if you’re not.”
Ruta pulled a faux leopard skin coat from a rack and held it up to Felicia.
“This is so you, kittykat.”
She helped Felicia slip into it, then spun her around and took hold of the collar with both hands. “I’ll miss you. Stay as sweet as you are.”
The shopkeeper grimaced as Ruta kissed Felicia on the lips.
“And always listen to Granny. She’s a very wise old dear.”
115
The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller
22
“Felis silvestris grampia.”
Felicia spent a full hour researching species of small wildcats before settling on the nearly extinct Scottish wildcat. The European, Asian and African subspecies might have been bigger, more powerful hunters, but based on the pictures she found online, the Scottish “Highland Tiger” cat had the most distinguished coloration. Most of the smaller wildcats bore a close resemblance to domestic cats, particularly in their coloring and facial features. Felicia knew that would complicate her efforts to transition up to a new, more formidable feline.
The differences in coloration between the Scottish wildcat and the Maine Coon were subtle, to say the least. Would the fine black lining and rusty brown crosspatch on the nose of the wildcat be enough to spark her graduation to the next highest class of feline?
Don’t worry about it, she told herself. Ruta said intention and will power count. Just concentrate and imagine yourself as a wildcat.
As the sun went down she got her answer. Her transformation was much easier now than it had been the first few times. She knew it helped to strip down naked first, to keep focused on her reflection in the mirror, and to position herself in a way to accommodate the logistics of the shift without complications. By now she was used to the throbbing contractions of her muscles.
She rested a minute on the floor then leaped onto the vanity to check herself out in the mirror. Her image surprised her, and actually frightened her for a moment, until she realized she was staring at herself.
Aside from a body that was half again the size of a domestic cat, the most striking difference lay in her eyes. The aqua blue irises were as pretty as any cat’s eyes could be.
But above them was a menacing crease in her brow. A display of feral attitude that was evident at first glance.
As she admired her new incarnation she felt the untamed wildness of nature flowing through her core.
An eagerness to roam and hunt.
To exercise her teeth and claws.
An eagerness to kill.
***
Oogie wrapped both hands around the inch-thick base of the plant’s woody stem and pulled with all his might. He grunted and strained and repositioned his feet to try again. The roots of the plant finally lost their tenacious grip on the soil and Oogie tumbled backwards.
The musky perfume of marijuana resin filled the air, mingled with the piney scents of the forest. Oogie lifted the plant high, admiring the fat indica buds thick with sticky resin. Even in the gloom of the woods he could see the tiny white crystals that gave the weed its heavyweight punch, glistening like fairy sparkles in the night.
Nice.
He pressed a bud to his nose and sucked in a lungful of the heady fragrance.
Best harvest yet. I’m set for a whole ‘nother year.
Oogie was quite proud of his pot growing skills. It was the one thing he was good at, and he often fantasized about the day when marijuana would finally be legal and he’d morph overnight from a renegade outlaw into a prosperous law-abiding tax-paying farmer. Well, mostly law-abiding. Some of his favorite activities would never ever be legalized.
A twig snapped in the woods nearby. Oogie froze in place and looked around, eyes and ears peeled for signs that someone had followed him to his secret garden. He remained still for a good long minute, weighing his options and how to react if he found one of his buddies snooping around.
They knew he had a secret pot patch, because he shared a big portion of his
Ruta pulled a faux leopard skin coat from a rack and held it up to Felicia.
“This is so you, kittykat.”
She helped Felicia slip into it, then spun her around and took hold of the collar with both hands. “I’ll miss you. Stay as sweet as you are.”
The shopkeeper grimaced as Ruta kissed Felicia on the lips.
“And always listen to Granny. She’s a very wise old dear.”
115
The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller
22
“Felis silvestris grampia.”
Felicia spent a full hour researching species of small wildcats before settling on the nearly extinct Scottish wildcat. The European, Asian and African subspecies might have been bigger, more powerful hunters, but based on the pictures she found online, the Scottish “Highland Tiger” cat had the most distinguished coloration. Most of the smaller wildcats bore a close resemblance to domestic cats, particularly in their coloring and facial features. Felicia knew that would complicate her efforts to transition up to a new, more formidable feline.
The differences in coloration between the Scottish wildcat and the Maine Coon were subtle, to say the least. Would the fine black lining and rusty brown crosspatch on the nose of the wildcat be enough to spark her graduation to the next highest class of feline?
Don’t worry about it, she told herself. Ruta said intention and will power count. Just concentrate and imagine yourself as a wildcat.
As the sun went down she got her answer. Her transformation was much easier now than it had been the first few times. She knew it helped to strip down naked first, to keep focused on her reflection in the mirror, and to position herself in a way to accommodate the logistics of the shift without complications. By now she was used to the throbbing contractions of her muscles.
She rested a minute on the floor then leaped onto the vanity to check herself out in the mirror. Her image surprised her, and actually frightened her for a moment, until she realized she was staring at herself.
Aside from a body that was half again the size of a domestic cat, the most striking difference lay in her eyes. The aqua blue irises were as pretty as any cat’s eyes could be.
But above them was a menacing crease in her brow. A display of feral attitude that was evident at first glance.
As she admired her new incarnation she felt the untamed wildness of nature flowing through her core.
An eagerness to roam and hunt.
To exercise her teeth and claws.
An eagerness to kill.
***
Oogie wrapped both hands around the inch-thick base of the plant’s woody stem and pulled with all his might. He grunted and strained and repositioned his feet to try again. The roots of the plant finally lost their tenacious grip on the soil and Oogie tumbled backwards.
The musky perfume of marijuana resin filled the air, mingled with the piney scents of the forest. Oogie lifted the plant high, admiring the fat indica buds thick with sticky resin. Even in the gloom of the woods he could see the tiny white crystals that gave the weed its heavyweight punch, glistening like fairy sparkles in the night.
Nice.
He pressed a bud to his nose and sucked in a lungful of the heady fragrance.
Best harvest yet. I’m set for a whole ‘nother year.
Oogie was quite proud of his pot growing skills. It was the one thing he was good at, and he often fantasized about the day when marijuana would finally be legal and he’d morph overnight from a renegade outlaw into a prosperous law-abiding tax-paying farmer. Well, mostly law-abiding. Some of his favorite activities would never ever be legalized.
A twig snapped in the woods nearby. Oogie froze in place and looked around, eyes and ears peeled for signs that someone had followed him to his secret garden. He remained still for a good long minute, weighing his options and how to react if he found one of his buddies snooping around.
They knew he had a secret pot patch, because he shared a big portion of his
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