The SEC and the bookstore.


This is one of the first times I took Tokie out in his role as the Seeing Eye Cat. Many of you guys have read of our earlier adventures, but not this one. I’ve kept two stories hidden, and I’m in the process of trying to find out if the other one can be posted.  The other one has only been heard by two Arfcommers, SgtHoskins and Offctr.  

I’m not worried about the criminal liability of this one because it’s water under the bridge. I very seriously doubt the police are interested in this as of now. I also never posted it because I sort of lost the fight and the victors write history. I didn’t get away with this one cleanly.

Far away and long ago, Tokie and I wandered into a bookstore. On a short leash, I could make it look like the kitty was leading me around.

When we got in the door, I stopped for a moment and said in a clear, loud voice “Is there a service desk nearby?”

A teenager answered, “I’ll come and get you.”

“I heard you. Don’t bother.” I replied.

And Tokie and I went over to the service desk.

I took my cane and gently felt around for feet and asked whomever if I was in line.

“One step to your right,” someone answered.

I stepped to the right.

“One step forward.”

I stepped forward.

“You got it. I’m the guy in front of you, I’ll get you there,” said the voice.

“Thanks, Pal,”

“Nice looking cat you got there. He ain’t no guide animal, is he?”

“Managed Health Care,” I said. “Bastards wouldn’t get me a dog.”

“Oh, my Gawd!” he exclaimed.

“Hey, half a loaf’s better’n none,” I answered.

We made small talk, as we were third and fourth in line. Finally, I worked myself to the head of the line.

The teenager asked me what I wanted.

“Do you have a basic book that teaches Braille?” I asked.

She proved herself to be an imbecile.

“Down that row,” she started.

“He can’t see. Directions are worthless to him. Take him there,” Said the woman behind me. “Let him take your arm. Damned kids.”

“Either that, or she could tell my cat,” I chuckled. “Thank you.”

A few people laughed.

She came around the desk and gave me her arm and carefully led me to the bookshelf.

“Hand me a basic book on learning Braille, please.” She did, and led me over to the top of a low shelf and opened it.

“I’ll be OK,” I told her. “Just need to show the little guy a few things. Someone will be here to pick me up.”

She went back to the desk.

I opened the book to the ABCs part and touched the raised letters as if I were reading them. Then I picked up Tokie. I touched his paw to the raised letters.

“This is ‘A’”, I said. “This is ‘B’…this is ‘C’…”

A few people passed me with a confused look on their face. A couple of the smarter ones snickered. They knew what I was up to.

It wasn’t long before the manager came charging up. She looked like a horrible old harridan with no sense of humor whatsoever.

“What are you doing,” she demanded.

“Seeing if I can teach my Seeing Eye Cat Braille,” I said.

“You gonna buy that book, or what?” she demanded.

“If it works, I’ll buy it. If not, I’m not.” I said simply.

“Baloney. Take your cat and get out of here.”

A big, beefy Irishman interrupted. “The guy’s blind, give him a break.”

Then the big fellow tipped his hand. He smirked at me and then winked. I almost lost it then and there, but somehow managed to hold it together.

“He’s not blind!” said the old bag.

“Then why does he have a Seeing Eye Cat?” the Irishman shot back. His breath smelled like he’d had a couple Jameson’s under his belt, sort of like I’ve had as I write this.

“Take your cat and leave,” she said to me.

I put the little guy back down on the deck and decided then and there that unless the police were called, I was damned well going to brass this one out. Deny it, even if they have pictures.

“Tokie, we’re out of here.” I said to kitty.

Wickedly, I gave the little guy a lot of leash. On a short leash, I could act like he really was a trained guide animal. On a long leash, I was at his mercy, so to speak.

“Keep a soft, civil tongue,” I said to the manager. “My animal doesn’t like fast movements or loud noises.”

“Just leave,” she said, sounding like a real shrew.

The cat, being a cat, took a short cut under a bench. I ran into it, almost went ass over teakettle and followed the leash. I crawled under the bench to follow. I got up on the other side and the little guy cut a corner and I plowed into a bookshelf and almost knocked it over. The old bag was not amused. The big Irishman almost wet his pants.

