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Photo: Pam Corcoran, Toward the Glimmer: Stories and Essays from the Korongo Writers Group

Note: This is a longer version of the piece I posted a few days ago. I wrote it to share with Pam's writing group, but it is too long to read aloud in its entirety during our regular Thursday session, so I'm posting it here.

Pam Corcoran was the first person to sign up for a writing workshop when we opened the Korongo Gallery on Merchants Row in 2010. She continued writing with me for the next 14 years. She was always the first to arrive on our doorstep, rain or shine, a little breathless—she walked to her appointments around town, and she hated to be late. Her stories were full of animals, including childhood pets. She was a regular at the senior center, where my Randolph workshops began, and at Kimball Library, where they continued.

I started writing “Calling All Cats” after the February 1 online meeting of the Korongo Writers Group—the last meeting that Pam attended. I finished it after we learned that she had died at a hospice center on February 15. What happened to her in between is still a mystery to me.

Calling All Cats

Once upon a time in Los Angeles I was the managing editor of a magazine called Buzz. My job—one of my jobs—was to make sure the editorial staff met its deadlines. This meant coming up with a production schedule and—the hard part—enforcing it. I was a cop, in other words. A friendly one. A neighborhood cop. I used to go around to everybody’s stall and say, “How ya doin’?” Whenever somebody said, “Not so good,” I tried to help. I spent a lot of time with Veronia, our only fact checker. The poor girl was drowning in work. To cheer her up, I invented Spot the Fact-checking Dog, an assistant fact-checker. Spot came to the office at night and left little notes on Veronia’s desk, telling her what he had done while she was sleeping. He wrote things like “This article is boring” and “I love you, Veronia,” and “Please fill water dish” followed by a smiley face. His handwriting was big and wobbly (I’m right-handed but Spot was left-handed) and he signed his notes with a paw print. He had his own logo, a big dot encircled by the words “Spot the Fact-Checking Dog.”

In my writing workshops, we have been experimenting with different points of view. Last week’s assignment was inspired by a student who loves animals, especially cats. She told us cats are not allowed in the house where she lives, and I found this very sad, so I suggested that she write a story about a cat. Then, I suggested that everybody write a story about a cat. Then I went one step further and suggested they write their story from the point of view of the cat. (I later amended the assignment to include all animals.)

When I sat down to write my story, I got stuck. I couldn’t write like a cat, nor a pig, nor any other member of the animal kingdom. It just wasn’t happening. Then I remembered Spot the Fact-checking Dog.

Spot couldn’t tell a fact from a fish, but that didn’t matter, because his real job was to show Veronia, on a regular basis, that she was appreciated.

I started my story with a writer who has a weekly podcast about cats. Pam the podcaster has fans all over the world. Many of her listeners are, naturally, cats. They communicate with her regularly through telepathic messages. As we all know, cats don’t write letters, but with Pam, there is no need. Pam listens, hears, and understands.

One day, she receives a message from somebody called Verushka.

* * *

Dear Miss Pamela,

I am writing in response to your recent solicitation for true stories about the lives of cats.

When I was very young, I lived with a Russian lady. We lived in a house by the river. There was a big window where we watched the birds and squirrels. I had my own chair, with a soft cushion. We spent many happy hours together.

A man lived upstairs. He was not a nice person. He was rude and unpleasant, he smelled funny, and he made terrible sounds with his guitar. This man was called Son.

One day I will never forget. Such a terrible day. The end of my happy life. On this day, the guitar man, Son, drove Dot to an old-people’s house and left her there. I heard him talking about it on the telephone—plotting, plotting, always plotting to get rid of her, but I could do nothing. When Son returned to the house, he put me in a cage and put the cage in a truck and drove to a farm. My new home.

The farmer was a rustic man, not unkind but he had no clue about cats. He had only one idea where cats are concerned: that we are all in the hunting business. Yes! He says to Son, is she a good mouser? Oh, yes, says Son. Excellent. Liar!

Imagine, I, Verushka, catcher of mice. Never in my life did I kill a mouse or even a termite.

So now I live in a barn with horses, and chickens, and yes, mice. I am skinny. My eyesight is poor. My soft-chair days are over.

So that is my story, Miss Pamela. I hear many beautiful things about you, how kind you are, how nice to cats. I feel better knowing that somebody listens to Verushka.

Your friend,

Verushka

* * *

The following message is from Koko, a Japanese bobtail cat. Koko's ancestors were employed by nobles to catch the mice that nibbled on rice-paper scrolls. Here, Koko is communicating in English, which is not her native language:

Dear Pampam:

Calling All Cats is great, great podcast. Me, I want to have podcast too. Podcast about bookses. I read many bookses. My ancestors were guardians of ancient scroles (rhymes with moles).

Here something I wrote.

A Cat’s Guide to World Literature

By Koko the Literary Cat

Romeo and Juliet

Everything nice. Juliet happy. Then Romeo come. Garden, moonlight. Juliet fall crazy in love. She run away. She die. Romeo die. The end.

No cats in this story.

The Great Russian Novel

All time snowing. All time dark and sad. Prostitutes, drunks, axe murderers. Many people die. No cats.

Hiawatha

A great man, a man of peace. Only big cats in Hiawatha country at this time. (No pussycats.) Poomas, bobcats, linxes, exetcha. Exetcha mean “and on and on like that.”

For my podcast, I want reviewing bookses. How to do it:

First, say what heppen. Like this: “Becoming Madame Texier is story about lady who move to France.”

