My New Writing Buddy

This past weekend, I was wandering through an exhibit of Norman Rockwell paintings and drawings at the National Museum of American Art and while I liked the paintings just fine, one photograph really caught my eye: of Rockwell working at his easel, with his dog sacked out on the floor. Just my luck, I’ve Googled a few times but haven’t been able to find the picture–but trust me: you could tell that dog was Rockwell’s painting buddy.

I have writing buddies.  Cats, mostly, although I’ve had a fair number of varmits over the years: a dog, a couple newts, some albino African frogs, so many hamsters they could double as tribbles and, of course, fish. Left to my own devices, I’d fill the house with all sorts of creatures, but then my husband would divorce me, so that’s a non-starter. But I’ve always had that one special cat for my writing buddy: the little guy–and it’s always a guy–who just hangs out as I work.

I lost my most recent writing buddy about a month ago, and I’ve had a pretty rough time, really missing the little guy. (My two remaining cats–both girls–are thrilled, though; the calico never did like him–then, again, she doesn’t like anybody horning in on her territory–and my orange tabby only just tolerated him.) I was going to wait for a few more months before getting another little guy, but I made the mistake of visiting the local humane society about a week ago–and found just the cutest boy. Thought about it for a couple days, visited a few more times and, well, we bonded. Or, rather, I bonded: the kitten’s only two months old; it barely knows it’s alive yet. But he is the sweetest little purr-bug, and I brought him home today and we’ve been playing up a storm.

Right now, he’s hanging out in the bathroom where I’ll keep him separated from the ladies for a couple days; as one of my friends said, the little guy needs to decide he wants to be around us people.   Then I have to figure a way where my calico–we call her The Evil One, Blessed Be She–doesn’t try to kill him.  (I’m serious; she is one nasty little bugger.  Of course, I love her but . . . gee whiz, get over yourself already.)

Until then, I also have to decide if I like his name: Winslow.  He sort of looks like a Winslow, I guess, and it does suit him.   I don’t know; I’ll have to think on it–unless someone else has some better ideas.

Now if I can just stop playing with the little boy and get some work done 😉