Category Archives: Big Stone Gap

A Cat Walks into a Bar Exam….

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Shortly after 9 a.m. this morning, our staff cat Owen Meany crossed the wee lane between us and the gym and lawyer’s office. He climbed the attorney’s steps, and although my view was obstructed at that point, I’m pretty sure he knocked and was admitted.

So I would just like to say to Greg Kallen, the lead attorney (who shops at our bookstore) that unless Owen was there to start his career as a paralegal, whatever he told you should be taken with a grain of catnip.

We  don’t want to violate attorney-client privilege, but we can imagine the stories. Please know that we feed him well. He gets treats. He has his own bed. We understand that the demands of being a bookstore cat can be hefty – the fur maintenance for maximum customer effect, the constant purring as a store representative – so we try to provide regular massages and ear rubs. We know it’s a taxing life.

Sure, sometimes breakfast is late. Sometimes we run out of wet cat food. I did once forget that he prefers chicken cat treats to the tuna flavor. I have apologized for these lapses and will correct my behavior–except for that late breakfast thing. Please, Greg, see if you can explain the concept of “weekends” to him?

The reason he doesn’t get goat milk like the rest of the cats is not cruelty on our part, but allergies on his. Is this my fault? Believe me, I’ve tried all the substitutes but he doesn’t like them.

And please remind Mr. Meany that he, who now weighs 9.8 pounds and is the size of two bread boxes despite the fact that he told you we never feed him, was once a wee sick foster kitten, too. Yes, kittens bop about the place in never-ending packs, but they have nowhere else to live unless we find them homes. It’s not like he’s suffering. He has a special heavy cat flap and can go where the kittens can’t, anytime their whapping his nose, chewing his ears, and running toward him with mewls of “Unca Owen, Unca Owen, let’s play horsey!” get too much.

In closing, I hope that we will have the opportunity to settle any issues Owen has cited out of court. We feel sure that Owen will listen to reason, or at least to the sound of a can opener. Thanks, Greg.

Things not to do in a Small Town

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In a small town, you don’t flip anyone off for bad driving, ever. The other driver will guaranteed turn out to be your child’s Sunday School teacher, your dentist, or your boss’s spouse.

In a small town, you don’t announce on Facebook that you’ve been diagnosed as diabetic, then try to pick up cupcakes at the grocery deli. The clerk will refuse to sell them to you unless you can prove they’re for someone else’s birthday. And you can’t lie about the birthday, because the grocery deli women know EVERYONE’s birthdays. By heart.

In a small town, you can’t buy cheap wine as a gift. Everyone shops at the same wine store.

In a small town, when you admire clothing someone else is wearing, you don’t ask where they got it; you know it came from either the expensive boutique at the top of the hill, or the thrift store on the corner, because Walmart doesn’t sell it. So don’t ask.

In a small town, if you’ve already eaten when you realize you’ve forgotten your wallet, odds are good you’re going to know at least two other diners who will bail you out–just in case the restaurant owner won’t wait for you to pay next time you’re in.

In a small town, you don’t forget your wedding anniversary, since the local florist makes courtesy calls two weeks before.

In a small town, it is unwise to hold a yard sale. Everything you want to get rid of was a gift from someone else, who will attend or have a relative attending. This is why God invented eBay.

In a small town, walking for exercise requires prior planning; distributing a flyer before you start your new regimen can avoid hurt feelings later, when you wave your neighbors and fellow church members away as they stop to pick you up.

In a small town, when you hand the clerk a hundred dollar bill, she doesn’t stroke it with a counterfeit detection pen.  Instead she checks the serial number, laughs, and says, “Yep, ends in 003. I gave this to Judy at the diner last week.”

In a small town, you don’t lock your doors at night — except in August. That’s zucchini season.