“Lady, quit scaring my animal.” I almost shouted.

Another ally appeared. A Birkenstock hoofed, braided armpit, liberal do-good Humboldt honey jumped in. Unlike the big Irishman who was feasting on the uproar, this idiot actually thought she had a liberal cause to support. She looked like the kind that got pissed off if you held the door for her. A real mouthy idiot.

There’s one good thing about these idiots, they’ll fight to the death for you if they think that they’re defending something idiotic.

“That’s a guide animal,” the Humboldt honey protested. “You’re scaring him.”

Tokie went under one of those chrome inverted U things with a metal base they put in aisles to advertise specials in. I plowed into it and knocked it down. It got tangled in the leash and I fumbled around with it, set it back up and felt under the crosspiece and followed the leash. I crawled through the hole.

“Lady, you’re scaring the animal,” protested the big Irisher.

A glance told me that he was trying not to wet his pants. He was positively amused. On the other hand, out little Humboldt Honey was ready to go to defend the rights of the blind and their Seeing Eye Cats.

“You’re scaring the poor man’s guide animal,” she shrieked.

That started to draw a crowd. A couple more people showed up.

The old harridan started to freak. “Margaret, call the police,” she shouted.

“Yeah! Call the police,” shouted the Humboldt Honey.

“Call the fuzz,” laughed the Irisher. “This old bag is assaulting a blind man.”

A voice from the desk: “What should I tell them?”

“The man’s not blind,” shouted the old bag.

“Then why does he have a Seeing Eye Cat!” shouted the laughing Irisher and the serious minded Humboldt Honey in unison.

“Tell the police the man’s not blind?” asked the teenager behind the desk.

By this time, the cat was the only one in the whole place that knew the right thing to do.

He made a beeline and led me to the east wall where there was a door and he started scratching it. It was a fire door, alarmed with a panic bar. I mimed feeling the perimeter of the door.

“That’s a fire door,” shouted the old bag.

“Push it! It’ll get you outside!” shouted the Irishman.

I pushed the panic bar, the door opened and as the alarm went off, I shuffled out the door. The Irishman followed, laughing himself silly. “I have to buy you a drink,” he said.

The old bag freaked. She ran to reset the alarm and call the fire department to cancel the call. AND call the police.

But when she went for the phone, she gave me the instant I was looking for. I scooped up kitty and started off.

“This way, I got a van,” said the Irishman. “And I got a bottle!”

We wove through the lot and the three of us ducked into his van. He had a jug of Irish there, but thank God it wasn’t too full. I took a snort.

He fired up the van and parked it in a ringside seat where we could see through the storefront window.

We spent the next 45 minutes in the van peeping out the windows watching the police go into the bookstore, interview people and leave. The Humboldt Honey took the longest. We both knew that she was trying to hang the store manager for abusing a poor blind man.

Finally the poor police officer left. The look on his face was priceless. He looked like he was going to close one eye and fart because he knew he didn’t know whether to shit or go blind!

I never pulled a Seeing Eye Cay foray in that township again.


And I really miss the little guy.

Another classic.

Thanks.

Must... Stop... Crying.....

Another great story pic!

We all miss him too.

I hope someday to hear the story that can't be told.

Awesome!

Cant.....stop......laughing......
RIP SEC

...

That is, BY FAR, the most hilarious thing I have EVER read.  Awesome!!!!!!!!!!

Damn... I'm laughing so hard I got tears in my eyes... really its from the laughing...

Rest In Peace.

Tokie "The SEC" is my favorite Arfcommer.

Sniff.

Was not going to drink tonight, but will hoist one in memory of the SEC.  

Aviator

I missed all the other SEC stories, but this one is hilarious. May he rest in peace.

ETA: Do any team members have the links to the previous SEC stroies?

OH! MY! GOD!  It's a good thing I wasn't drinking just then, I would need a new laptop!  



Vulcan94

Tokie

That's interesting.

I never know the SEC's real name before now.

To good memories of a good companion, Tokie.  May he rest in peace.

For those of us who joined the SEC saga late, is there a collection of all of the SEC adventures somewhere?

people like that irishman restore my hope for the country.

Picc, if you are ever in Union county, drinks are on me.


