Whenever inspiration hits me or, more often, when it doesn’t, I settle at my desk in a space I fashioned for the sole purpose of drawing out my creative juices. A separate room in a quiet part of the house equipped with computer, printer, reference books, paper and pens, it’s where I can sit by myself and commune with my muse.
Prrrp! Oh, did I forget to mention my sidekick? I never do anything in the house without him. Sammy is my constant companion. With an effortless leap, he lands on my desk and enjoys perusing my papers, playing with my pens and attacking anything that comes out of the printer. Double-sided sheets are a problem. If I don’t catch him before the printer begins to pull the paper back in to print on the other side, Sammy gets it. The paper jams. We then work together to extricate it. Sometimes he just likes to pull the pins out of my cork board.
Sammy, my cat tech, is four years old, has a lovely black coat and green-gold eyes. His mother, Halen, was a Siamese and his father a visiting dignitary, possibly named Max. Sammy is one of two felines who run our house. His “brother” (for all we know their fathers may be the same) is Jasper.
Jasper is a dark, tiger tabby with a little Maine Coon in him. He and Sammy were born a week apart to my son’s two little ladies (I use this term loosely.) Each mom took care of all five kittens so that Sammy and Jasper think they’re brothers. Jasper spends his days the way most cats do, sleeping. The only time I hear from him, and I do mean hear, is when it’s meal time. He keeps up a non-stop meow-fest until I give up on what I now consider the best ideas of the day and head to the kitchen with the two happy campers around my feet. Oh, one other time Jasper’s voice echoes in the room is when my husband comes home. Paul is Jasper’s person. Jasper yells and leaps on top of everything until my husband pats him. After supper Paul and Jasper move to the living room to watch a little TV together.
I can hear Jasper’s purrs from the kitchen where Sammy and I take care of cleaning up. Put the food away, pat Sammy. Do the dishes, pat Sammy. Wash the counter, pat Sammy. And then Sammy and I go back to my office to do some more writing and cuddling.
As I’m typing this, Sammy’s tapping my elbow. I think he wants me to write his story. I could call it, “The Life of a Spoiled Cat”. No, wait a minute. Let’s be honest. I’ll call it “Under Sammy’s Paw”.