No, not the weather, my Ocicat. And right now he is not pleased with me. Yesterday I fired up the computer to write a quick letter – remembered around 11am that before Christmas I’d been invited to submit a story to a new anthology edited by an old acquaintance, and checked the details. Hmmm, interesting. And that sparked a thought…and another…and…I found that I was unexpectedly writing a new short story. That would have been fine, except that Thunder hadn’t expected it either. He’d had an early breakfast, he’d like an early lunch – and I was writing, and when I do a cat must not interrupt under the feline/human writer treaty.
After a couple of hours I glanced at the clock, realized that I had to put the mail out for the rural delivery, saved to disk, and raced outside – where I was loudly petitioned by the feathered creatures. If I was outside, I should feed them. Now! With my mind still back in 1855 I hurled the hen’s pellets at the geese, the geese’s wheat at the hens, and shot back inside to continue writing. The mail car arrived at the gate an hour later and honked. Drat, that means they have something I may need to sign for. I scuttled out, collected a parcel of books…and went back to the story – dimly aware that Thunder had come and gone twice. (Good boy not hassling me.)
I finished around a quarter to five that evening, and as I filed the final version, “someone” appeared. I was eyed sternly. The sort of look that you give someone of whom you’re quite fond, and you’ve just discovered how badly they’ve disappointed you. I apologized, provided food, cuddles, fresh water, and three cat treats. I was forgiven – after a while.
However today I got the sheep in to be shorn and was then involved in acting as rouseabout for the shearer. I came back inside smelling of sheep, washed, and went to write letters. Once again, as my furred friend pointed out once I stopped three hours later, he’d been ignored. He may be out of luck there for a while. An editor friend has just made inquiries about another book. If we end up doing that, he’s going to have a lot more days in which I’m typing – and he’s having to wait for lunch or dinner. That’s just how it is when your human is a writer.