- BG

You are a very gifted writer!

HH

An Irish toast to Tokie!!

The SEC stories rank are the greatest!

Thanks.

Damnit, now I'm sitting here all alone in my empty house, haven't seen my wife or my 9 cats for 6 weeks, and I'm crying my eyes out after reading this.  Sigh.  I've said it before, but I'll say it again - I'm so very sorry for your loss, Picc.

Woody

Man I seriously believe that you should put all your stories together inot a book, if it didnt get published id be greatly suprised.


'The adventures of Tokie the Seeing Eye Cat.'

     'with owner Piccolo'

Thank you for sharing this one with us...

Absolutely entertaining !!  Two thumbs up !

RIP SEC


LB

It never gets old!

Thanks, pic, and thanks for the memories, Tokie.

Unreal. thanks for sharing, and sorry again for your loss.

.

“Managed Health Care,” I said. “Bastards wouldn’t get me a dog.”


BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA !!!    


With everything I've been through lately, that was TOO frickin funny !

Thanks Pic   I really needed the laugh.

that was awesome

Anxiously awaiting news of a book of all the SEC stories..

Tokie AKA: The Seeing Eye Cat

You shall be missed.

Quoted: I missed all the other SEC stories, but this one is hilarious. May he rest in peace. ETA: Do any team members have the links to the previous SEC stroies?

You wish is answered!!!

As you know, the SEC is getting pretty old, and really isn’t getting around on the Seeing Eye cat circuit too much these days, which is a part of life. He’s coming near to the end of his. I’m sure going to miss the little bastard when he’s gone. We’ve sure had a hell of a lot of fun together. Last year, I asked you guys to write the CO at Camp Perry and ask if I could get an exception made to the ‘No Pets on Post’ rule. The CO’s email box was stuffed. Which really made no difference because I couldn’t get the time from work to go to Perry, anyway. Oh, well. Still, Commanding Officers do not like having their in-boxes stuffed with requests for permission to bring Seeing Eye Cats on post, and I sort of thought that someone might be laying for me. I was right. Sort of. Anyway, I was at Perry and happened to run into a familiar face from a couple of years back. Maybe even last year. Although I get to Perry pretty much annually, I generally get to shoot High-power every other year. When I’m not shooting, it’s usually a hectic run to shop on Commercial Row and stock up for a year’s worth of supplies and a couple T-shirts. The familiar face was Sp/4 National Guardsman and had served as an MP for the last couple of years. We chatted and I mentioned something about a guy supposedly planning to bring a Seeing Eye Cat on the post. He grinned. “Ya know, last year, we were supposed to be on the lookout for someone like that and run him and his cat off post if we saw him. Some idiot stuffed the CO’s email box by posting his email addy on some shooter’s forum or something. I don’t think he himself gave the order to run the guy off, but it came from somewhere,” he explained. “Yeah? I saw the guy with the cat and I can tell you for a fact that he’s here on post,” I said. “Really? The guy that wanted to bring his cat with him to the Garand match last year?” “The very guy. He’s got a cat with him, too.” “Huh,” he mused. “I think there was a case of beer or something as a reward for nailing his sorry ass.” “Well, he’s here,” I said. “I ought to check up on this,” he said. The seed was planted. I figured it’d take a couple hours before every MP on post was looking for the SEC. The battle of wits was on! Could I manage to hide the SEC from the MPs for three more days? This was going to be interesting. Of course, I had allies. Many ARFCOMMERS would stick their necks out a bit to help me get away with it, and there were a few junior shooters that know about the SEC and would help me out of youthful