Cats and Writers

What is it about cats and writers? Think about Hemmingway’s famous six-toed kitties and Cleveland Armory’s "Best Cat Ever." Cats and writers have a connection. Why?

I’ve always had a cat hanging around my desk. A feline is usually laying on the laptop, trying to drink from my water glass, or swatting at my pen. Sometimes we have disagreements. Sometimes we have full-blown arguments, like when my official office cat, Baby, decided to start spraying in the house. (After a stint on house arrest in the office, he’s been released, although he’s definitely still on probation. More about that in a moment.) Cats tend to be both stubborn and mysterious, little four-legged conundrums. Their moods and behavior can flip unexpectedly. When a cat decides that the belly rubbing session is over, he may quickly transform from an affectingly purring pet to a cranky creature with teeth and claws. I believe it’s that independent, unpredictable, inscrutable nature that draws writers to cats. If we could interview a cat, I think they might say the same about us.

Writers are almost as enigmatic as cats, at least to non-writers (and perhaps dogs). Think about it. There you are, working on an idea, mapping out that essay or story, when the phone rings or someone asks you to pass the salt, snapping you back into present time. Do you sweetly respond, or do you snarl, “Can’t you reach the salt yourself?” See, you’re acting just like that cat who has had enough belly rubbing. Just as you don’t know why Mr. Cat’s had enough, the unsuspecting person who wants the salt doesn’t know that you’ve just lost a piece of your plot over a condiment.

Study a cat’s behavior and personality, and you’ll find loads of material for characterization. Don’t get me wrong—plenty of dogs are overflowing with character (take Marley in Marley and Me, for instance)—but dogs are generally people pleasers. They want their people to be happy with them, but most cats couldn’t care less about making their people happy. They’re only a step away from being wild again, and if they could talk, I’m sure they’d tell us that on a daily basis. “Just fill my food bowl, human, and I won’t be forced to eat the poodle.” In many ways, cats remind me of the writing process itself: sometimes difficult, but ultimately rewarding. You know how your cat looks after he’s found a sunny spot by the window, after a good meal and the appropriate amount of petting? He’s purring and watching the birds, utter contentment on his face. To me, it looks like the feeling a writer gets when the story is done, when all the pieces have come together and the words are as close to perfect as we can make them.

Sometimes, however, the writing process doesn’t work out in such a sunny, happy manner. Sometimes it’s more like the day Baby Cat sprayed all over my bedroom curtains for no apparent reason. Even animal lovers have limits about acceptable behavior, and this totally crossed the line. No way could I cope with this, not with three other critters in the house (one of them sick), an almost-out-of-work spouse, and the pressing need to find writing assignments. Nope, that was it—good-bye Baby! You might know the feeling from a writer’s perspective; the story has gone hopelessly awry and you’ve no clue how to get it back on track. You’ve spent days (or weeks, months, or years) working on it. The descriptions are too thin, the plot is weak, or—even worse—it’s just wrong and you don’t why. You crumple up the paper, toss it into the trash, and mutter, “I can’t! I can’t fix this! I don’t know how!” Then the story has a few days to sit. That which seemed unfixable starts to come into focus. An idea pops into your head. You remember how much you wanted to write that story, how much it has burrowed into your soul, and solutions begin to emerge.

I’ve been ready to chuck plenty of writing projects. I’ve resisted the urge to delete my book from my computer, although at the time I contemplated it, it sure seemed like a good idea. After his misbehavior, I was ready to give up on Baby Cat, too, but I realized that urge was born out of frustration. After calming down, I took the time to sit with him, give him lots of love (and a heartfelt apology for threatening to send him to the animal orphanage), and contemplate what might be causing him to misbehave. The answers aren’t always obvious, for either cats or stories. Pushing beyond our limits, whether those limits are on our abilities as writers or as companions to our felines, can make us a little crazy. Accepting the unacceptable and fixing the unfixable is difficult, even painful. But when we move past our previously set limits, we grow.

Afterwards, we can grab that spot next to window and watch the birds.
__________
Picture information: Baby Cat in the den. Check out that big belly.

Bad Cat

Oh sure, I know he looks all sweet and loving in this picture. This morning, however, was another story.

Anyone who works at home must learn how to set boundaries while still remaining flexible. Unexpected things happen to everyone. If you work in an office outside of your home, you must deal with meetings, visitors, bosses, and other routine interruptions. At home, your interruptions come in other forms. Furry, misbehaving forms, in this case.

Baby Cat is this deceptively sweet-looking feline's name. Well, that wasn't his name this morning, but I try to keep things family-friendly around here. Baby was my late mother's cat, and one of the last things I promised her before she passed away was that I would take care of him. That was before he started spraying in my house a couple of months ago.

I was getting ready to go to work today, and since my office is at home, this includes a quick tidying of the house. I was in mid-tidy in my bedroom when Baby ran out of the room. Animals are a lot like children; I could tell he had done something wrong just from the wacky way he ran out of my room. That's when I smelled urine. Mr. Baby had backed up to my bedroom curtains and drenched them with pee. While I am normally an animal lover, at that moment all I wanted to do was catch him and tie his peeing parts into knots. He picked up on my angry vibe, and the chase was on.

