My Cat
S.N. Dyer
  
S.N. Dyer is a physician who, under various names, has published over sixty stories and a collaborative novel. The author lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee, with some rather unusual pets.
  
* * * *
My cat is writing a novel.
Strange.
She doesn’t talk much, so I didn’t think she had anything to say.
  
I thought she just liked to lie on the foam wrist thingie and walk on the keys to get my attention. I guess that shows me.
  
She asked what I thought. It’s not like when someone at work insists you read their second cousin’s manuscript. You can’t tell your own cat “This sucks. Don’t give up your day job.”
I said, “It’s not publishable as it stands. But it’s excellent for a maiden effort. And it sheds a lot of light on the heretofore mysterious world of middle-aged polydactyl feline angst.”
  
I’m starting to approve of the novel. She’s perked up since she began writing. No more me leaving the house at seven A.M., she’s on the couch; me coming home at nine P.M., she’s still on the couch.
We got into an argument, though. I was tired and just wanted to veg out and play video solitaire. She wanted the computer to check her e-mail.
I didn’t know there were websites for six-toed cats who write.
  
I bought generic cat sand. She deleted my novel from the hard drive. 
I don’t think it was an accident.
  
The second draft is pretty good. But the obnoxious human comic-relief character hurt my feelings. I asked, “Do you really think I’m that horrible?”
She acts like I shouldn’t be upset. Like it’s not really me because the character has short blond hair and mine is long and dark. I’m a writer. I know the tricks. 
Is my singing Delta blues in the shower really so bad?
  
First, my agent took her on as a client. Then, he auctioned the book. I can’t believe it! He never sells my stuff!
  
I’m feeding a couple of strays outside. She’s so intolerant. Writes a short story where all the other cats on earth succumb to a space virus and she becomes Secretary General of the U.N. Asimov’s buys it without asking for revisions. Makes it the cover story.
I guess she’s on a roll.
  
I took her to the vet for her shots. Everyone wanted her autograph.
She’s been on Letterman and Leno. Sat on Mel Gibson’s lap. Said it was to get a laugh. Gets marriage proposals from strangers. Boxes of catnip mice from European admirers.
I told her, “You don’t want anything to do with people you meet on the internet.” She acted snooty. Okay, so we met at the pound. I’m not proud.
She thought she was being stalked, but it was just the neighbor’s dog getting into the garbage. Called the cops on him. Later someone knocked down our mailbox. It’s not hard to guess who.
So she’s getting too important for me. Except yesterday. There was a loud thunderstorm around three a.m. Suddenly she’s all “Oh, I’m so tiny and purring and pitiful, protect me.” Yeah.
  
I can’t believe it! She’s left me. For my agent. 
I hope they’re happy. Let him deal with her little sandbox problem. I threw out all her toys and the bowls with her name, burned her scratching post. She wrote for me to send her stuff. Too late, kiddo.
  
One of the strays has moved in with me. His name is Harlie. He has no literary pretensions. In fact, he has no interests at all except tuna, catnip, and sleeping in front of ESPN. Sometimes he burps up hairballs. I can live with that.
  
I thought Harlie was just scratching on the furniture. No. He’s taken up sculpture. The back of the couch is now a bas-relief of the Last Supper, with Judas as a rottweiler. I came home today and found that he was having a show. Wine stains, cheese crumbs, and he’s donated my desk to a charity auction. It was a pointillist rendition of the martyrdom of Saint Catherine under a motorcycle wheel. I thought he’d given it to me.
  
My next pet is going to be a fish tank. Empty.