Just me, the office cat, ‘writing’ from the basement rafters
I’m writing from the rafters in the basement.
I had to climb a filing cabinet to get up here. I like to slink around the insulation and over the air ducts, then pounce down on unsuspecting victims. Like Eli, who’s currently perched in his red leather chair, the same place he sits every morning. Sometimes, I’ll curl up between his legs. Sometimes, I bite his pen.
My name is Binx, and I’m an office cat. I’m black like Mark Twain’s “Bambino.” Apparently, writers have a thing for us felines. Ernest Hemingway had a house full of polydactyl cats. I’ve never been to Key West, but I’ve heard from others in the office-cat community that there’s a whole colony of six-toed kitties still roaming Mallory Square.
Nobody tops Charles Dickens when it comes to cat-scratch fever, though. After his beloved cat Bob died, the Victorian novelist had his pet’s paw stuffed and mounted on an ivory letter opener.
I wonder if Eli’s ever heard that story? I hope not.
Speaking of dismembered animals, I found a nest of rabbit kits yesterday. Have you ever heard one of those little guys scream? Eli has. I brought him the runt of the litter after he’d let me out for my morning hunt.
He was not impressed. Watching Eli sweep up the gift I left outside his office door, I started to wonder why writers like cats in the first place. Is it our independence? We are low-maintenance pets, as long as you don’t mind cleaning up the remains of small, furry mammals.
Or maybe it’s the fact that we fit so perfectly in a person’s lap. I cannot tell you how many hours I’ve spent in Eli’s lap, listening to him scribble on his notepad or type on his computer, but lately, it’s like Eli doesn’t even know I’m here.
Like now.
I’m still in the rafters, skulking directly above Eli’s bald head, but he hasn’t looked up once. I wish I could read what he’s writing. Heck, I wish I could read. Maybe then I would understand my master — I mean, my servant — a little better.
More than anything, I’d just like to know what he’s thinking. What compels a man to sit in the same chair day after day, week after week, for hours on end?
Ray Bradbury, another ailurophilic author, once said, “As soon as things get difficult, I walk away. That’s the great secret of creativity. You treat ideas like cats; you make them follow you.”
Me? Follow?
I don’t know what sort of kittens Mr. Bradbury kept around his office, but I follow no man. Not even Eli, who’s finally out of the chair now, out of the office. Wait. Is he going for the Meow Mix?
I’ll be right back …