All the Furs and Feathers

All the Furs and Feathers

Book 1 in the Cat Tales Series

Eileen O’Finlan

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 9780228624141

Kindle 9780228624158

PDF 9780228624165

Print ISBNs

Amazon Print 9780228624172

BWL Print 9780228624189

B&N Print 9780228624196

Copyright 2023 by Eileen O’Finlan

Cover art by Pandora Designs

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Dedication

To all of Smokey and Autumn Amelia’s furred and feathered friends.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank everyone who helped make this book a reality: Jude Pittman and everyone at BWL Publishing, Inc.: cover artist, Michelle Lee, editor, Nancy Bell, and fellow BWL author, Eileen Charbonneau, for her always exceptional content editing.

Thank you to all who read, listened to, and commented on early drafts of All the Furs and Feathers, particularly Cindy Kazanovicz, Wendy Stafford, Eileen Charbonneau, Patty Duffy, Tom Kelleher, and the wonderful members of my writing group: Lee Baldarelli, Janice Hitzhusen, Barbara Lammachia, Jim Pease, Pam Reponen, Rebecca Southwick, Cindy Shenette, and Jane Willan.

Thank you to Don Lutz for designing my new website. Don, your expertise and patience are greatly appreciated.

Huge thanks to my biggest cheerleader, Katie Kelley.

A special thank you to Kathy Leal of Blushing Bee Naturals, my inspiration for Tamarind and Tonk’s Treasures.

A very special thanks goes to Ruth E. Brouwer, cat mom of Arnold P. It was Arnold P. who brought Brussels sprouts to a Catster© party. He came up with the idea of playing with them and told everyone not to put them in their mouths. RIP Arnold P.

Chapter One

The Mouse Hunt

"I am a real cat. I am a real cat."

Smokey shakes her head as she stands outside Autumn Amelia’s bedroom door listening to the daily self-pep-talk and knowing Autumn only half believes herself.

Autumn! Smokey calls. I’ve got an important meeting this morning. Miss Fluffington wants to talk to me about a new account, so I need to leave early. Are you making breakfast, or should I grab something on the way?

Coming, Autumn calls.

A skittering noise comes from behind the door, followed by Autumn’s frustrated cry of Oh, this stupid floof! Smokey pictures her fluffy sister slipping on the tufts of fur between her paw pads.

You really should do something about that, says Smokey as she heads for the stairs.

Smokerina, or Smokey as she is called, is Autumn Amelia’s older sister. They share the cottage in Wild Whisker Ridge that they’ve inherited from their parents. Autumn presides over the kitchen, rarely allowing Smokey to cook, for which Smokey is grateful.

Granola and berries in cream since you’re in a hurry, okay? asks Autumn.

Perfect.

Smokey smooths her gray skirt over her Russian Blue fur.

Autumn, a calico Maine Coon with black markings around her eyes that look as though she lost a fight with a mascara brush and thick double-layered fur in a crazy-quilt pattern of gray, white, and burnt orange, can never seem to look as pulled together.

Ms. Fluffington says this account is the biggest Fluffington ArCATecture has ever had, Smokey says while setting the table.

What’s it for?

I don’t know. That’s one of the things she’ll tell me today. I hope she’s going to give me the lead on it. Whatever it is.

Autumn carries a pitcher of cream from the refrigerator. On her way to the table, her paws slip, the pitcher flies into the air, and Autumn Amelia lands on her rump in the middle of the floor. Smokey, grabbing for the pitcher the second it leaves Autumn’s paws, catches it in mid-flight.

Nice save, Smokey! Autumn says, still on the floor.

I’m always on guard when you’re carrying food.

It’s the darned floof, says Autumn. I can’t get a grip on anything.

The floofless Smokey gives a mild snort as she sets the pitcher on the table.

You needn’t snort, Smokey.

Snorting is vulgar. I never do it.

You did and you know it, says Autumn, wiping the puddle of cream up from the floor. Someday I’m going to glue floof to your paws while you’re sleeping and see how you like it. We’ll see who’s snorting then.

