(Sequel to previous blog posts: "The Writer's View," "Desk with a View," "Cat with a View," and "Jewel of a View")

It’s been six months since my writer has sat before me.  Dust has been invading the corners of my top and in the creases of my legs.  The books have been still, and a vile cobweb now connects me to the windowsill.  But even worse, she barely looks towards me anymore. 

I miss her.  But she misses him.

I have to admit that things haven’t been right since the old blob left -- the tapping from his claws, the weight of his girth and his so-called meow that sounded more like he was being stepped on than communicating.  The competition is a third gone too, but my writer hasn’t even noticed.  I guess Sonny’s presence was a part of her.  Strange.  You would think she would be relieved that the constant mêlée of cat vs. desk was less.  That for once I wasn’t suffering.  And that she’d have more peace without the keyboard battles.

But alas, as it seems, she can’t bare the sight of me without him, and I have fallen victim to absence.  Oh, yes, I do have the other cat.  The one that just uses me as a bird-watching perch as she smacks her tail back and forth across me.  New scratches in my fine grain have appeared as well since my writer has moved the computer away.  It seems Mocha has taken over Sonny’s spot.

Doesn’t my writer know I’m here to support her?  Doesn’t she know that every morning as the sun shines across my face, that I wish she were here pretending to be someone else?  Instead, I’ve succumbed to the whims of another unruly, spoiled cat that apparently has a licking fetish.  It’s no wonder I have any finish left.

Oh, my words are a mess.  My sentences unfinished.  I yearn for the days when my writer was not in such a state.  She must return soon.  Or I fear she never will.

Oh, no, here comes the cat…again.

The Writing Desk Saga 
(Sequel to previous blog posts: "Desk with a View," "Cat with a View," and "Jewel of a View")


The birds are loud this morning as they race by the line of windows in front of my desk.  I’m supposed to be writing, but I can’t help but watch them soar through the branches until they find just the right spot for breakfast. The daily positioning for a strategic landing onto the bird feeder has begun and the cardinals are antsy. They don't like to share. In fact, they act like they own the place.

I watch for a few more minutes until I force myself to abandon this distraction and get down to business. My favorite pad in the right drawer. My favorite pen in the middle. My laptop positioned for internet searches. I can’t help but notice how well the shine of the desktop has never faded after all these years. There’s a few dings on the corners and a few marks on the legs, but overall, this old gal is in pretty good shape. The desk, I mean. The first time I saw it was at a little antique shop, and its tag held the words "writing desk." I’m not sure how old it is, but it’s longer than most desks. I like this extra length for storing book upon book, note pads, and a little jar filled with paper strips of handwritten memories for the year.  

Besides the birds, the view from the window holds generous-sized scrub oaks with long, hanging moss from numerous branches of various heights. Since I’m on the second floor, it feels like I’m up in a treehouse, and my favorite view is the flowerbed of red, pink and white pentas with a splattering of pink hibiscus. A faux brick border winds around it and a stately bench sits waiting for me.  The focal point, though, is the white birdbath and pedestal with a hint of green.

When I outline my stories, I’m usually quite focused, my pen not hesitating much on the page.  I'm not sure who the characters are and aren’t, and I'm not sure where I’m going. So, concentration is essential, especially right now, since I'm in the thick of determining who the blonde guy is that's been following me around lately.  And then in a millisecond, or a minute, I’m not sure, my intense concentration is interrupted by yet another distraction. 

Mocha. 

Not just any cat. This is one who is quite taken, even obsessed, with pens.  And to my chagrin, today her play pen has to be mine. She thinks she’s pretty sneaky as her butt wiggles prior to pouncing onto my desk and trying to grab my pen quickly, but I’m onto her just as fast and pull it away with a swift second hand to assist her onto the floor.  

But she's relentless. Mocha returns for another try and so begins the onslaught of claws on my pen until I finally give up and move her to her favorite bath mat so I can have some peace.  

I immerse myself back into the outline, still somewhat on track, and jot down a few more lines. The cardinals chirp after every letter. The cat whimpers pitifully from behind. The clock clicks with every second. I grab my head into my hands, trying to shut out the noise that’s sidetracking me, but I soon give up once I
notice a pair of cardinals looking back at me.  I watch them as they bounce back and forth on a branch, their heads turning to each side to see me, or more probably, their reflection on the outside window. The female flies to the birdbath, followed by the male, and he watches and lets out a single chirp every few seconds while she bathes. He’s not directly near her, but he’s watching from afar, as if he’s protecting her. He lets her finish before he indulges which is opposite of bird feeder time where he barrels over her to eat. I’m glad for this moment to see their relationship. To slow down time to their time.  And I suddenly realize that I haven’t really stopped brainstorming at all. I just have new material. 

