Cateriffic

Because I’ve failed so far at becoming the media darling required in order to sell a lot of books I’ve decided to totally phone this post in while I wallow in my misery. This one isn’t about books, or movies, or music, or anything else you might care about. This one is about my cat. I doubt you’ve met her.

My cat is named after a stuffed bunny that plays a minor role in my novel, Storm Orphans. Note, that’s a hyperlink right there. If you haven’t purchased a copy of Storm Orphans yet, you should. In fact, even if you have bought a copy, you should buy another. You can help make up for all the people that won’t buy one.

My cat’s name is Luna. She was an orphan herself two years ago, found abandoned in a parking lot by a photographer friend of my wife’s. Now she’s ours. The cat that is, not the photographer. Luna loves me. She tells me so on a daily basis. She only speaks Cat of course, but I understand her. She follows me around, talks incessantly about her addiction to string, and complains bitterly about how limited her time is out in the yard. She had fleas when we got her. So she’s an inside cat now.

Luna is very affectionate. She loves lying on my chest and giving me kitty kisses. I find this behavior endearing. I’m fairly certain my wife finds it obnoxious. She’s not particularly fond of competition. Technically, Luna is my wife’s cat. She’s the one that insisted we go adopt Luna when her friend posted the (then) kitten’s picture on Facebook. I use this fact to great advantage. Luna shits in a box. As lovable a cat as she is, I find this habit more than a little revolting. That’s what toilets are for and even then, I really don’t want to know about it. Since Luna is my wife’s cat, my wife cleans the litter box. What’s fair is fair.

Now, before you give me grief about this arrangement, keep in mind that my household duties include cleaning the toilets and taking out the trash. Around these parts, no one rides for free. One of the things I’m most looking forward to is my eldest son coming of age so I can hand these responsibilities over to him. There’s a certain nobility in handing down tradition from father to son, even if that tradition is just wiping piss off the rim of the commode.

But I’m getting off track and even when phoning it in, that’s probably bad form. I was talking about my cat. What else is there to say about Luna? She’ll climb an eight foot high curtain in two seconds flat in order to fetch her stuffed toy mouse from atop the curtain rod. She prefers ice cubes in her water dish and she once tore a hole in her own scalp just because she was unhappy about being left in the care of my mother-in-law while we went on vacation. What I’m trying to convey here is that she’s a quirky pet. And truth be told, I might be a bit of a quirky owner. We make a pretty good match.