exuberance. Time to put word out that the chase was on. It didn’t take me long to get word out to my allies that the chase was on and the MPs were looking for the guy with the SEC. Of course, I had a distinct advantage in that they didn’t know exactly who it was that they were after. Sometimes the best place to hide is in the lion’s mouth. A pair of MPs was walking between clusters of hutments when the first shot was fired. A teenage girl I had quietly recruited at Celeste Denson’s CeCa earplug clinic fired it. I had been careful NOT to et Celeste know what I was up to. Although she has a wonderful sense of humor, she is a woman of great integrity. I didn't want her to get caught in the middle. The teenaged girl's brother was entering the family hutment as a pair of MPs went by, and she sang out in a loud voice. “Don’t let the cat out!” she fairly sang out to her brother. This was a pretty good shot. The MPs were smart enough not to be seen peeking into the hutment occupied by a female. Still, they moseyed down and hung out a bit. They were hoping that there was a cat in the hutment and that it escaped. I quietly walked past suppressing a smirk I new the 2 MPs would hang out there until they were called to go somewhere else. I grabbed the cat cage out of my pickup cap and took it inside my hutment and left it where it could be seen only by peeking through a window. I tied the end of his long leash to the top carry handle and opened the cage. I’ve done this in motel rooms before. Kitty gets a little running room and can’t escape when a door gets opened. This way, you don’t have to shout out a warning not to let the cat out when you receive a visitor. I doubted the MPs would be looking in this hutment for the SEC. KY23 knows. He kept quiet. I’d bet that you could have beaten him senseless before he’d say that there was a cat in the hutment, and for good reason. It was just as darkness was setting in when the second shot was fired, and it actually caused a pair of MPs to call another pair as sort of a backup. Half a dozen fired a volley when they started wandering around calling out for a lost cat. “Here, Kitty. Kitty, Kitty,” they sang out. When the MPs came around the corner after hearing it, they clammed up and shuffled round looking as guilty as hell. This caused the 2 MPs to call another pair and the 4 of them started calling out for the imaginary lost cat. The SEC was now well hidden from the MPs, there was no way in hell they were going to catch us. The following I took care of business. My teenaged girl co-conspirator fired another shot, with the expected results. She was glad to, as she wasn’t a shooter and was a bit bored. I shot the Springfield match that afternoon, and later that evening some of the young people fired off a couple shots. This kept the MP pretty busy. That evening a sharp-eyed Sp/4 bringing the cat cage to the pickup nailed me, but the MPs were to be disappointed. Here was no cat in it, and I was using is as a laundry hamper. For a second, there they acted like they’d brought a desperate criminal to justice. Disappointment. No cat, no crime. Later that evening, an ARFCOMMER was heard making cat meows. This drew a pair of bored MPs. But there was no cat to be found. No cat, no crime. The next day, I was slated to shoot the JCG on the afternoon relay. The morning was spent on commercial row. A shooter’s wife told me that she was shouting, “Don’t let the cat out!” every time her husband entered their hutment. I think her hubby was an ARFCOMMER. She noticed the MPs walked by their pace slowly. I shot the JCG match and spent the night at Perry, and left the following day around noon. I hadn’t been caught. Why was KY23 never going to admit to ever seeing the SEC? Simple. He hadn’t. The SEC had spent the whole time in Pittsburgh with Mrs Pic! The cat I had with me was a stuffed toy. Ya can’t catch a cat that ain’t there!