Smokey can’t repress a laugh. Autumn Amelia turns away, but not before Smokey notes that Autumn’s jaws are clenched in an attempt to staunch her own laughter.

After breakfast Smokey dashes upstairs for one last check of her clothes and makeup. Once certain every fur is perfectly in place, she descends the stairs to find Autumn crouched low on the living room floor peering under the hutch, muscles tense, whiskers twitching.

Not this again. Smokey enters the living room, making sure her claws click on the floor so that Autumn is aware of her presence.

What are you doing? Smokey asks, though she knows all too well.

Shhh! You'll spook him.

Who?

The mouse. Who do you think?

Autumn, there is no mouse.

Yes, there is. I heard him. He's under the hutch.

Autumn Amelia you've been imagining a mouse in this cottage forever. I’m telling you there is no mouse.

How do you know? Autumn's tail thumps.

Smokey was considered a great huntress in her youth, in the years before Autumn Amelia's birth. Autumn has never caught a mouse. Smokey knows Autumn has no idea why cats catch mice and wonders what her gentle, peace-loving sister would do if she did catch one.

I can see it, says Autumn, her head half under the hutch. I think it's a mouse. Please be a mouse. Oh, please be a mouse.

Pitiful. Smokey shakes her head.

I can't take it anymore. I'm going to get it. Come here mousy! calls Autumn, charging the hutch, her right front paw sliding underneath, head up, the bulk of her body slamming into the bottom of the hutch making the glass doors above rattle. Autumn's outstretched arm flails in vain. She rolls onto her back, feet in the air, her other forepaw gripping the front of the hutch. Terrified that she might flip the heavy piece of furniture onto herself, Smokey yells, Autumn stop! You can't do it that way!

Autumn freezes. The impulse to laugh at the spectacle of Autumn Amelia wrestling with the living room furniture overtakes Smokey and for a moment she says nothing. Once she trusts herself to speak calmly, she says, If you want to catch a mouse you must be subtle, use stealth, and intelligence. Now come away from the hutch and let's see if there's really a mouse under there.

Slowly, Autumn extracts her arm while wiggling back into an upright position.

Watch, Smokey commands, crouching low until she's eye level with the bottom of the hutch. Slowly, she creeps forward, body tense, every inch of her on high alert. Smokey knows there's no mouse under the hutch, she would have sniffed it out, but old instincts take over, memories of the hunt kick in. She can't restrain whisker twitches, chittering jaws, and the rush of adrenaline.

Behind her she hears Autumn's whispered pleadings, Please be a mouse. Please be a mouse. Oh, please let there be a mouse.

Just as Smokey comes even with the space between the floor and the bottom of the hutch, she feels a paw tap gently on her back. Remember what you promised, Smokey.

Smokey sighs as the adrenaline rush fades.

Don't worry, Autumn. If there's ever a mouse in this cottage, it's yours. Then extending a paw under the hutch, she grabs a clump of fur with her claws and draws it out.

Is this what you saw?

Autumn looks at a fluffy clump of her own fur. It’s forever dropping off only to be found in tufts and balls all over the cottage.

Well...maybe. I guess so.

I have to get to work, says Smokey, straightening up.

Autumn heaves a heavy sigh. I'll go clean the kitchen.

Chapter Two

Work

Smokey has worked for Fluffington ArCATecture for several years, starting as a junior architect and working her way up to senior. She dreams of one day owning her own architecture firm, though the thought of starting from scratch and working her way up to something as successful as Fluffington's is a daunting prospect. Still, it's a dream that creeps into her thoughts too often to ignore. She imagines herself striding the halls of the Faunaburg Office Tower, the site of Fluffington ArCATecture, with the sophisticated air of Abigail Fluffington. She'll have to begin small, probably a few rooms in a strip mall. But she could do it. She's young, talented, confidant.

Smokey knocks on Abigail's office door, hoping that whatever project her boss wants to see her about is another stepping-stone on her way.

"Entré calls Ms. Fluffington. Ah, Smokerina. Do have a seat."

Smokey sits opposite Abigail, only the vast expanse of a mahogany desk between her and the elegant cream-colored Persian.

