An Author's "Mews"

by Lorna Barrett (who also masquerades as L.L. Bartlett)

And the winner of a copy of Lorna's latest release, Bookmarked for Death, is Chris Redding. Chris, please contact me at darlene at darleneryan.com. Thanks to Lorna and cats for joining us this weekend.

Just about every author I know has at least one pet. Most have more than one. Some have more than one species, too. But the majority of us seem to have cats. Or rather, they have us.

I’m currently owned by four cats. Most of the day they lie around the house, snoozing their lives away. This time of year you can find them under incandescent light bulbs or lying with their snoots pointed into the heat run. I swear, sometimes I think they’re going to cook themselves, but cats love heat.

These days, Chester, our dominant cat, seems to be able to find the best source of heat and stick with it. If the sun happens to be out, he’ll follow it to every room in the house. More often than not, it’s just plain gloomy. (We live in Western New York. I think only Seattle has more gloomy days than us. That’s my story, and I’m sticking with it.) Chester’s not much of a lap cat during the summer, but come winter, he might deign to sit with me, but mostly he prefers hanging around with my husband. (It’s a guy kind of thing, I guess.)

Bonnie, terrified over just about everything (except at breakfast time, then she’ll challenge the boys to a fight--and then screams bloody murder if they take her up on it), lives on the heat run behind the couch. She comes out for meals, and likes to watch DVDs with me. (Last week we watched episodes of Star Trek Enterprise and the movie Iron Man. She prefers more quiet shows. And let’s face it, photon torpedoes are a lot more quiet than everything blowing up in a guy flick. After all, I don’t think sound travels through the vacuum of space. Am I right?)

Now Betsy, our little Princess, was very ill with cancer in 2007. She had an amazing recovery (sure shocked the heck out of our vet when we brought her in for her yearly shots this past September), although she’s a bit … crabbier … than she was before her illness. Still, she still likes to do her Betsy things -- hanging out under light bulbs (especially if you’re trying to read -- blocking light is No. 1 on her list of things to do) and moving around the house to check out all the heat runs. (Are you seeing a pattern here?)

Throwing a monkey wrench into the works is my tiny son, Fred. (Also known as my Little Prince.) Fred isn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, but he’s super handsome and he knows it. He also knows that if he’s in trouble, all he has to do is lie down, roll over and look cute. (And darned if it doesn’t work every time.) Fred will sleep under a light bulb, but has never learned that heat runs got super warm. (See dim-bulb comment above.)

I’d like to say that the cats keep me company as I work on my books, but that would be a big fat lie. No, they’re in the next room with my husband (and that 200 watt incandescent bulb). Hubby also works from home, and did years before I did, so the cats have their routine and they’re not changing it just for me. It’s just as well. Sometimes they come in for a visit and like to sit on my arms as I type. This, of course, makes it very difficult to type accurately--which I have a hard enough time doing without their “help.”

I also have a comfy chair in my office, with a nice light. I like to sit there to edit. Unfortunately, the minute my butt hits the chair, some cat will wander in and demand to sit on my lap. Since I keep my drafts in a big three-ring notebook, there’s nowhere to put it if there’s a cat on my lap. So I have to sit, twisted like a cheese straw, and put the notebook on the chair’s arm. Then a cat will get annoyed, stand up, turn around at least three times, nudge the notebook until I move it to the other arm, and then sit down again. I’ll turn the page, make a note, and the process starts all over again.

Of course, cats have other habits. They’re very clean. With all that washing, they ingest a lot of hair. How often have I been working when I heard hubby’s voice call out, “Someone’s puking, someone’s puking.” Since I write mysteries, it’s up to me to play detective to find the culprit and remove the evidence. (Not one of the perks of working at home.)

But would I ever live without cats? Never.

By the way, my new book, Bookmarked for Death, features a cat. Her name is Miss Marple and she steals every scene she’s in. She’s based on my cat Cori, who lived to the ripe old age of 20.

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Lorna Barrett writes the Booktown Mystery series, featuring Tricia Miles and her Haven’t Got A Clue bookstore. It’s available now. Hop in the car and rush right to your local bookstore. Go on! Do it now!

The USDA and Papa's Pussycats

Sandra Parshall

(Photo by Amy Brigham)

Living in the Washington, DC area is a lot like residing at Comedy Central.

Local and state governments are capable of stunning acts of idiocy, but for pure surreal absurdity, you gotta go to the feds. Perfect illustration: the USDA’s enduring obsession with the Hemingway cats.

That’s “USDA” as in US Department of AGRICULTURE. The agency’s name conjures visions of pigs and cows and fields of grain. So... Hemingway’s cats?

