I’m starting to write a third ‘Gaston the Poodle’ mystery. My cat, Sheldon, hones in on the computer whenever I sit down to write. He either takes a stroll across the key board, screwing up what I’ve just written, or tries to crawl on my lap for a nap. It’s hard to write with a twelve pound cat on your lap. I appreciate his enthusiasm for the written word but I could do without the tail, or other body parts, obstructing my view —as if writing isn’t difficult enough without the added aggravation.
Cats are independent animals, totally indifferent to the needs of their mistresses or masters. When I’m sitting in the recliner, watching Netflix, and would appreciate a warm cat on my lap, he ignores my calls of “Here, kitty! Come up here, Sheldon.” He stares coolly at my efforts, watching from his perch on the coffee table, probably secretly ridiculing the ever more frantic pats on the Afghan, meant to be inviting. He meows loudly outside the bedroom at night, scratching at the door, until someone gives up, hauls themselves out of bed, and lets him in. Sheldon shows no gratitude for feeding him, or cleaning his cat box. He tosses a few disdainful crumbs of affection my way when he wants a Greenie treat. That’s it.
Until I start to write. Then he can’t get enough of me. I know he’d like to change the dog detective character to a cat, or at least introduce Gaston’s smarter cat friend, Sheldon, as a character. He’s suggested several book titles: A Tail of Two Kitties, or Of Mice and Cats, The Great Catsby. Even a mystery, The Case of the Missing Catnip.
I refuse to be hoodwinked by his shenanigans.
Gaston won’t share the limelight with a fickle feline. Sheldon needs to find his own author/ collaborator. There’s only room in my books for one animal detective—Gaston the Poodle.
Originally published in March 2021