We have landed a huge account. Never one for small talk, Abigail gets right to the matter at paw. It was Rufus Tailwagger's idea. He was so excited when he told me about it. You know how that dog is. Once he gets an idea into his head, he's like a... well like a dog with a bone, I suppose.

Smokey knows all about Rufus Tailwagger. He's one of the best PR dogs in the business; a huge Siberian Husky with piercing blue eyes and a long, bushy tail that's always wagging. The more excited he becomes, the more his tail wags. Once while explaining an idea for one of his dog parks to the Fluffington staff, his tail became so animated that he accidentally swatted Paulie Pomeranian clear across the room. Paulie was fine and Rufus was horribly embarrassed, but it did serve as a warning to give a wide berth to that dog's tail.

What's his idea? Smokey asks, trying hard to feign interest in yet another variation on a dog park.

As you may know, Rufus has some close feline friends. On his last visit to them they started talking about the plethora of dog parks in Faunaburg while there's nothing at all for cats.

Smokey's ears twitch. Is he suggesting a cat park?

I suppose you could call it that, though it would be quite different from a dog park, cats having other needs. Rufus wasn't exactly sure what should be in it, not being a cat himself, though his friends did make a few suggestions. A catnip garden, some weatherproof kitty condos, etcetera, etcetera. Abigail waves her paw like a queen dismissing a servant.

Do we have a space for it? Smokey asks.

Yes, the lot behind those old high rises. You know, off Rodent Way.

Rodent Way? Did he think that was a good place for a cat park?

It has very nice features. It's large. There are lots of tall trees for climbing and claw sharpening. The soil has good drainage so there's no pooling of water anywhere that will get our feet wet or create mud puddles after a rain. Abigail's lips curl ever so slightly. That's precisely the reason the dogs have never wanted it. They do so like to roll in mud, though heaven knows why.

Did Rufus have any other ideas besides catnip and condos? Smokey asks, deciding not to push the idea of looking for a different location yet.

That's where you come in. Abigail leans across the desk as if about to impart a state secret. You may be surprised to learn this, Smokerina, as I'm sure it doesn't show, but I am well into my seventh life.

Smokey does not have to feign her shock, not that she isn't aware of Abigail's advancing age, but that the Grand Dame Fluffington is actually admitting to it.

I know it's hard to believe. Abigail wraps her feather duster tail around herself so that the tip rests on the edge of the desk and strokes it lovingly with a freshly licked paw.

I'm going to be forthright with you, Smokerina. This is the largest account we've ever received. Rufus mentioned it to Miguel Gato. He loved the idea so much he purchased that land parcel from the city.

Smokey's jaw drops. Miguel Gato, owner and CEO of Gato Enterprises, a multi-national firm he inherited from his father who inherited it from his father before him, is the single wealthiest cat in Faunaburg.

We're talking millions, Smokerina. He wants to go all out. It will be the first cat park in Faunaburg. For all I know, it may be the first in the world. It must be both tasteful and spectacular.

Smokey swallows hard. That's a tall order.

Indeed, it is, but you're my best architect. I want you on this project. Delegate everything else you're working on now to the rest of the staff. Include some of the best juniors to bring them up a notch or two. Dedicate all your time and effort to this project.

Stunned, Smokey stares at Abigail.

Well? Do you accept the project? The tip of Abigail's tail thumps the desktop.

Yes, of course! I never dreamed of such an opportunity.

Abigail's tail stops thumping as she smooths the tip with her paw.

Surprised? Your work is brilliant. Abigail leans in close again. If this is a success, I'll make you my partner. If and when I do retire, Fluffington's will be all yours.

Smokey draws in a sharp breath. Excitement, anxiety, confusion, and joy all combine in one inexplicable emotion.

Oh, Miss Fluffington, this is amazing! I can't even...I don't know what to say!"

Take a moment to collect yourself, my dear. You must succeed at this project first.

Smokey nods. Of course. I won't let you down, Ms. Fluffington!

It's taken me decades of hard work to build this firm. I want to be sure that after I'm gone it's in the paws of a cat capable of carrying on what I've started. Now, let's go tell the rest of the staff. Abigail rises from her chair. About the new account and you taking the lead on it, that is. The rest is between us. You understand, Smokerina?

