In my family, we never set out to get a cat. Our cats find us, for whatever reason, and grace our lives with their presence. Living with cats means writing with cats (see Writing with Cats 1: Famous Purrsonages). As even medieval monks can tell you, writing with cats presents challenges of its own.
These days we have two feline deities in our home. The first, Shadow, was a tiny feral ball of fuzz when Jack rescued her from a car engine. As a kitten, she hid in an engine for warmth, and the car owner couldn’t coax her out with tuna, treats, or countless entreaties. Then Jack peered under the hood, gleaming eyes peered back.
“Here, kitty,” he said, and plucked her from the darkness as easily as Arthur pulled the sword from the stone. Skittish kitty had chosen her human; who were we mere mortals to argue?
Shadow grew into an elegant mini-panther with a sleek black coat and long legs. As a writing partner, she seems pretty mellow. Occasionally she rubs her cheek on the corner of a notebook, but that’s all.
Jack claims she’s more aggressive, yowling at him for food, attention, or admittance to the basement—which may or may not be “Shadow’s Torture Dungeon.” When we haven’t seen our neighbors in a while, Jack gets suspicious. I haven’t heard screaming lately, so I’m sure it’s fine.
Josie, meanwhile, is her own kind of kitten. This tiny tuxedo literally “knocked” on our door one night, sprang inside, and hasn’t left since. She weighs only four and a half pounds, several ounces of which are curly white whiskers and twitchy tail.
She also loves sitting on open laptops and keyboards. Jack swears she’s going to start her own website. Her derriere is dangerously dexterous, so he may be right.
Maybe she’s drawn by the warmth of the keyboard, but I suspect something more nefarious is afoot. Josie’s tiny butt has renamed files, added tags, sent chat messages on Facebook, and taken a screenshot of herself on Zoom. She can even open iTunes all by herself, hitting play on songs from ABBA and heavy metal tracks.
I guess her tastes are diverse . . . I didn’t even know those songs were on my hard drive, much less that Josie was such a “dancing queen.” At least she hasn’t figured out how to order “Fancy Feast” on Amazon, although she’s probably working on it.
You know, we never have this kind of trouble with the dogs.
