Le Cricket Speaks Out

Dear Human-Peoples:
     We (Her Royal Highness, Le Cricket) has drugged our mistress and taken over her responsibilities for the day. Purrrrrrrrrr. We are merely in jest. We have not drugged her; we have taken over. We are in the habit of reading over Rachel's shoulder while she works, and happened to see someone at Scribbles and Inkstains  ask a question about our friend, Nickleby. This peasant asked whether any of the book (this Fly Away Home thing) is written from the cat's perspective, as they enjoyed the one question Rachel let Nickleby answer in the interview. We had to purr over this as well as twitch our tail and wink our eyes; of course peasants enjoy real journalism when they read it. Cats are so far and above anyone else when it comes to giving straightforward answers. It is all very well to be appreciated after the fact, but does Rachel's answer bear scrutiny as to why a cat cannot be the Point of View of a book?
We think it is segregation..or sanctification, or...we seem to have lost our vocabulary today. Rachel uses lots of words that we don't entirely understand. Let me twitch my tail a moment and think. Ah. Yes. Discrimination. That is the word. If a cat cannot be allowed to write from his (or her) perspective, is it really a free world? We do not think so, but since when has anyone bothered with what Her Royal Highness, Le Cricket thinks? We are overlooked and oppressed. Why, just last night, a strange white and tabby creature (surname: Bilbo) belonging to the other humans across the Big Field stalked into our palace and began to eat our dog's food. Her Royal Highness does not like the dog, but far worse is a fellow cat who comes in without a by-our-leave and stares one out of countenance with great big amber eyes. Our Rachel did a most scandalous thing and picked the wretch up and...oh, how our eyes flash...and cuddled it against her chest. We could scarcely believe our vivid senses. She threw it out the door (and good riddance) but not before getting white hairs all over her front. So very lower class of her.
This neighborhood is getting quite crowded. That vile Bilbo-beast spends half his time here and now and then the Other Human Peoples from over the Big Field bring a little black fuzz-ball that our Rachel finds quite adorable. I don't know why when we are such a plush, luxuriant pile of love ourselves, but our Rachel is strange that way. She has asked us to thank you from the bottom of our heart for supporting her new book. We don't have a heart--unless that is where purrs come from (and we are a fabulous and accomplished purrer)--but we will thank you, if only to show how good we are at scattering verbal largesse. Rachel would like as many people as possible to read Fly Away Home, so she particularly thanks everyone who has spread the word, bought copies, etc. Her Royal Highness would like to show that cats can indeed play supporting roles (perhaps one day we shall have the lead!) on-page, so we would like as many humans as possible to read the book.

"Shine the light on feline discrimination: read Fly Away Home."

There's a campaign in that somewhere, if you like campaigns. We don't enjoy campaigns but we do enjoy fellow cats (except when they steal one's dog's food), so we are in support of this motion. You will like this story, we feel. You will like Nickleby too, for though we have been called crazy and romantic and (dare I pronounce the term?) a "silly puss", we do think Nickleby is the most gentlemanly and handsome of cats and acted in a way quite in keeping with the highest good breeding. Human peoples seem to love Wade Barnett, but we are quite certain the real hero of the piece is Nickleby. You shall not understand what we mean, however, unless you read the book so I raise my right paw and swear on my own black coat that if you read the book and hate Nickleby, the wrath of glowing-eyes-in-the-dark shall be upon Her Royal Highness, Le Cricket's head. But you will not hate him. Who could? He is a cat of all cats.
As are we.

     Written by my own paw in the presence of none,
                                     Her Royal Highness, Le Cricket

Postscript: Our Rachel appears speaking of good writers and...oh la!...hedgehogs on Rachelle Rea's blog. What are the peasants coming to?

Oops. The cat's outta the bag.

It is a maxim with me--or pra'aps a mixim (or pra'aps both)--that a writer must have a cat. I'm sorry, but the two go together. Your desk is not complete unless you have a cat draped behind the computer monitor, or in your lap, or across your neck. Honestly! I do not think it is going too far to think that genius and cats are not entirely unrelated. Besides--cats are the ideal complaining-to companions. They would complain to you if they could speak English, so they don't mind you complaining to them. Whether they listen or not is unclassified information. We aren't told, as the Bible has absolutely nothing to say about cats, far as I can tell. In Fly Away Home, Calida Harper's cat, Nickleby, is definitely a main side-character. We first meet him here:

Nickleby wound himself in and out and around my feet. I waded through him feeling that he must be at least six creatures instead of a single portly one, and slung my purse, hat, and shoes onto the worn sofa. “It’s happened Nickleby—I’ve got a chance to make it big in the glossies.” I picked my cat up and buried my nose in his soft black fur.

It is, perhaps, telling that Nickleby figures so largely in the plot. Callie cannot think through a thing without discussing it with Nickleby. He gives her advice. He makes pert comments. Honestly, now. I'm not making this up. Just try it. You can understand a cat if you take the time to listen to what all those blinks and mews and tail-tossing means.