Next, say the good: “This very good story. Very interesting.”

Now, say the bad: “This story very long. There are no cats.

Next, say how to improve: “Put more cats.”

How to Write Good Bookses

1. Put a cat in it.

2. Put some birds or mouses or fishes.

3. No dogs. No snakes. No loud noisings.

4. Don’t worry about spilling. Spill check will fix it.

* * *

The next message is from Barney, a friend of Verushka.

Dear Pam:

I hear you wanted to adopt a cat but they won’t let you. The people you live with said no. I say, don’t worry, Pam. Every cloud has a silver lining.

I live in a barn with two horses, two pigs, and many cats. We need somebody to help with feeding and grooming. We would all like you to come here and do this job. We think it can be a win-win.

Our last helper did not understand cats. She seemed to think that if she gave us just enough food to keep us from starving, we would be more motivated to catch mice. Ridiculous. A cat needs motivation to take a walk across a frozen lake in a blizzard, but not to chase small rodents who live right under one’s nose. One catches mice simply because they are there. No ulterior motive is necessary. And let’s be clear. Mice are not food. Mice are pests. Mice are prey. And the less food one has, the less energy one has to hunt with.

We have been reduced to foraging for food in the pigpen. The best forager, Ali, has taken a shine to Verushka, and he gives her all the good bits. One day he found half a chicken McNugget and part of a crabcake, and a terrible fight broke out. Gizmo almost lost an eye over a tater tot. We are turning on each other. The mice are laughing at us!

You will love it here, Pamela. The truck is a nice place to sleep, very warm when the sun is shining. There is a river where you can catch fish.

We look forward to your arrival.

Please hurry!

Barney

* * *

I never got a chance to share “Calling All Cats” with Pam. We both missed the meeting where I had planned to do that, I because of a medical emergency here in France. It was on that day, February 15, that Pam died at a hospice care center. I received the news from another member of our writing group on February 16.

We were all shocked, and devastated.

The following is from Calling All Cats’ Facebook page.

Simon: Last night I had a terrible dream and then I woke up and discovered that it wasn’t a dream. Our beloved Pamela has left us. It doesn’t seem possible.

Soozie: It’s true. Pam has gone to heaven. She is with Georgina, Gramma B, and Robby the Robin. She has her angel wings.

Buster: Heaven is a fairy tale.

Gizmo: Heaven is real but they probably wouldn’t let you in. You stink.

Felicia: Shut up, you two. Always squabbling. Anyone can go to heaven but you have to be good. If you’re not good, you have to repent before they will let you in.

Chook: Are there snakes?

Burrito: There are snakes but they don’t bite. Everyone is friendly in heaven, even lions. The lions are vegetarians. They eat plants, mostly spinach.

Lynn’ums: I heard that heaven is like one big library with cats. Every book that was ever written is available in heaven. The cats can lead you to the book you want. If you don’t know what you want, they will pick out the perfect book for you.

Shmoo: In heaven, if you don’t know something, all you have to do is think of the question and the answer comes to you automatically.

Duffer: Maybe Pam will contact us from heaven, once she gets settled in.

Felicia: Maybe she’ll fly down and visit us.

Cricket: What are angel wings made of?

Duffer: It would be cool to have a podcast from heaven.

Simon: Angel wings are made of gossamer.

Shmoo: Angel wings are made of spider webs.

Simon: Gossamer and spider webs are the same thing. Same material. Look it up. Did you know that spiders can travel on the wind? They spin a long thread and wait for a passing breeze to carry them up, up, and away. It’s called ballooning. They can travel up to a thousand miles, over the ocean and everything.

Shmoo: You made that up. Liar.

Simon: The word “gossamer” comes from “goose summer.”

Shmoo: You’re so full of doo-doo.

Simon: And you’re dummer than a can of snot.

Felicia: Everybody, stop fighting! Pamela wouldn’t like it. You are dishonoring her memory.

Verushka: If there is a God, then there is a Heaven, and Pamela is there, surrounded by animals and books and angels and saints and whatever, and not having to walk all over town in the rain and the snow. A sweeter soul there never was. She certainly deserves such a place.

My Animals

by Pam Corcoran

From Toward the Glimmer

I grew up with lots of cats. My favorite cat was Georgine. She was black and white. She loved to cuddle up to me. It hurt me so much when I had to put her to sleep. They were our nice cats. We had so many of them, so we had to put them to sleep. Then I had Thomasina, named her after the movie The Three Lives of Thomasina. She was also so cuddly and lovable. I had to get rid of her because I was in an abusive situation. It hurt me terribly to get rid of her. My sister's mother-in-law took her. When she died Thomasina wouldn't eat, so my sister had to put her to sleep. She was also so very cuddly and lovable. I loved her to death. Then I had Rascal, the last cat I had. I had him in Connecticut. I took him to Vermont with me. He was also cuddly and lovable. It upset me terribly when he was sick and I had to put him to sleep. I also grew up with a dog, a beagle named Ripley. He didn't like to be disturbed when he was sleeping. Both myself and my sister bent down to kiss him and he nipped my mouth and my sister's lips and sent us to the hospital. We were hurting for a while. We overcame our hurt. Ripley was a mean dog in many way, also a lovable dog in many ways. All in all, I will always remember all the cats and dogs I grew up with. They will always hold a special place in my heart.

Cover drawing, Toward the Glimmer, by Joan Feierabend