The felines in question are descendants of the furry muses who served Ernest Hemingway when he lived on the Florida island of Key West. The writer’s property is now a privately owned museum, and the cats have the run of the place. They number in the dozens, about half are polydactyl – they have extra toes, as you can see in Amy's photo of one of them above – and they are fussed over by museum staff, volunteers and visitors. Five years ago, a volunteer (who probably wishes now that she’d kept quiet) complained about the cats being allowed to roam free in the surrounding neighborhood. This is not illegal on Key West, and the neighbors hadn’t complained. Yet somehow – I wonder if anyone remembers exactly why – the federal government became involved. The USDA was deemed responsible for overseeing the lives of a bunch of privately owned housecats.

I’ve been reading and hearing about this off and on for years, and each time the subject pops up I’m astonished that the controversy is still raging. The latest update aired on CBS Evening News. Reporters turn silly when they do stories involving animals, and the CBS reporter showed no restraint. She “scratched out” the facts by “sifting through the litter.” So far, she said, the federal government has invested more than 270 work hours in its investigation of the Hemingway cats’ circumstances, and used the services of three government lawyers, four inspectors, and six veterinarians. USDA agents have made at least 14 field trips to Key West – which has to be more fun than visiting a hog farm in Iowa – and have even gone undercover to make sure they don’t miss any abuse. The USDA’s own “cat expert” has described the animals as “well cared for, healthy and content.” But the investigation trudges on, funded by the taxpayers’ dollars. The cats have their own lawyer to fight the incessant orders and demands of the USDA.

Personally, I think some of the Hemingway cats should be adopted out to struggling writers in need of inspiration. They would be putting their inherited muse genes to work and joining a long list of feline companions to the literary set. Aldous Huxley once told an aspiring author, “If you want to write, keep cats.” A multitude of prominent writers have shared his opinion. Henry James wrote with a cat on his shoulders. Dickens worked with his cat sprawled across his writing table (when she tired of muse duties, she snuffed out his candle with her paw). Samuel Johnson searched the street markets of London for oysters that would please his cat. Mark Twain wrote about cats and was often pictured with them. Colette wrote, “Our perfect companions never have fewer than four feet.”

Those four feet aren’t always feline, of course. Many an author has been photographed for a book jacket with a loyal dog by his side. Some of these canine muses will be celebrated in New York tonight at a Writers and Their Dogs event at Symphony Space in Manhattan. The writers’ dogs will appear onstage alongside their owners. The very idea of such an event would baffle a cat. No self-respecting feline would slavishly trail along behind its human and sit silently by while that human does all the talking and receives all the applause. Unlike dogs, cats know their worth. When a cat deigns to lend its talent as a muse, the wise writer responds with lavish appreciation, a soft pad under a lamp on the desk, and, if desired, the occasional oyster.


My own perfect companions (Emma, above, and Gabriel, below) are never far away when I’m writing. They haven’t quite made up for the loss of my beloved Simon, who died last year after 17 years of faithful service, but they’re doing their best.

The Hemingway cats could launch many new careers if they were carefully paired with needy writers, and the USDA would no
longer have to worry about their welfare. The chances are, though, that the cats would object to the move and go on strike. So perhaps they should be left in peace to enjoy their lives. And perhaps the USDA should find a better way to spend our taxes.

Now, what you've been waiting for: Tell us about your cat!

Cats and Mysteries

by Julia Buckley















I'm wondering at the preponderance of cats in fiction, especially mystery fiction. What is it about cats that sells books? I am a cat lover, although until recently I had only one, who bears the unfortunate name of Pibby Tails because a very insistent two year old named him. My husband suggests that one of the reasons our eldest cat fights so much is that the other Toms in the neighborhood are outside mocking him, calling "Pibby Tails! Pibby Tails!" with great glee.

Now he's restricted to the indoors, thanks to his belligerent streak, and is being forced to adapt to two new kittens (as is our Beagle). One of the kittens, pictured above, is named Rose, and is rather dainty, while her brother Mulliner, pictured here, is more aggressive--but they both bear the undeniable air of mystery that imbues all cats.

So I'm curious--is it that mystery which makes cats so naturally loved by those who love literature? Is it because cats have always loyally sat upon us (and our books) while we read? Is it because of their natural grace and beauty, or what T.S. Eliot called their "unashamed felinity?"

So far cats have not worked their way into my books, but I'm guessing it's just a matter of time. Right now, perhaps because my children are still at home and very loud, I tend to put children into my fiction. But when they leave home, perhaps my eye will stray to my cat, and suddenly the ideas for feline-inspired fiction will flow.