WEARY IS THE WRITER—THOUGH FAR FROM UNHAPPY
I had high hopes of getting a great deal of work done on Sunday—I am ever the optimist in that regard—and the guest cats got me up by 8.00am.
I believe in sleeping in at weekends, but clearly they do not. Chester is the howler in all this—and he has a complete repertoire of disturbing sounds—but when the food is delivered in their stainless steel bowls, Charlie morphs into front and center and assumes a swordsman’s stance—though she is a female cat with only three legs.
Chester is terrified of her—and I may be close behind him. That said, Charlie has enormous charm—and a black-eyed look to die for. She has taken to leaping onto my desk—trashing any and all papers encountered in the process—and then leaping onto me.Then the purring starts and I get both licked and bitten. Charlie’s bite is both firm, but gentle. It inhibits my ongoing pl0tting to murder both her and Chester. The wretched creature is trading on my emotions. I sit and stroke her and contemplate ear-muffs. The purring is that loud. She is an elderly cat and sheds white fur everywhere.
I had hoped to get more done on Sunday, but I allowed myself to be distracted by both the cats and this blog—and the need for sleep. I worked and I dozed.
Perhaps that was a good thing. Last week was long and hard—albeit immensely satisfying—and rest is wonderful. I just wish I was better at it. Once I’m up, I work.
Before I go, let me tell you about an odd thing. If I am truly in the zone—fully focused on writing—even if Charlie and Chester are due to be fed, they stay quiet. Clearly they have empathy.
It truly does make you wonder.
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