Kicking the Pants

I have a writing partner.

He’s a hairy little fellow, and not terribly chatty. In fact, he only says one word, but when he feels like talking, he says that one word over and over and over again. The word is “meow.”

His name is Boston.

When I get up in the morning, he is at the office door waiting to be let in. Before I sit down at my desk, I have to get my coffee and make sure everything else I need is within easy reach, because he’ll jump into my lap within seconds and settle in for the long haul.

His job keep my butt in the chair. He does it well.

If I dare disturb him or want to get up before he’s ready, I get The Look:

If I persist in disturbing him, he’ll ever-so-gently flex his razor sharp claws until I feel them piercing my thigh.

He’ll lay in my lap for an hour, and then suddenly get up and punch the “pillow” (my stomach) until he deems it comfortable again. This can take up to five long minutes, during which it is impossible to type. When he’s done, he resumes the exact same position as before. He’s kind of a jerk like that.

I often tell him he’s a pain in my ass. I call him a “fuzzy little bastard.” He doesn’t seem to care, as if it is beneath him to respond to such slander.

He doesn’t offer feedback on my work or do any proofreading. He doesn’t help me fix plot holes or get me out of the corners I write myself into. When the perfect word is on the tip of my tongue, he won’t help me find it. In fact, all he really does is keep me in front of the keyboard.

Sometimes, that’s all it takes.

Tagged: cat, writing partner