post and teasing them with sounds of escape.
I still often dream of escaping back to the bush and delight in staying out late, just to make the wardens a bit nervous. But, knowing their uncanny tracking power and the aforementioned unidentified informant, I soon decided to relent and accept my fate. I’ve now joined the northern gang of Flagstaff Felines. We’re not nearly as rowdy as the Bush Gang,…we dine on a lot more leftover chicken than filet mignon. But, all in all, I’ve become accustomed to the northern lifestyle.
And, I’m ashamed to admit, the loving care the wardens now impose, especially the female one, now that the communistic restrictions have been lifted, are very nice. She rubs me, pets me, and even lets me sleep on her head with the occasional kiss. My favourite time of day is the morning. Replacing the 6am jelly meat now is copious amounts of Cravers and a morning brush (I still remember the embarrassment of how I succumbed to that like Superman’s kryptonite, the first time they came for me).
So…Bryan….I want you to know. I’m happy now…I no longer long for the bush life. Your lovely home….far larger and nicer than the one I’m now in, at least from the brief circuits I made of it…But, I do so appreciate those short months of freedom, the jelly meat, the open air, and most of all that strange language you spoke to me all the while.
With fond memories,
Pele (aka Pete) from Cell 58
It’s been several years since I escaped the Northern Hinterlands for the green gullies of Harrowfield. I thought it apropos to pen…well type…you a note now that I’ve been back in captivity for 8 full, long, arduous months.
I really never got the chance to even tell you about my original escape from the Flagstaff Penitentiary:
It was just coming on to summer and the nights had lost their chill. So, I thought it was high time to make my move back to Grey St. I had had enough…the old bush was calling and I missed the routine…the familiar neighbours…and of course the Pizza Hut across the street. So, who could blame me? Besides, the wardens were away for a long weekend. I knew this was the chance. So, I was off.
The first night of freedom was more than euphoric…it was like un-endable buckets of catnip. Travelling along the flax-lined boulevard, I quickly realised I was a fugitive without food. I thought, “This bush is where I belong…but with food.”
You should know, in Hillcrest, I was often referred to as ‘The Fat Cat.’ I took no offence. I just appreciated fine food (Iams). Of course, I hadn’t yet experienced the delights of your jelly meat.
As I meandered toward the old Grey St abode with these thoughts in my head, I rested for the night near a lovely little gully. I awoke in the morning…a chill in the air and a drizzle in my coat…and had second thoughts, until, alas,…the smell of something delightful. I followed my nose, through flax, through ponga & ferns, over streams and under urbanised decking toward the faint smell of residual paint, when there you were. A saviour, really. Pink can in hand…spoon in the other…spooning out into that wonderful red dish what soon I came to know as the ‘sweet nectar of 6am and 5pm’…jelly meat. I can’t tell you how much of a full life I’d have missed without tasting that drug. But enough about that.
I also never really got the chance to say ‘Goodbye’ and how much I enjoyed your manicured gardens…thus my three trips back to express my appreciation, always thwarted by the dreaded wardens. I’ve now again grown to quite like them.
I’ve finally realised that there’d be no more escapes…There’d be no more jelly meat…There’d be no more summer afternoons under the ponga trees. No rainy afternoons under the grill cover. These wardens are just too good….and I had just become too addicted to the jelly meat. They knew where I’d be. I suspect that somewhere, someone actually rang them and informed them of my whereabouts. I know that couldn’t be you, of course, but if I ever find out, I’ve been sharpening my claws for the occasion. I suspect it might be that small blond person I saw there several times during my stay, who screams a lot and liked to try to chase me away, but I will never be sure.
After my last escape, I was confined to close quarters for 3 whole months. Not only was I confined, I had to deal this latrine the size of a small mat, and filled with what can only be described as ‘sandpaper grit.’ I screamed…I cried…I wandered from window to window until I had no tears left to wet the carpet. There was no sympathy.
Besides that, there was this bouncy, black wannabe of a ‘Bush Gang’ inmate, who had since been incarcerated, and strangely seemed to get on very well with the powers that be. In fact, he was often confined to another cell and I know he had in-and-out priveleges. I could smell it on him through the cell wall. They call him Mitzer….I call him ‘Meowzabub’.
During those 3 months in confinement, something happened to me. And…I must get this out in the open, for I’m not sure what rumours might be circulating amongst the ole’ ‘Bush Gang’ buddies. I’m afraid they might have heard the rumours. But, they’re not true. As you know, there are certain things that happen in all-male prisons. Suffice it to say, one must watch his back while eating one’s breakfast, if you know what I mean. A few months after the extended confinement, I was particularly feeling low one day reminiscing about the bush life, when ‘Meowzabub’ jumped up on my bunk and began licking my ears. I wanted so hard to resist, but I’d always wondered, “How the hell do you clean the inside of your ears?” Here was the solution! And, oh, the ecstasy! I returned the favour. It was the least that I could do, for I was sure that he’d never had that experience either. And therein began a relationship that transcends bush and city cats. But, I must say, I see it no differently than you would see getting someone to clean your chimney...a spot you just can’t reach. Whew! That’s such a relief getting that one out in the open. Please pass that on to the old gang to dispel any rumours.
Finally, 3 months ago, I was allowed in-and-out privileges to the exercise yard for 10 supervised minutes at a time. One day while walking the perimeter, looking for a new escape route, I heard this gurgling growl from across the fence. I peaked through the gaps in the prison walls, only to see what would keep me here. Often at night from the cell, I could hear their wet jowls flapping in the night breeze…they’d never let me out. Actually, I grew to become thankful that I was in here and they were ‘out there.’ As my privileges became extended, however, I became accustomed to their grumbles and growls. Although still quite dangerous, now, my new friend, Meowazbub and I, enjoy sitting across from their post and teasing them with sounds of escape.
I still often dream of escaping back to the bush and delight in staying out late, just to make the wardens a bit nervous. But, knowing their uncanny tracking power and the aforementioned unidentified informant, I soon decided to relent and accept my fate. I’ve now joined the northern gang of Flagstaff Felines. We’re not nearly as rowdy as the Bush Gang,…we dine on a lot more leftover chicken than filet mignon. But, all in all, I’ve become accustomed to the northern lifestyle.
And, I’m ashamed to admit, the loving care the wardens now impose, especially the female one, now that the communistic restrictions have been lifted, are very nice. She rubs me, pets me, and even lets me sleep on her head with the occasional kiss. My favourite time of day is the morning. Replacing the 6am jelly meat now is copious amounts of Cravers and a morning brush (I still remember the embarrassment of how I succumbed to that like Superman’s kryptonite, the first time they came for me).
So…Bryan….I want you to know. I’m happy now…I no longer long for the bush life. Your lovely home….far larger and nicer than the one I’m now in, at least from the brief circuits I made of it…But, I do so appreciate those short months of freedom, the jelly meat, the open air, and most of all that strange language you spoke to me all the while.
With fond memories,
Pele (aka Pete) from Cell 58
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