A lot of readers think that I have the little guy trained. Come on, think about it. Has anyone ever seen anyone get a cat to do anything that a cat didn’t want to do? Hah! Fat chance! You should live so long! No, a cat is a cat, and trying to get a cat to act like a dog is like trying to get a brick to carry on an intelligent conversation. On the other hand, one might have better luck with a brick. The SEC will walk with me on a damned short leash, but that’s about all. The only reason the little guy will do that is because he knows that it’s the only way he can get out of the house. Today I decided to take the little guy into Lowe’s. I also decided, rather foolishly, to put myself at the mercy of the little bastard. I decided to give him a long leash and see what happened. I short-leashed the little guy into Lowe’s and got him into the main aisle before I cut him some slack. The place wasn’t too crowded, so I felt safe doing so. Of course, being a cat, he promptly jumped on top of a display and took a nap, leaving me standing there with my thumb up my ass and a leash in my hand for about twenty minutes. I stood there and muttered threats, much like Popeye in the early cartoons. After about twenty minutes, I grew impatient and growled at him. He woke up, hopped off of the display and started down the aisle. After a couple aisles, he wandered into the tool cage, with me firmly attached to the little guy. Of course, someone offered to help me. “Yeah, could you direct me to the Paint Department?” I asked. He started to give me directions. I interrupted. “Don’t tell me, tell HIM.” I said shaking the leash. “The cat? Can I give him directions?” “Absolutely.” So the tool guy gets down on his knee and starts giving the cat directions. Of course, the cat looks at him with a bored look of scorn. When he’s done, I shorten up the leash and the two of us go straight to the paint department, with the tool clerk behind us, slack-jawed. We got to the paint department and the woman there asks us if she can help us. I tell her to get out a color chart and explain that the cat needs his scratching post and climbing post painted. She asks me what color. I tell her to ask the cat. I pick the little guy up onto the counter and she lays out a color chart. “What color do you want, kitty?” She asked. The cat sniffs the color chart like he’s trying to make up his mind. “Meow.” So I put him on the floor and tell the woman that we’ll be right back when Kitty decides. The woman looks astonished and we leave. Kitty seems to want to head in the direction of the lumber section, I give him slack and follow. He promptly cuts a corner and runs me into a post. Whack! “Ouch! Dammit, pay attention!” I almost shout. hear a snort behind me. A glance out of the corner of my eye tells me that the tool guy, probably at the direction of his boss, is following me. This is getting interesting. Kitty whips a U-turn and we’re back in the main aisle, still headed for lumber. We’re now dead center in the main aisle and ahead of us is one of those dopey signs announcing some type of sale. The frame of the sign is like an upturned U with a crossbar in the center, below the sign is a two-foot square hole. Of course, Kitty makes a beeline for it. Straight through the hole. I feel the obstacle with my cane, shove my cane in my belt, and gingerly feel the rim of the hole. I get down on my belly and crawl through and get up again. I shortened up the leash and picked up Kitty. “Next time you pull that stunt,” I tell him. “I’m going to replace you with a German Shepherd and take you straight to a Chinese Restaurant! Chin Ho offered me two fifty a pound for your sorry ass!” The woman beside me looks pretty shaken. She’s probably a cat owner. I put kitty down, he heads down another aisle, cutting the corner again, and I promptly run into a display and knock out the corner of it. There is now a pile of tape measures on the floor. “I’ll get it,” says the kid shadowing me. Kitty gets more threats, whips another U-turn, and we’re off toward the lumber department. By now, at least a dozen people are shadowing me. Some are amused, but most of them are looking out for my welfare. A management type seems to have figured me out, but dares not say or do anything, lest he be pounced on by an angry mob that will insist that kitty really is a Seeing Eye cat. A kid of about twelve or thirteen asks me a question. “Hey, Mister, were you born blind, or did you have an accident?” he asks. “What?” “What made you go blind?” “Masturbation,” I reply, seriously. “I didn’t believe the Nuns at school, but it really does make you go blind.” The kid pales and takes off. Probably a St Ignatius kid. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a guy about 40 trying not to pee his pants. Laughing his ass off, he says, “You probably ruined him for life.” We move on. Nearing the lumber department, I hear a voice. “Piccolo, is that you?” I ignore him. Dammit! Ratted out by a fellow ARFCOM member! Now I wish I had brought my chain saw! I’d cut the bastard lips to hips! So I ignore him. At the lumber department is a huge, wide open door, and kitty makes a beeline for it. Out we go and I shorten leash and we head for the pickup.

