Welcome to My Website and Blog

It’s the New Year, and I hope to blog a little more often in 2016. I’ve been busy completing a mystery novella, and submitting essays, short stories, and flash fiction. I’m also sending query letters to agents for a contemporary novel I’ve completed, “Bag and Baggage,” and a spiritual memoir, “With a Blind Eye.”

Also in the works for this year:

  • A collection of humor pieces
  • A mystery novel
  • More flash and short stories
  • A mystery novella

Thanks for visiting my site!

Karin Gall

Email: karingall24@yahoo.com


Hooked on Treats

Published in I LOVE CATS Magazine May/June 2002
by Karin Gall

Normally, our cat is a lovable feline, but thanks to kitty treats she’s well, a bit disagreeable at times.

Dustmop is the bundle of fur that we adopted eight years ago after she crawled out from under the window well of our house. What began as a ragtag stringy kitten is now a battleship gray and alabaster-white longhaired beauty. Her gray face is marked with a triangle of white at the corner of each eye and all four paws are snowy, save one.

From the very beginning, Dustmop made it clear that food is the center of her existence, and thus it became the bane of our lives. Somehow we got in the habit of sharing tidbits of food from our plates during snacks and meals. Dustmop, it turns out, has sophisticated tastes. None of this garbage in lead crystal glass for her. No sirree, she likes tuna (people tuna, in spring water, if you please), crab, shrimp, and other delights along with her dry cat food.

That’s okay. We don’t mind spoiling her. But the person I would like to meet is whomever invented cat treats. Treats (Whisker Lickin’s Double Delights) have turned our normally docile lap cat into a rogue tiger. These Purina treats come in shrimp, tuna, chicken and liver flavors.

They’re crunchy, bite-size nuggets shaped like fish that really pack a wallop. They have a double meat flavor and Dustmop loves them! The box recommends up to 14 pieces a day for cats 5 to 10 pounds. They’re kidding, right? Would you believe she eats an entire can a day?

This cat goes nuts if you even go near the cupboard that houses the treats. Dustmop requires treats at least 4-5 times per day. Anyone that hits the kitchen door gets nailed.

“Meowwrrr, purr,” Dustmop says as she wiggles full length on the floor in front of her favorite cupboard. I walked past her to grab a cup out of the cupboard. I was late getting ready for work. I started to walk around the corner to sit at the dining room table.

“Grrrowlll…” Dustmop moans at she swipes at my silk slacks with a warning shot.

I grabbed the treats. “Honestly Dustmop, you are so spoiled. Why don’t you eat the breakfast I fixed for you?” I said, sprinkling some treats onto the floor.

“Crunch, crack, chomp, chomp, chomp,” was my answer.

My husband shook his head. “I think the treat manufacturer is pretty sneaky. These treats must have the equivalent of kitty cocaine in them or something. When Mops has them in her system, she won’t eat anything else. The good thing is that they’re crunchy so her teeth like razors—excellent qualities during mousing season.”

“Humph,” I snorted.

So, don’t give them to her you may say. Yeah, well, that’s easier said than done. You don’t have to listen to her whine and growl until
she gets them. We’ve tried gradually easing back her portions, another brand of treats, everything. She won’t relent.
I now have Pavlov’s kitty. It’s disgusting.

In my opinion, the treat company created this habit, and I think they should help cure it. They have an obligation to pay for Dustmop’s
drying out fee. Surely there is a Betty Ford clinic for cats somewhere that will admit her. And, since these types of facilities are
sure to be expensive, we’re going to need some type of government grant or financial assistance.

That makes sense. After all, some government regulatory agency must have approved these treats for market. So in effect, they need to bear some of the responsibility for Dustmop’s condition. I certainly don’t want to be put in the position of signing over all my assets in exchange for Dustmop’s treatment. If that happens, I’ll be eating cat food after I’m retired while Dustmop would have existed on the best life has to offer.

But, since I REALLY love my cat, it’s hard to deny her.


