Cat Calls

I would be offending many really great writers in this world, of past and present, if I called myself an author. But I do blog occasionally and try my hand at free verse.

Today, I read David Barnett’s article “Authors' mews: writers and their cats”. Barnett spoke about an author’s compelling necessity to “not to omit” the mention of their precious feline friend in a biography or even a book. I immediately remembered a short story I had recently read Garcia Marquez’s short story “Eva is Inside Her Cat”. (Although it was not about cats, I argue: why not any other animal?)

These feline creatures have assumed its place in literature and like every other living cat, they have refused to give up their spot in lime light and their owners have made sure that it never does.

I have a cat and I am not lucky enough to say that she inspires me and that I love her being around while I try to write. What Robertson Davies about cats and authors (Authors like cats because they are such quiet, loveable, wise creatures, and cats like authors for the same reasons) does not synchronize with my state of affairs. My cat bellows loud, burps and purrs louder and follows me around from one room to another. (I have stepped on her way too many times for her to like me anymore). But there are these some moments I look forward to and cherish, when she looks up at me and I can see the need for words to form unpredictable story lines and a real inner soul to keep it alive.

- By Tsu, who lives in India with her cat, “Ugly Betty” (sometimes I can be terribly unoriginal) and her scrawny little kittens who haven’t been named yet.