Cowgirl Cat

Chapter 1

Happy Birthday

Today is the day!

That's the first thought that crosses my mind when I wake up. Actually, it's the second thought, the first being that my dog needs a serious breath mint. Pica's idea of a good morning wake-up call is licking my face and ears. I hate that. Especially the ears. But she's more reliable than my alarm clock, an old wind up clunker that probably belonged to my grandmother back in the 1800s or something like that.

But all of that is destined to change today. After all, today is my birthday.

I know I live in a world of rainbows and unicorns, purple horses and talking butterflies. At least that's what my mom always says. But birthdays are different. Birthdays are magical and full of happiness and joy, ponies and parties. On your birthday, the world centers around you and no one can take that away. Not even Alex, my older beast of a brother who lives to punch my arm and give me Indian burns when Mom isn't watching.

Nope. Not today. Even he has to be nice to me today. Unspoken rules of Birthday protocol.

I toss back the sheets, not caring that they fall to the floor. There's not a chance that I have to make my bed today. More benefits of being the birthday girl. No chores. No lectures. No bed-making.

"Come on, Pica!"

She wags her white tail and grins at me. She's a Chihuahua Rat Terrier mix and has the most adorable face, mostly black but with two little brown dots on each side of her mouth. When she's happy and panting, she looks like a cheerful clown. As I always say, simply adorbs!

"I bet Mom made chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast!" I jump out of bed and hit the ground running, full speed ahead.

Despite knowing my stepfather will have a fit, I bypass my slippers (hate slippers!). He has a thing. That's what we call it: a thing. He seriously freaks out over bare feet. Something to do about time he spent in Uganda or some weirdo place like that in Africa, working as a medic. He told me gross stories of worms in the soles of the feet because no one wore shoes. I don't think he appreciated my comeback; that every place in Africa is a total third-world country while America has medicine to get rid of disgusting things like that. Still, I eventually learned to honor his "thing" because dealing with his freak-outs is so not worth it.

Shuffling barefoot across the floor, I glance in the mirror. My long brown hair is a mess, hanging down my shoulders and poofy on top. Bedhead. And I have it bad. I run my fingers through the rat's nest and flatten it. Later, when I get dressed for school, I'll tie it up on top of my head in a messy bun. It's my signature hair-style. I like to think I started the trend, even if my older sister Brooke tells me otherwise.

I glance down at Pica who is doing her funny wiggle dance. She has to pee; I can tell. "Ready girl?" I fling open my bedroom door, half expecting to see a mound of presents waiting for me.

To my secret disappointment, nothing awaits me.

Downstairs, I tell myself. The gifts are probably downstairs.

I race down the steps, taking them two at a time. Pica is behind me. I can hear the little panting noise she makes when she runs. At the bottom of the steps, I leap into the air, skipping the first two steps and land on the hardwood floor with a thud.

"Goodness gracious, Cat!" Mom's already in the kitchen. I anticipate that she is making pancakes and, like Pavlov's dog, my mouth starts to salivate at the thought of maple syrup mixing with melted chocolate chips. Mom, however, lifts her hand to slow me down. "Easy there, girlfriend. It's not even seven o'clock!"