Letters From the Labyrinth 349

"But life's not a wheel, with chains made of steel..." -- Rainbow

Unless you've been under a rock for the last seven years, then you know that for those last seven years I have lived along the banks of the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania. The view from my front porch (and both me and Mary's office windows) is the river itself. The view from the kitchen and backyard is miles and miles of protected forestland. It is an area that lends itself to animal wildlife.

And unless you don't subscribe to this long-running free weekly newsletter, then you know that during the summer this area is popular with tourists from Maryland, New York, New Jersey, and other parts of Pennsylvania. They jam up our little two lane road, play terrible music at ridiculous volumes from their anchored boats at 3 in the morning, leave trash in people's yards and on people's docks, and contribute nothing to the local economy except for the bait shop and the marinas. I give them a pass for most of that (except for the few occasions where some tech-bro -- because in my mind, they're all wealthy tech-bros -- has made the mistake of anchoring off my particular dock, and being obnoxious while my kid is trying to sleep, in which case I may or may not have fired bottle rockets and other, bigger fireworks at them, depending on the statute of limitations, which I am currently unclear on).

But I digress.

I don't begrudge the tourists these transgressions because, like the other wildlife in this area, they are just doing what comes natural. Getting mad at them for these things would be like getting mad at the groundhog who burrows through my garden in search of lettuce, or the bald eagle who perches in my neighbor's tree and then darts out over the river to snag a fish, or the deer who graze in my yard every evening. Groundhogs burrow, deer graze, and tourists behave like jackasses. That's part of the natural order.

My problem with the tourists is that when they load their RVs up for the season and head back to whatever suburban hellhole they spawned from, they sometimes leave their pets behind. On a few occasions, this has been a dog, but more frequently, it's a cat. Regardless of the animal type, it's an evil thing to do with a pet, and a crappy thing to do to those of us who live here. Because that castaway cat hooks up with another castaway cat and then there is a litter of castaway cats, and then the process repeats itself over and over and over again. And with the wide expanse of woodland behind our homes, there are miles and miles of places for those cats to breed and roam and create quite the feral cat colony.

About a year before the pandemic, a feral cat showed up here at my house. I fed him, tamed him, caught him, and took him to a local shelter, where he was then treated and adopted out to a widow who had recently lost her husband. Then another showed up, and I did the same. (I don't know who that one was adopted out to). Then, word got out on Cat Reddit that this was a safe house, and pregnant mommy cats began having their babies here. I cared for, rounded up, and took all of those to the shelters, as well. A few of my neighbors have been lending a hand (particularly a guy seven houses down from me whom I bonded with because we were the only two people on our road without Trump signs in our yards during the last election. He has a small rainbow flag sign and I have a sign that warns solicitors that Cthulhu will eat them). As a result, we are cautiously optimistic that we may -- may -- be down to four or five adult cats, and one final litter of kittens.

The latter, the kittens, are currently in the bathroom adjacent to my office. There are seven of them. they are approximately seven or eight weeks old, weaned, eating food, using the litter box, and ready to be adopted to good homes. I have spent the last month socializing them outdoors. Yesterday, I brought them inside. Later this week, I'll take them to the shelter.

The kittens are happy and playful, and last night all seven of them crawled into my lap while I sat on the bathroom floor and they let out a collective purr that was loud enough to shake the heavens. Several of them promptly fell asleep. One, the runt (and my favorite of this batch) chewed on my finger instead. It fills me with joy and happiness to know that I got them safe and sound, and prevented any of them from wandering out into the road or falling in the river or getting eaten by an eagle, fox, or coyote. We haven't always been that lucky. Of the nearly 50 cats we've saved, 39 of them were kittens. One of those kittens was snatched by a predator (we don't know what for sure but strongly suspect an eagle, hawk, or owl) and one wandered into the road. But the other 37, including this batch of seven, have all gone on to wonderful homes. That makes me happy.

But it also makes me sad, for a few days, because I get attached to these little ones. You can't help it, really. 

