Pets and the Written word

first published on 06/08/23 on Medium.com

We have a new kitten. Three months old, light as a feather and full of childish energy. I have always liked cats. The independence with love. The purring and the self-walking. What is not to love. Dogs are loud when there is a knock on the door. Dogs demand strokes when they first see you. And if you do not walk them, they will poo in the house. And in the garden. And they just walk away. There you go, they say, that is my poo. Cats are more embarrassed than that. Our little Missy, the kitten, digs in the litter tray. Spins around and perches ready. Decides it is not right and digs a little more. This can go on a few times before the rear end crouch is final. After the finish she digs a little more to bury. Out of the litter tray her back legs then attempt to flick the floor in a final attempt to cover what she has done.

I digress. Writing about our cat house will not make an original piece. It might if it was the ancient definition of a cat house. Being new to Medium I am trying to write interesting little reads to introduce me to all of you. I am trying out a few things. Training exercises. Flexing my pen hand in an electronic gym.

Five am yesterday morning I opened my laptop and started writing a piece about football, and sport in general. About the passion of supporters in conflict with the financial bottom line. And in all honesty, it had started badly. The confused argument in my mind was reflecting on the page. Missy was having breakfast in the kitchen. The elder cat, Waffle, was eating in the sitting room. All was peaceful in my world, except for the writing. But I am the sort of writer that does not mind a befuddled argument, bad spelling, and terrible grammar. It is a first draft; it will get sorted. The ideas will line themselves up and the bad ones shot. The technique troops will organize for a final assault later.

Taking a sip of my tea, I saw Waffle looking out at the sun striking the garden. He turned and wandered over to me. We made eye contact, and he licked his lips. Missy started her high-pitched winey meow that I knew meant let me out of here.

They always seem to know, the two of them, when I am getting to the good stuff. The armies of order were finally making a breakthrough. The artillery barrage of language landing on the soft belly of befuddled. I had to be rid of the infernal distraction and try to get to the end before I must drive to work.

Laptop down. “Come on then Waffle,” I say rising to my feet. We walk across the room to the patio doors. His food is gone aside from a couple of spots his tongue or nose did not taste or smell. Opening the patio door, he sticks out his head and sniffs the breeze before he wonders out and sits on the concrete. Now Missy sounds even more desperate. Almost like a scream. Or is my head just interpreting the drama because I am in writer mode.

Opening the kitchen door, I peek at her bowl and seeing it around half empty I open the door wider. With Waffle out, I can leave it be and she can finish the rest when she is ready. She has already wondered out and is licking in Waffle’s bowl.

Checking my watch, I realise I have fifteen to twenty minutes left. Back on the sofa, laptop back with the titular. The draft closing to a finish; I can feel it. One last push and I should break through to an advanced position. Enough to hold till after work. Through work I will find the time to refine my position, even jot a few phrases in a quiet moment.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Missy throw a toy into the air and spin to catch it again. Bored with it, she turns her attention to me. Approach with purr. She leaps on the seat of the sofa the other end and turns her purr on full. Let me see what you are doing, she thinks, and sticks her head in front of the screen and a paw on the edge. My back hand, gently of course, pushes her away. She climbs on my forearm, and I twist to shake her off.

I use Office 365 to work on. I like it but other writing tools are available. (Microsoft for a small payment I will remove that last sentence.) How Missy did it, I do not know. She climbed over my arm and onto my lap and straight onto the laptop keyboard. Not the first time. And like all the others I pick her up straight away and put her to the floor.

My screen says:

:iudhb&&7&

Or some such string of nonsense.

I scroll. There is nothing to scroll. I shut my eyes. Holding in my scream, I think save. It is on a constant save to the cloud. I click off but it is too late. The document entitled the passion of football has a string of nothing.

The forces of befuddled have nuked my advance and all my forces of word, my artillery of language, my technique troops decimated.

My best work is always the one never written.

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