Cat House Rules

My 16 pound silver and black American shorthair cat pretty much believes that he controls my life.

There is no sleeping in. As soon at the alarm goes off, he climbs up on my chest and sticks his nose in my face, his whiskers tickling me. "Time to eat! Time to eat!" he is saying. I slide out of bed and stumble to the kitchen, Rascal milling in front of my every step, oblivious to the fact that he is actually slowing down my motions to dispense his kibble.

He makes sure I'm not too messy. I can't leave food out on the counter because he will get into it. Small plastic objects left on tables such as pens or sunglasses are knocked onto the floor and chewed to bits. Trash must be taken out regularly otherwise if it gets a little smelly he'll knock it over and drag it around the kitchen like a racoon.

He is a constant chaperone. If Jason and I try to snuggle together reading books or watching movies, Rascal likes to climb up between us and plop down in the middle, gravity slowly pushing him down between us like a wedge. When we finish eating Rascal likes to sniff the plates to make sure what we ate was interesting.

When I am typing on my laptop, he likes to curl up in my lap. Or sit on the keyboard. It depends on his mood, really, and how much he wants to hassle me. In my lap he often gets tired of my arms dancing over his head as I type, and angry that my hands are too busy to pet him. So he reaches out and bites down on them. I just good-naturedly ignore it and swat him away. But the other day after he released my arm he hissed at me. Hissed. It was the first time ever that I'd heard him do it. My little kitten is becoming a rebellious teenager.

Or perhaps he is still punishing me. Recently I tried to keep him outside my bedroom for the night. I have been suffering from miserable morning sniffles for months now. As the frost sets in and ragweed dies away, the sniffles continue. I'm beginning to suspect my best furry friend. It's tough because he's slept with me for 3 years now. But I had to try.

Scratch scrach. Meow! Meow! MEOW! Scratch scratch. Meowwww. Plaintive wailing. All night. This must be why people in cartoons throw shoes and flowerpots at cats singing on their fences. Finally I gave up, exhausted, and let him in. He immediately jumped up onto the bed, curled up at my feet and fell sound asleep. He was even more tired than I was.

I've known for a long time that it is Rascal, and not I, that make up the rules in my house. Once, on a romp across my keyboard, he sent me a clear message. His back claws slipped under one of my keys and popped it off. I've never been able to get it back on straight. Now that key sits in a drawer, and there is a gaping hole in my keyboard like a face missing a tooth.

Which key do you suppose Rascal dispatched?

"Control," of course.

Novel Countdown

I think I may occasionally report on here my novel's progress. I am currently up to 44 pages, double spaced.