I do.

Good. I'll call Rufus and Miguel to tell them you've agreed to take on the project. Rufus will want to meet with you. Stay out of the way of his tail. I'll have the surveyor's maps, city ordinances, permits, etcetera, etcetera on your desk by lunchtime. Congratulations, Smokerina. I am available anytime for consultation. I’ll expect frequent updates and detailed reports.

Smokey fights the urge to jump to the top of the window frame and leap from one to the next. Instead, she follows her boss out of the office and stands proudly beside her as Abigail calls together the entire staff of Fluffington’s. Smokey barely registers the applause and congratulatory head bonks.

Once the staff returns to work, Smokey makes a beeline for the basement. There she races up and down the hallways, doing zoomies in and out of the janitors' quarters, sending squirrels and chipmunks diving into mop buckets for cover. She runs until she's exhausted and can safely return to her office with some semblance of composure.

* * *

I'll start with the birthday cake, thinks Autumn Amelia. She sets out all her baking implements, ready to begin.

Autumn produces her creations for a local bakery, Furry Confections. When she began with Furry's she worked on the premises. Soon Tabby Furry, the bakery owner, noticed two things. First, Autumn was the best baker Tabby had ever encountered. Phenomenal was the word Tabby used. Not only could she make bakery staples to perfection she also concocted new recipes so delicious that customers began asking for special orders made specifically by Autumn Amelia. Sales increased to the point where Tabby had to hire two bakers to handle the everyday items so Autumn could focus on her special creations.

The other thing Tabby noticed was that food was disappearing. A customer might stop in to pick up a batch of cookies. Plenty had been baked, some had sold, but there should have been some left. Yet they had all vanished. This happened with several items. One day Tabby strolled through the back of the main kitchen, an area set aside for Autumn, and found her deep in thought, writing out ideas, while absentmindedly eating one salmon scone after another. The container for those scones was supposed to be under the glass in the shop's counter.

Tabby confronted Autumn, who apologized, explaining that eating while she worked gave her inspiration for new desserts. I need different tastes in my mouth. It inspires me.

But do you have to eat so much? Tabby asked.

I only ate one, said Autumn.

Really?

Autumn followed Tabby's outstretched paw pointing towards the bin and gasped.

That bin was full, Autumn.

Both cats stared. There were only two scones and some crumbs.

Oh my! said Autumn. I must have been too lost in thought. I'm terribly sorry. But look what I've made, she said, grabbing a nearby loaf pan. The aroma of warm cinnamon wafted under their noses. Autumn cut a slice of the pound cake she had just covered in salmon mousse frosting and handed it to Tabby.

Of course, the salmon mousse cinnamon pound cake began flying out of the shop as fast as Autumn could bake it.

Autumn promised to be more careful about her inspirational snacking. She had every intention of making good on her promise. For her part, Tabby tried hard to overlook Autumn's indiscretions. It was obvious that she was a baking genius and honestly didn't realize how much she was eating during her lapses into a trance-like state while new recipes presented themselves in her head.

Autumn, however, was simply incapable of keeping her promise. One afternoon as she was spreading a delicate ocean white fish frosting over a cookie with the circumference of a small cake, Autumn overheard Tabby talking on the phone in her office.

I just don't know what to do, she heard Tabby complain. She's the best baker I've ever known, and I come from a long line of bakers. She's turned Furry Confections into one of the most popular spots in Wild Whisker Ridge. Customers are coming from surrounding towns just to try out something made by Autumn Amelia. Without her we'd just be a run-of-the-mill bakery. On the other paw, she's eating all my regular inventory and my other bakers are frustrated when they can't find ingredients and the customers get peeved when we've run out of bakery staples early in the day. Why just today a cat came in for a box of tuna chip cookies and there were none to be had. The cookie jar was missing, and I had nothing to offer. That jar was on the counter and full to the brim the last time I checked. I'm in a terrible quandary.

Well, that's just ridiculous, Autumn thought. She must know I brought the cookie jar back here for inspiration, but I only ate a couple, and she could have come and boxed some up for her customer. Autumn sighed. I suppose I can do it myself and put them out front.