Sigh. “Coming, Dustmop.”


The Chocolate Whizz-Way

I sent my husband for his yearly check-up at the doctor’s and now he won’t speak to me. No one over 50 will talk about it, but there’s a procedure that’s part of most routine physicals called a colonoscopy. To make liberal use of a reference from a Whoopie Goldberg movie—they check your “chocolate whizz-way” for abnormalities. At first glance, that doesn’t sound too bad. I pictured a plastic-gloved doctor poking his finger in the dark corner of hubby’s anatomy. Nope, they have specialized equipment and a doctor called a gastoenterologist for this little procedure.

I’m confused. When we’re little, we’re prompted by our parents to consider different career paths. Some of us dreamed about becoming firemen, others lawyers, some writers, still other doctors. Those of us lucky enough to make it into college explored our options even further. But who the heck said, “When I grow up I want to stick tubes up someone’s butt for a living?” From what I gather, that’s pretty much what happens.

My first suspicion that this wasn’t just a routine poke and feel was when they sent papers home advising that hubby would need a chauffer.

“It says here that you’ll need a driver. I guess they need to sedate you.”

“Oh yeah. They always put drops in my eyes.”

“Not the eye doctor. We’re talking about the other end.”

A look of panic crossed his face. “I thought it was just an x-ray or something.”

“Well, I guess it is, but since they have to send something up that dark passage, I guess they’re trying to make it pain-free.”

“Hmm, sedation…can’t drive…maybe we should delay this until after vacation.”

“I don’t think so. It took a while to get the appointment. Colon cancer is serious.”

“Look, I’ve been poked and prodded enough. First it was the nurse at the lab that looked like she hadn’t passed her driving test. I’m still black and blue.”

“Then, I had to do the smear thing when I went to the bathroom in the mornings. I still think they need to send rubber gloves with that kit.” He shuddered. “That reminded me of changing diapers years ago. I can’t believe we had to mail that package to the lab. Yuck.”


“Now, I have to submit to someone putting a piece of Plexiglas up my butt. Who thinks up this stuff anyway?”

“It’s known as advanced medical procedure.”

“More like advanced torture.“ What else?”

“Well, it says here you can’t eat certain things 48 hours before the test including nuts, seeds, and red gelatin. Hey, get those nuts out of your mouth.” I swiped at him and missed.

He swallowed. “Too late.”

“Then the day before the test, clear liquids only. I’ve got your beef broth all ready for tomorrow.”

“That’s it? That’s all I get?”

“No, I threw in some orange gelatin too.”

“Big of you.”

“Then, you have to drink a gallon of some liquid and sequester yourself into the bathroom for the evening. I’ll get the fan going and put some lit candles in the bathtub.”

“Candles? Is the priest coming to give me last rites or something?”

“Uhmm, no, it’s for the smell. I don’t think the bathroom fan will handle it all.” I smirked. I still remembered his platitudes when I gave birth. “In case you’re interested, I got you lemon-lime.”

“Lemon-Lime what?”

“The flavor of the liquid you need to drink for your cleansing. Yes sir, your insides will be cleaner than a politician’s bank account at election time.”

“You better be kidding.” His face flushed with anger. “The doctor didn’t mention this.”

“The paper says it takes about two hours for the procedure.”

“Two hours? No way. Well, he’d better not get too close. That chili I had over the weekend is doing strange things to my stomach.”

“Afterwards, they do a consultation to advise what they’ve found.”

“What the heck could they find? My entire body will be pretty much liquid free.”

“Yeah, pruny.” I giggled. I couldn’t help it.

“That’s okay. You can make light of the situation, but remember your physical is scheduled for next month.

“Oh, that’s right.” My stomach cramped.

An evil grin crossed his face. “Yes, and I’ll be glad to be your chauffeur. In fact, I’m really looking forward to it.” He whistled as he left the room.


Karin Gall

Published  2002

Canadian Health Magazine