This is what I woke up to this morning:
That's Rufus. He's my feline writing partner, not to be confused with Merissa, my human writing partner:
But I didn't wake up to her this morning, though we do chat just about daily. Unfortunately, she's not here with me to hold my hand every day when I write. She has a job and family and just doesn't have time to babysit me 24/7.
Sure, I have a family, and they're supportive, but they have jobs and school and extracurricular activities, and they can't sit by my side and pat me on the back when I'm frazzled, or listen to me whine because I've hit a wall, or stay up into the wee hours with me when I'm trying to meet a deadline or a writing goal. The novelty of mom being an author wore off a while ago.
Rufus, on the other hand, has nothing better to do. I figure it's the least he can do in exchange for food, water, a clean potty box, and a roof over his head. He's gotta be good for something, right?
This is his favorite way to help:
Clearly I can't reach the keyboard when he's hogging my lap like that. But he's sneaky. It looks like he's just getting in my way, but really he's calming me down, helping me focus, allowing me to pet him and rub his belly and talk to him in a voice suggestive of blithering idiocy requiring institutionalization. See the tolerant expression on his face? He loves me (He's very patient).
Recently, Rufus lost his brother-from-another-mother, Klitschko (named after the Ukranian boxing brothers), who passed after a battle with diabetes and dental infection. Here they are together:
So when Rufus starts doing the I'm-a-cat-so-I-knock-shit-off-everywhere routine, or wanders the house aimlessly, meowing like he's looking for his pal, or climbs on my lap and gets in the way of my writing, I cut him some slack. I figure, at least for now, he needs me as much as I need him.
I can't be the only writer who has a furry partner. Who's yours?