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?

{Fly Away Home Cover Reveal} In Which The Cricket Interferes a Bit

Aren't we beautiful?

Dear Human People:
    We suppose you are what our Rachel refers to as "Bloggy Friends" when she's in a cosseting mood and "Writing Friends" when she's being practical. Whatever you call yourselves probably doesn't matter because we don't like you. (We are using the royal "we" because we are a Highness.) You take up Rachel's attention when quite obviously the matter at hand is us. We are only a little bit consoled because some of you are fond of this "Nickleby" in Fly Away Home. We don't like Fly Away Home; it takes our Rachel's attention too. Nickleby, however, is another matter. We like him mostly because he was based off of moi. Black cats are the best, we think, and that is all there is to the matter.
   Human People and dogs are such terrible creatures. Right now the dog (it has a name but we don't say it) is whistling in his crate--we do say whistling because that is the proper term for that heinous noise--and it is making it dreadfully hard to hear things.
  Our Rachel informed us today that she was sitting at a coffee-shop the other afternoon editing that wretched book of hers. We call it wretched but it really does look quite marvelous in person. We just don't tell her because it would swell her head. But to return to our story: she was sitting in the coffee-shop and another Human Person stood by watching her. It was not one of the Attractive Human Persons (like some he-person named Jack Hudson on the television) that makes our Rachel do that funny bouncing thing out of what we hate to notice is glee--it was a she-person. This she person decided to act like a cat and stick her nose into our Rachel's business.
  "Sorry to be nosy," she said.
  Our Rachel looked up.
   "I had to see what you are reading. It looks like (insert some author we don't care about). What is it?"
   Our Rachel blushed, she tells us, and said, "Actually I wrote it. It's the proof copy of my book I am independently publishing."
    "What's it about?"
    Here, our Rachel began to embarrass us by stumbling over her words and giving a perfectly idiotic description of her novel and thereby probably losing a customer. When she came home she was rather mortified. We tried to tell her to practice pitching her novel to customers but would she take our advice? HA.
   "Aren't you excited? Is it your first?" the she-person said.
    "It is and I am," our Rachel said, trying to scrape up a bit of dignity, as she afterward confided in us.
    "Are you a local author?" the she-person said.
   "Yes."
    Rachel informs us that the lady grinned and tossed her head at an ancient couple to our Rachel's right. "Should we get her autograph now or wait a while?" she said to them, and all of them laughed.
   Rachel seemed to think that this was a very clever thing the woman said--at least, she seemed rather gratified. Why, I can't tell. I can't think why anyone would want our Rachel's autograph. It seems like exactly the sort of idiotic thing that will be happening around here come the publication of that wretched novel.
Le sigh.
What we think was the really notable part of our Rachel's hideously human afternoon  was the dear prince among old men she met in a wretched place called Walmart. No, he wasn't handsome and no, Walmart is not a classy place to meet other Humans, but diamonds in the rough can glimmer just as bright. Our Rachel was in the cat aisle getting litter for our box. She buys one of the huge tubs that weigh a mine and was having difficulty getting it off the shelf, as two were jammed on top of one another. This old gentleman comes up and offers to get it for her and our Rachel lets him because she likes to think she is helping chivalry not die when she lets men lift things for her. We do our part by (occasionally) letting men lift us. But that is a tale for another time.
The old gentleman spent the better part of several minutes working the anvil-like tubs off the shelf and finally got one out. When he had got it in his hands, he walked it over to our Rachel's cart and put it in for her, wishing her a good day. If that isn't good breeding, we don't know what is. We are thankful to the anonymous stranger for having insured we got a fresh litter-box. Rachel is a dear but she can be a bit negligent in that area when a writing fit seizes her...if she'd only notice, the "presents" we leave her would cease.
Well. It is now getting dark--just the knife-edge of a January evening--and Rachel will be coming back to the computer after making Alfredo Sauce. (We like this) We don't want our Rachel to know we are posting for her. She will find out during her cover-reveal party when the last day is taken up already. What? We are being helpful for once and she can just deal with it.
We have now written ourselves into a fine mood. We would like to acknowledge that our Rachel's book is probably better than we like to tell her. We would like to tell you that on Valentine's Day (which is a day to cuddle, after all) we would recommend you buy a copy. Nickleby, our friend, will be worth it.

In the name of Our Own Royal Highness,
                     The Cricket

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. ;)