My 11-year-old son was soon running after me as I chased Baby through the house. Luckily for Baby, he is fast, fat, and strong. I caught him once but he used his feline heft to break my grip and run away again. I was soon cursing and sweating. All I could think of (outside of cat homicide) was, "I haven't got time for this! I'm supposed to be working!" (Add curse words liberally for a more verbatim version.)

I share my office with this bad cat. When he moved in with us after Mom died, that's where he lived until he got used to our family. In an attempt to avert sure death, after ten or fifteen laps around the house, he dashed into the office and hid in "The Baby Cave," a portion of the closet that was created just for Mr. Spoiled. He hissed at me when I poked my head in and told him, "You're out of here! You are going to live someplace else! I will not have an animal pissing in my house!"

My son was aghast. He immediately laid down in front of the office door and announced he was on a hunger strike until I commuted Baby's sentence. "No, Mom, no! You cannot give Baby away! He was Nana's cat!"

All the while, there was the clock... ticking away my Thursday.

I explained to my sobbing child that he would feel quite differently about Baby if the spraying continued. I explained that I would never take Baby to the pound, but that I was going to be calling the no-kill shelters and putting him on a waiting list. I explained that I could understand the spraying in the garage, and I could understand the spraying in a cat toy that another cat had used, but I could not understand spraying in my bedroom on my drapes. "I hate you," was his response. Baby Cat felt pretty much the same way.

I left a message at the shelter and waited for them to call me back. "Come downstairs so I can fix you something to eat," I called up the stairs.

"No! I'm not moving or eating until you let Baby stay." Great. That's what I get for teaching him about civil disobedience.

The lady from Heaven Can Wait called me back and broke the bad news to me about my bad cat. When I asked her about a waiting list, she said, "Oh, I'm afraid we're beyond that. We're not even taking names." They are overwhelmed with unwanted and abandoned cats. I asked her if the other shelters in town are in the same boat, and she sadly answered, "Pretty much."

I went back upstairs to tell Gandhi and Baby the Spraying Devil Cat that a reprieve had been issued. I put Baby Cat on house arrest in the office until further notice, and then I fed his valiant protector.

When I worked a 9-5 in an office outside the house, I regularly groused about stupid meetings, talkative visitors, and other office time wasters. As annoying as those things were, I never, ever had to deal with a cat pee interruption, nor did any of my employees lie down and refuse to eat until I changed my mind about a decision. All of which is why working in a home office will prepare you to handle just about any kind of interruption or delay. And, what the heck, I got a good story out of it after all.

BAD CAT UPDATE: Baby is still restricted to one room while I research his spraying problem. So far, I haven't found much information that I did not already know--namely, that spraying can be a notoriously difficult habit to break once it's started. The behavior may be a result of health issues, like urinary tract problems, which I read are more common in big fellas (15+ pounds) like Baby. I think it's also possible that his behavior may be jealously over our other cat, who has been sick recently. (Or maybe he and my dog who has colitis are in collusion; the dog has ruined all my carpeting, so maybe Baby offered to chip and and ruin the furniture and drapery.) I removed anything in his room that smelled like the other cat and have been giving Baby extra attention and affection. I'm going to try Feliway next, and we may be visiting the vet to rule out health issues. Fortunately, he has forgiven me for chasing him through the house. As I type, he's stretched out on the floor, purring.

A Writer’s Cat Gets a New Home

It’s hard to believe that I haven’t posted anything on the blog since March 25—four months! Not long after my last post, my beloved mom, Barbara Hudson, became ill. She passed away on May 6, 2008.

I’ve done a tremendous amount of writing during these four months—an obituary, a eulogy, letters to creditors, journal entries—but the blog fell by the wayside. So to get reacquainted, let me introduce you to Baby Cat, the handsome fellow looking right at you. He was Mom's kitty, her faithful companion, and now he lives with me.

Some of the last things Mom asked about were her sister and her kitty. I promised her I’d call Aunt Aleta and take care of Baby Cat. Mom was a writer, and so Baby Cat and I had already bonded while I was trying to get e-mail addresses off Mom's computer. (Well, and there was that whole food thing--Baby doesn't like to miss meals.) Unlike my other cat, Gray, Baby Cat is laid back, a snuggler who likes to lick (and once in a while gets a little carried away and bites). When I set him up in my office, with a little hidey hole under an old desk in the closet (lined with a rug from Mom’s place), he happily settled in. He’s asleep there right now.

At first I nicknamed him Buddha Boy, but am considering changing his alias to Ninja Cat. I was worried about the guy—I mean, he had lived with my Mom for years and enjoyed being the only pet, a deeply loved pet who got as much attention as he wanted. I have two large, frequently ill-mannered dogs and one mostly behaved cat (Gray, who was almost feral when we took him in, and who had to be banished from my office because he lays on my work and blocks the computer screen). I was concerned that the shy little Baby who loved to come out and lay in his other bed (did I mention I made him two beds?) while I was working would have a hard time with the other animals, the child, the husband, and all our visitors. Most of all, I was concerned that Gray, Mr. Bossy, would hurt Baby. Then one morning I witnessed Baby kick Gray off the sofa—whapping him upside his bossy face with both a back and a front paw without even getting up from a reclining position. Ah, Ninja Cat, you sneaky fellow. I worry no more.

__________________

Note: For those of you who would like to read more about my mom, please read my entry, "A Long Road" on my Vegas Girl blog.