Glendower is a charming little cat, but he is a morning cat person. We’re going very slowly with introductions, because Basement Cat really has, uh, “issues” with other cats. In fact, Basement Cat still has to be confined when people aren’t up and about, to keep him from attacking the other cats. So he has the guest room, and Glendower has my study. Their doors are at right angles to each other, at the end of a small hallway which also has the door to the humans’ bedroom. Now the Tiny Cat has started calling dawn meetings of the Black Cat Club. She comes up (she rarely came upstairs, until Glendower joined us) and hangs out in the corner by the boys’ rooms, and Glendower starts chirruping and pawing at the door, which gets Basement Cat’s attention. If I snag Glendower and take him into the bathroom with me, the Tiny Cat runs in and plays Ebonylocks, eating Glendower’s food and using his litterbox.
So I’m not getting enough sleep. I really have to go to bed earlier, if I have to break up meetings of the Black Cat Club at dawn.
But here’s a thought for the day:
“There’s a rumor going around that if you stick with it long enough, a book will begin to write itself. Taking that proverb on faith, since this is my first book, I kept a diligent eye for the smallest sign of little nubs developing along the edges of my thoughts—nubs that would finally bud into little fingers whose job would be to effortlessly carry my thoughts into the writing of this book.
“Maybe that works for some folks but not even the slightest swelling of a nub appeared for me. I finally gave up and settled for the fingers I’ve got—sometimes hesitant, uncertain, and searching and sometimes strong, decisive, and sure.”
Diane Eshin Rizzetto, Waking Up to What You Do (Boston: Shambhala, 2005), xi.