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.