Looking at a cat some Cats stay in clutters Allowing each cat to learn From one another

Some cats learn things from beings unlike there own

A Cat that learned cat things with no cats around

SMART Allowing themselves to learn Hygeine Routines That fit there internal needs

sometimes No Mom No Dad Of there own kind In sight

Cats Brave

With eyes that try to understand Suddenly reminding me to be more understanding More trusting in myself how I feel physically and mentally When I need water When I need food When to communicate When to be more adventurous Cats

The squirrel is much easier to deal with. He takes me off in all sorts of directions, but at least I have some sense of accomplishment. I can label his interference as "research" and pretend that I have made forward progress. I haven't, but self-delusion is comfortable for any writer.

But not the cat.

The cat just stares. You can ascribe many inferences to her interference. That stare says it all. It is a critique. It is condescension. It is disgust. It is a total lack of confidence that anything I write is helpful beyond just my own personal amusement. The cat is in total judgment.

I hate the cat.

Who is she to evaluate me? A thing of fur and claws that licks itself in inappropriate places. And if she is evaluating me, what does that say about my value?

That stare.

She brings forth that self-doubt that these words, any words, are just not good enough for her or anyone. I am just amusing myself for my own benefit. That is what her stare means. Anything I write is not good enough. And so the stare continues.

But I look at my watch.

I have covered nothing in my last half hour before the cat. No words were born. No thoughts of brilliance shined up and prepared for presentation. More importantly, I am already thirty minutes past due to feed her. I get up, and she jumps down. And we both saunter into the kitchen for an early evening snack.

They say nothing is like being curled up with a good book But what curls up in such a distinct manner? A fluffy, furry friend that judges your grammar

Can cats read? No, of course not! That’s absurd! Perhaps it’s just a coincidence that a book lies curled in a calico’s fur

Her eyes scan the pages But just out of flickering interest It’s nothing unbelievable no one else has witnessed

Oh, but her fur stands on end As if engaged in a thriller (The cats’ instinct is known to be killer)

Yet perchance instead what is being read Is the movement of the flame, or the teacup, or the wood grain!

Has the cat got your tongue? Well, it’s got the page and its words Now you see how this is definitely absurd?

I guess we’ll never know Curiosity kills the cat And in this situation we don’t want to be the cat wrapped up in all that

I’m sitting here and all of a sudden have writer's block. It seems that writing is not my strongest skill, but one I am interested in continuing and my biggest critic is sitting at my desk staring at me with what looks like an expression that could have so many meanings. His name is Mitttens. It's all I could think of, because when my hands were cold in the winter, all I had was a pair of mittens, and it reminded me of a cat's paw. Mittens is a great cat, besides the occasional paw door bangs I get while I am sleeping. I was hoping the coffee would kick me into gear, but it seems like mittens is the only thing that is giving me my creativity and attention at the moment. His expression tells me I should give up. He’s so angry looking and focused like he is reading me like a book. It could be that he is trying to signal me to give him his snack early like I’m his own personal butler. It’s okay. I don’t mind putting my needs behind me to make my cat happy. I could be having one of the loneliest days of my life and one look or meow from him makes me feel like I have something to live for. I'll keep pushing my suicide agenda to another date and time. His eyes seemed like there was so much wisdom locked up inside. As I can tell, he really just wants to sit and be the center of attention. As he sits there, I realize I might stuff my little buddy and place him on my desk when he's gone. He's just not moving and is completely still and silent. You would think that his fur is worth a fortune by how soft it is. I believe that's why he always comes around with this look of I am better than you face. He is truly royalty and his face says it all.

Now, from reading this story's title, you are probably thinking… is this man a drunk? Well, I guess you could call me that. I’ve finished my 3rd glass, and things are starting to feel a bit wonky. Wavy. Maybe wavy is a better word. The funny thing is, though, my cat also has the same name as this title. And now you probably think you are sure of it. “He must be a drunk,” is that what you're thinking right now? Well, hell, who cares what you think, huh? You don’t know me.

Anyway, I’m tired of sitting here and waiting for award-winning stories to flood themselves on this page. I’m just going to warm up here and see what’s happening. Pretty much all I have here is my cat; there is nothing else worth writing about. I'm Telling you… nada.

Well, anyway, Let’s see, he's got a brown striped coat with dots on his belly. A skewered look stapled on his protruding browline. His mouth tilted downwards in a cute but unapproachable way. Anyone looking at him would probably stay away, but I know he is just a little fluff ball. Wouldn’t hurt a fly!

I found him in a bin, and I didn't really like that name for him. I greeted him, and the first thing he did was sniff my whiskey bottle. The rest was history.