And it breaks my heart when the momma cats call for their babies, which is what Bocephus did all last night, until I took her out a towel that the kittens had been laying on, and let her smell it. She then seemed to realize that "Oh, okay, they're still around and must be with him". Then she forgot all about it and ate a can of food.

I also explained to her that it's her turn to get caught next. To the best of our knowledge, she's the last female in the feral colony. The other three are male. (I said above there are four or five adults, total. That possible fifth one is an apocryphal black cat that only the one old guy who lives in a trailer next to the old schoolhouse has seen. None of the rest of us have seen it). Last time I tried to trap her, she refused to comply, and went without eating for three days. (I suspect she instead ate mice and moles and birds). This time, she's either going to get hungry enough to venture inside the box trap, or she's going to move on to another neighborhood. (All the neighbors are in agreement -- no food, no matter how pitiful or starved they look. The only food will be in the box trap, which all the neighbors have saddled me with the responsibility of, since I am apparently the cat whisperer).

And that breaks my heart, too. Bo will never be a good indoor cat. She's too feral and too wild. But she'd make a wonderful farm cat, and there's a farmer who will take her, provided I get her treated, spayed, etc. for him. She distrusts most humans, but she'll tolerate Mary being within a few feet of her, and she'll get within a few inches of me — close enough to sniff my fingers. I know that if I ever tried to pet her, she'd lay my skin open. She's made that clear. But despite this, I'm the only one she even half trusts, and now I have to violate that hard-earned trust in order to do the right thing.    

Mary and I began watching a show called Hunters last night. In it, Al Pacino has a great line that I can't find the exact quote for. He's talking to a character who has lost everyone he has ever known or loved, and he says (paraphrasing) "Death follows you, but that is so you will better know life" or something in that regard. I have felt that way these past few years. Closing in on 20 close friends dead within the last decade. That's two per year. But these cats have helped me deal with the almost certain if unacknowledged damage that's done inside. 

It hurts to help them but it also feels good to help them. They get to go on to live their lives.

And I get to go on and live mine.      

Also, spay and neuter your pets, please. And quit dumping them on my street.

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Good morning. I’m Brian Keene and this is the 349th issue of Letters From the Labyrinth, a free weekly newsletter for fans, friends, and family.

I wrote the above for my Patreon subscribers and posted it last Wednesday. It is now Saturday morning as I type this. Yesterday (Friday) I celebrated my 56th birthday by taking the kittens to one of the three shelters I work with — Creature Connections, owned and operated by Amber Ritter.

I started the morning by doing 70mph down a one-lane dirt road while cranking Boston’s “Foreplay/Long Time” and locking the brakes up and sliding right before I got to the barriers warning about the washed out bridge. Because I like to start each new year with some adrenaline. Then I went over to my ex-wife’s house, made breakfast and packed lunch for our son, had coffee with her until the school bus came, and then I went home and spent the rest of Friday morning with the kittens, explaining what was going to happen and how a nice doctor would give them medicine so they grow up to be big and strong and not have worms or distemper, and how after they are spayed or neutered, Amber will help them find loving, safe forever homes.

At around 1pm I loaded them into two carriers and we went for a car ride to Amber’s facility. She took pictures of each one, and verified their gender, and then we let them get used to their new temporary home. All seven of the kittens adapted very quickly. They’re going to be fine. If you live in or near Central PA and would like to give love and a safe home to a baby raised by your favorite author, then please visit Creature Connections on Facebook. She also took in two puppies yesterday that also need homes.

On the way home, my radio station (for new readers, I have a free radio station that you can listen to online or in your car or your home devices) played “Catch The Rainbow” by Rainbow, and I had a good cry while Ronnie James Dio and Ritchie Blackmore soothed me. Then I took a depressed nap. When I woke up, Mary and I went to Comix Connection, where I spent a $100 gift card present on a mint-condition Marvel Two-In-One issue number 2 (which featured the first death of Thanos). Other birthday presents included The Many Saints of Newark on Blu-Ray, a t-shirt that says “It’s Not Hoarding If It’s Comic Books”, a hat emblazoned with The Godfather logo except it says The Catfather, and a nonfiction piece my youngest son wrote for me that also gave me a good cry.

