Tag Archives: cats

So I’ve heard how writers work best with cats around…

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I’m just not sure how they do it. Ever since I adopted my Archy, I’ve had several distractions every hour, from meows for cuddles to demands for playtime, to strange noises elsewhere that require my investigation. In the photo, Archy has scornfully knocked my cupboard-banning implement to the ground and is trying to get into a place it’s really not good for him to go.

It reminds me of trying to write when my children were small – they’d be playing sweetly beside me and I would just get my head into something when there would be a crash, a scream, a demand.

Mind you, this is helping with my short-term memory skills. I needed to relearn these. I have to be able to mentally hang onto what I’m doing while scampering around to save the cat or swing a toy on a string around for hours.

Archy’s mini-me foot

He has other places to play, access, scratch. A cat tree he never climbs. A cat tent he only likes for together play. A tunnel, likewise. I even cleared out a cupboard of toxins so he could go into that one. He has more toys than your average toddler and scratch pads everywhere. When I point these out to him, he laughs, flexes his opposable thumbs (he’s polydactyl to extremes and can actually flex one series of toes like a thumb. I am reminded of the Cravendale cats) and wanders off to create more havoc. His current preference is to a. scratch the underside of my furniture or b. knock over my bedside lamp.

And so my ideas eventually slip away, down the drain like all those wonderful ideas we get in the shower…and I am reduced to running around my apartment with a toy in tow, laughing as he leaps and hunts.

Ah well. Who really needs to write when they have a cat in the house?

And what else are coffee shops for, right? I think I’ll avoid the cat cafes, though…

Daylight Savings Time, or, who resets the cats?


Every year around this time, and in the fall, the inter webs are full of discussion about Daylight Savings – that horrid shifting of an hour that results in more traffic accidents, less efficiency at work, grumbly people, and increased coffee sales. Sure, might have been useful in the days when we were all creating victory gardens etc, but seems to me farmers, generally speaking, live their lives by sunrise and sunset anyway. Simply not sure we non-farmers need to do this mess every year.

I’m looking after my son and his partner’s cat, Jack, and I think he knows something’s up. He is starting his “feed me” song at 5 AM lately. It’s usually 6. I think that is full early enough, so we have discussions starting at 5 that start out pleasantly and then, I’m ashamed to say, lean into some raised voices (well, he’s hollering at me!). He has a lovely, varied, loud attention song. It echoes through the house. If there was wallpaper, it would cause it to curl.

It’s especially grim if he has come in to sleep on me at 2 AM, his usual routine. There just aren’t enough hours in the night with that and the early wake-up…even if I get to bed at his demanded time of around 9:30.

So this got me to thinking. Given that cats operate on a very exact time clock (and all of you who are cat servants know this), who tells them about daylight savings? Because they always seem to know.

Not Jack but note insistent begging face…

I’ve been cat-less at my place for several months, ever since the last foster cat crossed over the mythical rainbow bridge. So I’m evaluating whether I want to take another one on. Have to say the sleep deprivation is a disincentive. Sleep matters a lot to me. Especially today. So tired…

But the purring….and there’s something lovely about having their company. They are such interesting creatures, aren’t they? Bossy as they are.

Still, I’ll need to ensure it is a self-setting cat. One that grasps the shift in time and handles it without too much disruption. Less yowling.

Because there’s no point in both of us complaining twice each year…

My book, Spit & Polish, launched last week while I was still awake. If you haven’t got a copy yet, why not check it out? Available most places now. Or check out the other excellent books available through Somewhat Grumpy Press.

Feeling my way


I foolishly rented a 14th story apartment for the view. Often it’s glorious – the harbour opens invitingly out of my bedroom window, and lake MicMac winks at me from my den and living room windows. I often while away non-writing hours watching the rowing shells draw circles and figure eights around the islands in the middle of the lake, take a fantasy ride along with them, curse with them the motorboat people doing doughnuts in the middle of the lake.
But for the past two days, the fog has been so thick I can’t even see the trees reaching their arms up to me. Birds flying by appear suddenly, like fish in a curved aquarium. The cat startles, unsure of how these pigeons are appearing. My apartment is shrouded in grey light and I am compelled to descend and walk on the earth to prove to myself it still exists, solid and still autumnal.
I haven’t had a winter in my aerie yet, and I wonder how winter storms will feel here. The last time I was this high in winter, I was living in Ottawa in my first year of nursing, sharing an apartment with my dear nursing buddy and two cats. We’d gone house hunting together and, both not wanting to offend the other, had agreed on higher and higher apartments as they were offered. We each thought the other wanted to live higher up…
And so we spent many evenings carrying two protesting cats down 20 stories after the fire alarm went off. The place where we lived had a resident who would set off the alarm to get the cigarette butts people would leave behind while the alarm got shut off. We’d all be outside for half a cigarette or so, and she could gather up the leftovers as we rushed back in from the cold.
We didn’t smoke, thank gods, since we often had to climb back up the 20 stories or else wait hours with struggling cats in the lobby.
There’s something oddly disconnecting living shrouded in fog. Down lower, you have the shadows of buildings, trees, cars, people. Up this high, you can go for hours with nothing visible out of the window. It’s isolating, sound is muffled, you have no idea of the time, until the grey goes darker…
In the midst of the fog, I’m drifting through a nanowrimo novel. I’m following my character around, watching with bemusement as he talks to people, does different things, makes love, creates mayhem. The path forward is as foggy as the view out of my window, but I’m liking the experience of drift. It’s fun being surprised by what he does, what other characters do in response.
So I’ll take the fog for a while longer.