Four cats in the house for going on five years already, and they’ve yet to write Hamlet. But they do furnish a room.
It’s always a pile of something on the bed. Either a pile of laundry, or a cat-pile.
Handsome Jack the Halloween Cat holds court on my late futon, guarding the galleys to my latest novel, The Wrong Kind of Dead. Jack was also there on that 4:30 a.m. in 2013 when I finished writing Bleeding Kansas, so he’s my writerly good luck charm.
A clear shot of Jack and his big Marvin the Martian eyes is rarer than finding all four cats together. (Notice in the topmost photos how Mick seems hesitant to join the other three. He’s the loner of the group, and the usual holdout.) This photo of Jack shows his charmingly innocent face the best of any I have so far.
Speaking of Mick, he does make for a good solo shot. When he’s in my office, he prefers to rest here at the foot of the bookcase off to my left.
Damn this ennui! It takes a lot of effort to be as chill as a cat.
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