In Honor of the SEC:

After about a gallon of anti flatulence medication, I bout like to shit myself. Finally my innards settled down. OK, guys. You know the basics. We arrived at the polls in Bob’s full size pickup and Kitty and I got out and I grabbed my cane and sunglasses. I short leashed Kitty; he heeled pretty well and actually looked like a Seeing Eye cat is supposed to look. I took Bob’s arm and we entered the building and got in line. We’d been in line just about a minute when a poll worker came up and asked me if I had any special needs. That was nice of him. Bob answered him. “I’ve got 20/20 vision and need to be escorted to the booth by a blind man,” he said. “Err, Son, didn’t you mean that the other way around?” he responded. He was a pretty old guy, in his 70s. He could call us ‘Son’ if he wanted to. “Whatever,” I interrupted. Our asses were now covered. We had told the truth. We waited in line, and as to be expected, some big oaf passes by and damned near stepped on Kitty. Kitty responded with a vicious clawing of the asshole’s leg. Haven’t seen him do something like that in years. The asshole got pissed and mouthed off about animals in the polling place. “It’s a guide animal,” said a Soccer Mom. “I don’t care what it is, if he claws me again…” A lot of people started looking at the asshole, and he realized he wasn’t too popular. He made one more face saving threat. “Touch that animal and you’ll be shot dead!” said a voice behind me. I knew her. I ‘bout like to shit. It was the woman from down the street. She’s really nice, and is one of my admirers. She’s a real Amazon. “Blind people with Seeing Eye cats are permitted to carry licensed handguns to protect their cats from Seeing Eye dogs.” She said. “Federal Law. John Kerry fought for that bill, along with Ted Kennedy and Charles Schumer.” The poll worker came charging over and in a loud voice said something about no firearms in the polling pace. He nodded in my direction. “Except for him,” he said. “Sounds like something those idiots would do,” said an unknown voice. The whole line chuckled. The asshole didn’t know whether to shit or go blind, so he closed one eye and farted. He moved away. My neighbor lady chuckled. “Hey, Pic, wait’ll I tell my husband about this,” she said. We laughed. I patted my underarm. The Soccer Mom directly behind me looked concerned. Could it be true? Was the blind man packing? Silence. A little kid with his mother started trying to play with Kitty in a way I knew he didn’t like. I signaled Bob, who started coughing heavily. The instant everyone started looking worriedly at Bob, I cracked the little bastard with my cane. Whack! The little yard ape ran back to the safety of his mother. Smart little crumb snatcher, it ever I ever saw one. As we got to the front of the line, I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out an Irish Whisky bottle full of tea and took a healthy swig and passed it to Bob. He took a swig and offered it to the Soccer Mom behind us. She looked pretty upset and refused. Now the pistol packing blind guy is half in the bag? Legally? John Kerry sponsored the bill? WTF? When we were at the front of the line, the woman asked me my name, and I gave her Neighbor Bob’s. She dug out a card and asked me to sign it. No way in hell was I going to forge his signature, so I said to him, “Take the pen and keep my writing on the line. I’ll sign. We’ve done this before.” Bob took the pen, put it on the line and I placed my hand atop his and we buffaloed them. Our integrity was still intact. We had done nothing really wrong. It was really Bob’s signature. To ham it up a bit, Kitty led me right into a pole and I hit harder than I thought I was going to. I bounced off and plowed into a voting machine. It almost got knocked over! Close call. “You ought to take that damned cat to a Chinese restaurant” growled Bob. Everyone looked aghast. Except for the big guy that had felt the wrath of the SECs claws. “Yeah,” said the big oaf. “You keep out of this while you have a head on your shoulders,” said the Amazon from down the road. You even look at that kitty again and I’ll slap you silly!” Everyone looked at her and busted up. The big guy turned red. Again. Bob and I entered the booth and he voted. We started off. The Soccer Mom who was behind me mumbled something about this being the first time she’s voted for a Republican POTUS in her whole life. I guess she figured that she sure in hell wasn’t going to vote for anyone that would allow a blind drunk to carry a pistol. I say take the votes any legal way we can! I let Kitty lead me into another post on the way out. BAM! I hit again. “I need a fuckin’ drink,” I said, shaking my bruised head and pulling the Jameson’s jug out and taking a snort. This drew pretty good looks. Horrified looks. Then I short-leashed Kitty and the three of us stumbled across the lot, got in the pickup and started it up. A cruiser instantly blocked us. I rolled down the window. “You were drinking? Asked the LEO. I offered him the bottle of iced tea. He didn’t even sniff. He’s the same LEO that came to the house after we raised hell at Builder’s Square years ago. “Didn’t you learn when your wife made you sleep in the basement for six weeks?” he asked. He laughed and shook his head, got back into the car and drove off. Kitty gets steak tonight.

I am about to die here.  This is the funniest stuf I have read in a long long time.   I love this site.  

A toast to SEC.

The SEC was truly one of a kind.

For the day crew.

Tag.  

I was thinking about this, you could make a mint on this if you had it on video...   Or in a book as mentioned earlier, this is some really funny stuff.  

This is great....

RIP SEC

Tokie and Piccolo need their own SEC sitcom, with Chevy Chase playing Piccolo