How a cat became the king in my home
One of the things that bothered me the most after my dog’s death last year was that I missed his presence each week when I wrote this column. In fact, after his passing I stopped writing in my den, which is where I used to keep Silas’ pen. I use the word “den” because calling it an “office” would imply I’m financially successful.
Christine cleaned the den out last week, and I decided to again assemble Will E Sanders, Inc., on my vacant desk. Since writing for me is extremely ritualistic, or because I’m obsessed with obsessive-compulsive behavior, I locked all four of my cats in the haunted cat room.
But when I sat down to write, it didn’t seem the same without one of God’s creatures placing slobbery tennis balls in my lap at inopportune times.
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