by Catherine Ritchie

Created on: April 24, 2008

Seriously,

I am a writer. Really. I work hard on my craft, and strive to improve all aspects of my literary machinations on a regular basis. I rise early every morning, and devote myself to my writing for the first four hours of the day before I take a break.

But Misha doesn't understand.

Let me explain. Misha is my cat. My wonderful, inquisitive, feline companion who can be such a delight to have around. But there are other times when, well.

For example when I am transfixed with sketching out a character in my head, Misha feels I am ignoring her, and promptly intercedes, often with a kamikaze attack from across the room. As her razor-sharp claws wrap around my ankle in what is, I imagine, a feline hug of emotion, my carefully structured thoughts are scattered irretrievably. Several of my best-loved characters have suffered a premature demise in this fashion.

When I have been working all night on a crucial scenario, getting the plot lines just so intricately woven, Misha will take it upon herself to clean my room, beginning with my desk. With a efficiency of motion worthy of a martial arts master she will leap onto my desk top, paws and tail flailing wildly. A simple one-two-three, and she has eradicated all loose items and papers from the top of my writing domain. Her claws have been known to leave unreadable edit marks on my efforts. Once I found a regurgitated hairball sitting on top of a completed manuscript that I was racing to send off to a likely publisher. I know she is a lowly animal, but my artistic insecurity was suddenly heightened by that squalid mass. My pristine masterpiece, mounted by a biological rejection notice.

Last week I went through a period of absolute doldrums. No wisps of inspiration blew through my beleaguered brain cells. I sat at my desk, as bereft of words as if I were a lifelong mute. Misha sat on top of the bookcase next to me, peering over my shoulder, as it were. I could imagine a satisfied smirk on her predaceous furry face. In the past, at times like this, I would surrender to the writer's block, pick up Misha, and retire to the deepest armchair in the living room, comforted by a cup of hot cocoa and a rapturously purring Misha, enthroned in my dejected lap.

But last week, perhaps out of desperation, I had an epiphany. I decided to put aside my normal literary efforts, and branch out into a new area children's stories, perhaps. Should I write about a cute kitten?

Misha stiffened, as though I had spoken the obscenity out loud.

Or maybe I should write a story about a dog?

Misha's eyes glittered dangerously, her tail now swishing with elegant outrage.

A sense of recklessness rose within me. Or perhaps, I thought, daring to meet my adversary's murderous stare, a yippy, yappy, poopy puppy!

Outstretched claws barely missed my scalp as Misha hastily departed for other environs. I admit it, I chuckled. I was aware of just how close those claws had come, but I had survived my claim of independence.

Misha and I have come to an understanding since that day. She respects my writing time, and space, as long as I remember to include her in my daily schedule. And should she ever seem to revert to her former ways of intimidation, I have found that a small noise in the throat, like the whimper a tired puppy might make, will immediately send her scurrying from the room.

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