Well, there's a story… always one to be found somewhere, I guess…

** When we’re trying to improve,** by siting in our rooms. staring at our decorations, **since we don’t know what to do. ** **We look out and stare at nature ** saying “wow my world’s a treasure.” for a second our minds rest, **while we’re trying process. ** one more thought is all we need. “maybe i’m not good enough?” Then we turn and see a cat, **At a window, so relaxed ** **Yea, ** he’s God’s creation, But know he’s my inspiration. How so cozy in his fur, he swings it’s tail, pointing towards the shadow of the moon. i watch his eyes i pet his head and i start writing…

When a simple thing you can’t decide **where a word is sound asleep ** **a brown white spotted cat ** reminds you that with every little thing a poem is created into one big dream when his eyes stares at ours wide, and his hands stretch like his eyes, with my coffee right beside , i remind myself that these days someday might die. **I enjoy my silent moment, ** tho my cat wants to ignore it. Yet i love the fact of his existence because cats just love persistance (random fact why i love cats) __

As the candlelight glows So do your amber eyes Golden like the sun With dark flecks full like the moon When winter comes No flowers bloom As you sit on my desk, purring aloud My hand flowed through your fur, soft as velvet night

Here I read another Psalm Silence, like the crickets at night Not worried about The whispers in town Making their judgements Leaping abound

What a wonderful companion you are to me Catching mice in the night I hear not hardly a squeak And when the villagers awake We conquer the day Hunting for food In our own way

when the moonlight shines through I wonder when you’ll come home As I can barely make out your paw prints heading south

To lake Dungin you trek I guess I’ll see you when you head back From Lake Dungin An ode to your name Where I first found you huddled with my collection of things

Inky fluffs – white clothing despair – bringers of bad luck to those with superstitions.

O’ Hallow’s Eve mascot, arched and hissing – 364 other days of cuddly void piles.

Paint my wardrobe with wayward fur, your tiny, blush tongue and bright, shining eyes, the only cracks in your sable armour.

Emissary of night, rumble box of love, sleep away the day. Arise at darkness’ onset.

Blue and orange, tabby and tortie, all pale when facing ebony perfection.

The window is closed and yet it flickers. With every overwhelming wave of frustration a sigh escapes and the flame, flick, flick, flickers. A yawn escapes me, my eye lids feel of lead and they begin to drop, slow and heavy. But I must not falter, it is my destiny that I finish what must be done here. But the flame, those ever present sighs, the way the flame dances against the air, seductive, enticing, hypnotic. Darn this form. A quick respite, then, then we will finally see it through. … The candle has formed a pool of wax at its base, It seems to be a 1/4” lower than it had been but a moment ago. Realization settles in at the amount of time lost. Must have dosed off longer than I wanted. Damn it, which would also explain the blank pages and a quill unyielded, it’s tip bone dry. The unceasing need to stretch takes over while I scan the room. A lumpy pile of blankets tells me all I need to know and I make my way to the pillows on the bed. It’s soft and warm and calls to me. Has me thinking of another possible nap but I can’t mess this up. The CDS gave me this assignment for a reason. I push at the warm comforters edge, where I feel little warm puffs of air escape. She stretches long and deep and she groans at having been disturbed. She gropes for the alarm clock and pulls it under the covers. Another groan, and the cover go flying. It only takes a sideways glance to the table for her to look over and notice the paper still laying there bare and ink well left uncapped. “We must have dosed off” She rubs the back of her hand against her eyes blinking them wider as if to waken herself faster. “Good thing you woke me, I should probably get going on this report.” Her lips curl into a beautifully simple smile. “Thank you, Sam” her voice is like catnip to my ears. She leans forward and caresses the back of my neck, down through my tail. I purr and she kisses me deep on my forehead. Pulling a blanket along with, she makes her way back to the desk and dips her pen into the awaiting ink. “I can’t do this alone” she looks over her shoulder at me. I smile too, she might not know it but she’s never alone. That’s what I’m here for, I’ll always be here for her.

For a while, my cat has been getting more action than me. She’s housebound at the moment, a result of this action, so we’ve been spending a lot of time together. I watch her everyday and she slinks around the house, a stealth yet angry movement. Her midnight fur often glistens in the afternoon sun, the shadow of her pregnant stomach reflected on the floorboards. Other cats have come to call for her, two of which had a particularly nasty fight last Wednesday. I’m not sure who is responsible for the litter of kittens that is about to bless my kitchen, or if she is either. All I know, is that whilst I suffer with writer’s block, my cat is living out a sitcom of her own.