Cats and Breaks

Do all writers have cats? It’s the stereotype, isn’t it? I always imagined myself at my desk, a purring kitty either on my lap or perched beside me, giving me sage physic advice. And I have had those sorts of cats. In fact, the cat we lost two years ago was that sort; never bit, was always good natured, a furry meatloaf in his later years.

When my husband and I were thinking of a new cat I allowed him to make the decision. I knew I would love any feline because cats are my favorite animal. Gary, on the other hand, does love cats, but he also enjoys dogs, ferrets, fish, and who knows what else. As we live in a small condo we really only have room for one small beastie, not including his huge fish tank.

So Gary did a lot of research. He wanted something different. Something energetic. A play cat, he said. He chose an Osicat because the personality matched his requirements and because of the spots. And so we went to visit an Osicat cattery. Let me add here that folks who raise cats are, um, quirky. I won’t say the owner was a crazy cat lady, but you get the idea. Within two minutes of meeting her I heard way more information about Osicats and her personal life than I ever wanted to. But she did make it into a story. ;-) More on that next post.

Osicats don’t have any wild cat blood, although one could argue that point after meeting them; we were bombarded by about thirty kitties when we entered their space, all messing with each other and biting any butt they could sink their pointy teeth into. I was overwhelmed…all I could see was spots. But finally one little miscreant jumped on my shoulder and starting chewing my hair. She then leaped to Gary and nibbled his ear. Awe, so cute.

This is the one we picked. Gary named her Spriggan, after a hooligan Irish fairy. And it fits her; she can be the sweetest kitty ever, but she also bites, squawks like a banshee, licks you in the middle of the night, and is very demanding.

For example, one day last week I was writing and she brought me her stick. (She fetches). I ignored her. I was having trouble with a particular passage and I wanted to stay with it. She growled. I still kept writing. Then she bit me. I sighed. THIS is my writer’s kitty? But I got up and played before she could feast on any more ankle meat.

After that she curled up on a chair behind me (she is not a lap cat), and I settled back into my seat. And guess what? The chapter now flowed freely. Well what do you know, I needed to get up. Which sometimes I don’t do. I can stay glued to my seat for hours on end, never knowing what time it is until my husband startles me, home from work, with a cheery “have you been here all day?”

I think for me this is a combination of being in the corporate world of produce or die, my own driven personality, or perhaps the fear that my ideas will disappear if I don’t get them down. I’m better about taking breaks now. But the tendency will always be there.

So perhaps the cat I got is the cat I need; Spriggan reminds me that play, activity, and a connection to something other than my books are all very important. Besides, if I never leave the house, where would I meet all those fascinating people to base my characters on like that very interesting cat lady?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need another band aid.