And that was how I turned 56.

(We were supposed to go to New Jersey today to help a family member recovering from surgery — which was why we had to regretfully cancel our appearance at Dark Delicacies in California, but Hurricane Ophelia has torpedoed that. But I suspect the universe wanted it this way so I’d have that window to rescue the kittens. Never question the universe. It is older and wiser than you).

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Manhattan On Mars Press (owned and operated by me) is branching out into publishing the works of other authors. Our first offering is DREAMS AND WHISPERS: SELECTED HORROR AND DARK FANTASY STORIES OF EDWARD LUCAS WHITE. Selected, compiled, and edited by Mary SanGiovanni (who also provides the Introduction), this is a sampler or primer to the work of a classic weird fiction writer.

Available in the following formats: Paperback - Kindle - Nook - Kobo - Apple

You can also order copies directly from us, and Mary will sign the Introduction for you, but please be patient as we don’t yet have them in stock (we expect to by next week, though).

Cover photo and design by John Urbancik. He took the photo in Spain when he lived there a few years ago, never knowing it was for this book.

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Speaking of John Urbancik, he’s got a new poetry collection out — Annabel Lee, In Shadow. Available here.

And speaking of friends who have new books out, Robert Swartwood’s new thriller — The Killing Room — is getting rave reviews. Available in hardcover, paperback, eBook and audiobook here. Don’t sleep on this one.

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Currently Playing: Fallout 76 and Clash of Clans

Currently Reading: Whalefall by Daniel Kraus

Currently Listening: Brian Keene Radio

Currently Watching: Hunters (Amazon Prime) and I Wanna Rock (Paramount Plus)

I want to love Hunters, but I find myself getting annoyed with it at times. We are halfway through the first season and the tone is often disjointed an schizophrenic. It can’t decide if it’s going to be a stylish, snarky vibe or a serious drama or a comic book movie. Also, as someone who grew up in that time period, the writers get an embarrassingly number of pop culture facts wrong. Despite these flaws, however, it’s good enough to keep watching. Al Pacino chews up the scenery with gusto.

Earlier this week, Stephen Graham Jones, Jonathan Janz, and I were talking about the metal we grew up on (Quiet Riot’s Metal Health, Def Leppard’s Pyromania, etc.) and SGJ recommended I Wanna Rock — a documentary series. I love it. Best metal documentary since The Decline of Western Civilization Part 2: The Metal Years. If you remember Aqua Net and can still sing along to “Cum On Feel The Noize” then you need to watch this.

* * *

Still very bummed about having to cancel the signing at Dark Delicacies. Mary and I sent along a bunch of signed bookplates, which they will insert into the books. I’ll post a link when they are on sale, or if you live in Los Angeles, just stop in the store.

Here is where we’ll be for the rest of this year, provided no more family health problems or hurricanes:

October 5
Ephrata Public Library, Ephrata, PA
6:00 PM to 8:00 PM

October 13 to October 14
Voidcon, DoubleTree by Hilton Huntington 1001 3rd Ave, Huntington, WV

October 21
Brownsville Screams, Snowdon Square, Brownsville, PA
3:00 PM to 10:00 PM

November 3 and November 4
Barnes & Noble 5501 West Broad St Richmond, VA

November 5
Lovedraft’s Brewing Company, Mechanicsburg, PA
12:00 PM to 6:00 PM

November 16 to November 19
BizarroCon 15
McMenamins Edgefield 2126 S.W. Halsey St. Troutdale, OR

So if you live in or near Pennsylvania, Virginia, West Virginia, or Oregon, I hope to see you at one of these. And if you don’t live in those places, remember that you can buy signed books directly from me via my website.

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And that does it for this week. Next week will be the 350th issue of this newsletter. Thanks for giving me a few minutes of your time for the last 349 weeks. I appreciate you all.

— Brian Keene