She grabbed some empty boxes from the shelf and set them next to the jar, then put her paw in to draw out some cookies. Deeper and deeper went her paw until all she could feel was the ceramic bottom and a few crumbs. Autumn drew out her paw and stuck in her head.

Oh dear, she said to the inside of the cookie jar. I've done it again.

Pulling her head out, she picked it up and carried it to Tabby's office. She knocked and when Tabby called, Come in, she set the jar on her boss's desk. I'm afraid we have a problem, she said.

Tabby peered into the empty jar then looked at Autumn. Yes, Autumn, I'm afraid we do.

With tears glistening in her eyes, Autumn removed her baker's apron with the words FURRY CONFECTIONS emblazoned across the front and held it out to Tabby.

Autumn, what are you doing? You're not quitting, are you?

What else can I do? I'm causing an awful problem for you, but I can't stop eating everything. It seems to be the only way I can think up new recipes. Autumn began to cry so hard she could no longer talk.

Tabby stood and threw her arms around Autumn. No, you can't go. No one can bake like you. Let's sit down and think about this.

I can't think of a way to solve this problem, said Autumn, taking a seat across from Tabby's desk.

I can't afford to lose you, Autumn. On the other paw, I can't afford to lose half my inventory, either.

They sat quietly for a while, Tabby thinking hard about a solution. Suddenly, Tabby said, I've got it! How would you feel about working from home? You could do your baking there and eat all the treats you want. I'll even supply a few to help you with your inspiration. When we get special requests, I'll send you a list. When you finish, you can bring everything over or I can send a courier, so you won't have to waste time driving back and forth. That way you'll still be working for Furry's but you won't be tempted to eat everything in the shop.

That would be wonderful! said Autumn, sorry to be exiled from the bakery, but delighted that Tabby had found a way to keep her on staff.

And I'm going to give you the title of Specialty Baker, said Tabby. And a raise to go with it.

Really? asked Autumn, feeling a little better about herself.

Your special confections are what bring in the customers and keep them coming back.

On the way home that day, Autumn wondered how to explain to it all to Smokey. As she neared the cottage, Autumn thought, I think I'll start with, guess what, Smokey. I got a promotion and a raise today!

* * *

It has been two years since Autumn began baking for Furry's from home. Today's first order is a cake for a kitten's birthday party. Autumn chooses a cake mold in the shape of a party dress. After adding her favorite secret ingredient — powdered moths — she makes the dough and pours it into the mold. While the cake bakes, Autumn mulls over flavors and designs for the frosting while absentmindedly munching from a jar of candied dragonfly wings. By the time the cake is finished baking she has decided on a light ocean whitefish butter cream with tuna flavored polka dots. The buzzing of the timer pulls her from her reverie, and she looks at the candied wing in her paw. Wouldn't these make adorable bows for the party dress? she thinks, popping the wing into her mouth.

Once the cake is cool enough, she whips up the frostings. Autumn deftly spreads the whitefish butter cream across the dress-shaped cake making frills down the front and ruffles along the hemline. She squeezes the tuna polka dots here and there all over the cake, careful to keep them all close to the same size.

And now for the finishing touch. Autumn goes back to the table and grabs the glass jar that, just this morning had been full of candied dragonfly wings, only to find it completely empty.

Oh no! she exclaims. I've done it again! She looks at the dress cake and thinks how perfect it would be with a row of dragonfly wings down the center and a few more at the waist. They would have looked like perfect little ribbons, she says, stamping her paw.

Candied dragonfly wings are Autumn's own creation. She's made a wide array of insects an integral part of her baking, but dragonflies are her favorite. She carefully cooks them with sugar and leaves them to dry and cool for hours until they become hard like sugar candy. It's a long, complex process, but the result, glistening wings in brilliant colors that burst with sweetness when crunched, can't be beat for either taste or beauty.

Why did I have them out here? She wonders. I didn't even know I was going to use them until I started thinking about the frosting.

Autumn looks over her list of orders again and then at all the ingredients set out for the day's work. Aha! she exclaims. "The toasted crickets are