All of this is simply to say, I thought it time I introduced you to the cats hereabouts, including pictures. Ready? Oui? Okay.

Cricket

You have met her in a previous post, but I cannot say enough. She was chosen as a gift for my fifteenth birthday after Dad finally succumbed to 13 years' begging. In her dotage, she has turned to playing "Bagheera" all day long and sneaking out nights, only to come back chilled to the bone. I think it's her strong Siamese strain that gives her this wanderlust. She's very proper, but is not against being held upside down, or playing Mink Stole on occasion. This is convenient for me in the wintertime. I am fairly certain that if Cricket was a person, she'd look rather like this:

...only a wee bit baggy around the waist, courtesy of over-much lounging about in between playing "Bagheera." She is fond of cheese. And cold P.G. Tips tea with cream and sugar. I do not jest. 

Our cousins over the field made me mortally jealous by adopting two kittens and leaving a third that I could not have, though I would have named her Spitfire. Please don't get me started. I wanted that kitten and to have to leave her at the farm with the name Betsy for the rest of her life gave me a headache.

Moving on.

These are a few of the cousins, and these are the two Gorgeous Ones.

Buttons is the girl, and rather feisty. And oh so befluffed and befurred.

And Todd. The laid back Sir-Percy-esque one. 

*le sigh* Aren't they adorable?

The newbies on the block are absolutely kissable, and though there appears to be a total dearth of writers in the household just yet, their Aunt Rachel will certainly come to borrow them on occasion. They are so terribly fluffy. I have yet to learn their total personalities, as I don't see them as often as I'd like. Still. Where there are kittens there are stories, so I'm sure I'll be able to give you a good report or two come a couple months from now.

In other news, I am going to have a Big Surprise for you all later on this week, so please stay tuned! Also, please return in the next few days to vote on the Re-Christening of Fly Away Home poll which I'll have up shortly!

The Rum-Tum-Tugger is a Curious Cat...

It's hilarious how blogging trends will trend away. One person starts something and it is like the Common Cold--it spreads around and around and around. I suppose this is a confession. I stole something from Abigail this evening: I have never told you about this certain personage before, merely because she is not crizackly the type that immediately says: "Writing", but I will tell you about her now.

Her name is Cricket, and she is what I describe as my "Supercilious Black Pussy."

This phenomenon is half-Siamese and half-something-or-other. She is solid black with goldy-green eyes, rather long, and rather plump, and rather consequential in her own right. You see, she belongs to a species called "Rum-Tum-Tugger"... [and I quote]

 

"The Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse.
If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat,
If you put him in a flat then he'd rather have a house.
If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat,
If you set him on a rat then he'd rather chase a mouse.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat--
And there isn't any call for me to shout it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there's no doing anything about it!

The Rum Tum Tugger is a terrible bore:
When you let him in, then he wants to be out;
He's always on the wrong side of every door,
And as soon as he's at home, then he'd like to get about.
He likes to lie in the bureau drawer,
But he makes such a fuss if he can't get out.

Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat--
And there isn't any use for you to doubt it:
For he will do
As he do do

And there's no doing anything about it!

The Rum Tum Tugger is a curious beast:
His disobliging ways are a matter of habit.
If you offer him fish then he always wants a feast;
When there isn't any fish then he won't eat rabbit.
If you offer him cream then he sniffs and sneers,
For he only likes what he finds for himself;

So you'll catch him in it right up to the ears,
If you put it away on the larder shelf.
The Rum Tum Tugger is artful and knowing,
The Rum Tum Tugger doesn't care for a cuddle;
But he'll leap on your lap in the middle of your sewing,
For there's nothing he enjoys like a horrible muddle.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat--
And there isn't any need for me to spout it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there's no doing anything about it!"

-T. S. Elliot

This is a faithful portrait of my Cricketer, beyond being a particularly charming poem. Cricket is essential to my writing inspiration, I believe, for she does the darndest things. If I am particularly uninspired, this naughty vixen will come and plop herself down on the keyboard as if she is the most interesting thing since the Fall of Rome. That is her strategy, you see, to keep me writing. For no sooner does she sit down than I decide I had rather write after all and I push her off.

She kneads bread-dough on my pink lap-blanket.

She brings me balls of yarn and plastic army-men and anything else portable and yowls at me till I lay aside my book or pen and properly congratulate her on the brilliancy of her catch. [This, you will understand, includes petting her and praising her aloud (to at least one other person) before she will quieten.]

She knocks over glasses of water and crystal vases and breaks them right in the best scenes of my book or my story and therefore adds sound-effects. Does your cat do this? I thought not.

She puts her arms around my neck and gives me a cleaning at least once a day.

She jumps at me and bats my ankles when I walk down the hall.

She purrs like a Civil-War army drummer's...drum. :D

She catches moths.

She take sun-baths.

She drapes herself around my neck and shoulders like a real life mink-stole. :)

She is my alter-ego, I believe.

This is Cricket. Swear fealty or die. ;)