Am I the only one who works better when buried in chaos? The carpenter came in last week and built a wall-to-wall bookcase for me—and it’s a thing beautiful to behold. But of course a new bookcase implies unpacking and shelving all those cartons of books. And rehanging all my pictures. And cleaning up the junk repository that my working desk has become. I’m less than half way through all that lot.
And just the threat of having to finish it has inspired me rigid! I could write till the cats come home. Of course, since we run the best cat cafe in town, the cats hardly ever leave home, but still…. And anyway, they do, sometimes. Some of them. Well, one. Lulu—she of the corncrake voice–definitely left last night and wasn’t here for breakfast this morning. I fear, I really fear, that she has gone off somewhere inhospitable and given birth to at least half a dozen kittens overnight. And naturally we will be expected to take on the feeding of them—she’ll be eating for seven until they are old enough to be introduced to the Magic Door Where Food Comes Out. She’ll be eating for seven largely because Lulu is impossible to resist—she squawks so horribly that we have to give her food just to be free of her dreadful voice. Who knew a cat could sound like a buzzsaw?
I tried to make things easy for her last night—a nice cardboard box, a cushion, some newspaper—all within hailing distance of the Magic Door Where Food Comes Out. But did she take it? No, she’ll be out there under some bush, her and her newborn kittens, prey to boots and poison and dogs and who knows what. Unable to come for food for at least three days. And I’ll worry. Of course I will. Cats. Is this what they mean by ‘cats are independent creatures’?