Guess I'll go let the cat out.

The Writing Desk Saga 
(Sequel to previous blog posts: "Desk with a View" and "Cat with a View")

Shhhhh....be quiet you stupid cats. I can't hear over your incessant scratching of the door. Move out of my way, so I can take a whiff and see if my girl is awake yet. It's very annoying that I have to maneuver around you cats, so I can get to her first every morning. Her arrival is everything to me.  You guys couldn't care less. I've seen how many times you've turned your back on her when she's offered belly rubs. Get the hell out of the way, so I can dive into her legs for my morning greeting filled with back rubs and full-body hugs.  She thinks you both love her too, but I know the truth. You're just here to make sure she'll be around to give you your evening meal.

My sniffer is telling me that she's seconds away from opening the door. I can hear the sliding of slippers along the floor from an exhausted lady who I can't wait to see! But, wait...it sounds like the slippers are now moving away from the door.  Where is she going? Come back! I hear some rattling from her side table. This probably means she's grabbing her glasses, so I'll get ready and listen all the more intently. I sniff, then wait. Then sniff and wait. Then sniff again and ready myself for the full-on catapult I'm about to give her.  The doorknob jiggles and twists. The door opens slightly with a creak. I back up in anticipation and soon...she's here! I throw myself onto her in jubilation over this glorious morning event.

"Well, good morning, Jewel - my sweet, precious girl," she says with a smile. Oh, how much I love my girl. How much I wish we could stay in this hallway forever.  But after a few hugs, she pats me on the side to let me know it's time for her morning brew. And that dastardly writing desk.

Yes. I have to share her.  

It's bad enough that she has to talk to the other people in the house, but it's worse when she sits in front of the computer and acts like it's alive. Yeah, I'm not kidding. She'll get her coffee and sit at the kitchen counter for a few minutes, but after that she's onto pretending to be something or someone else. And that cocky desk just stands there as if my girl owes it something, not to mention the battle with the cats.  They are constantly badgering her for a spot on the desk, and she has to remove them several times a day.  Between Sonny and Mocha, I'm not sure how she gets any work done.  I try to help her by nudging my nose on her leg, but sometimes I misjudge and end up against the wooden leg of the desk instead which is absolutely embarrassing. I stare at her for hours on end, but she gets so engrossed in her stories, she doesn't even know I exist. But I wait anyway. Wait for her to get up, so I can follow her to any room she wishes. I must be her escort at all times. The cats are jealous of this, of course, and try to run through her legs for attention, but that just ends up pissing her off when she stumbles. They are idiots.

But when she returns to her writing, she goes away again....somewhere. I'm not quite sure where, though she talks of it often. Sometimes she's saving a young man from an insane landlord, and sometimes she's planning the escape of an imprisoned lady. But no matter where she is, I want be the first to welcome her back.  She goes on many journeys, after all, so I want to make sure she knows where her home is; so she'll always find me. Not the cats or the desk, both of which are useless.  Just me. 

The Writing Desk Saga 
(Sequel to previous blog post: "Desk with a View" from 5/2014)
UPDATE: Unfortunately, Sonny passed away on 1/2/2015. RIP, Sonny - we will miss you. At least you will live on in the blogosphere.)

I might as well just say it.  This house is lucky to have me.  I don't think the walking animals agree though, especially given my stature. But, just because they stand upright and I cannot, it doesn't mean I am any less, right?  After all, I am domesticated and friendly when I want to be.  I let them carry me on occasion.  I snuggle under my terms. I am the household cat.  And I hold this position in high regard, literally.  

The house is run by a short walking animal and two taller ones.  The short one has a gentle touch, but she stinks.  Not all the time.  Just mostly in the morning before she leaves.  I'm not sure why she thinks she should smell like a flower, but I avoid her by running downstairs before she sees me, and cry at the taller animal's door to let me in. I always forget that she can hear me though, and before I know it, I'm cornered by that ungodly stench during the goodbye cuddle.  Luckily, when she comes home later, she smells more like sweaty shoes, and at least I can tolerate her in the same room as me.

Then there are the tall animals.  They are much more rougher with me.  These walking animals get a kick out of slinging my rather healthy torso around in circles and making hideous laughing sounds, as I struggle to my feet and stagger to find my footing.  I return the favor when they chase after me by running them dizzy around the table a few times to see if they tire. Then, just to make sure I get my point across, I sit in the corner and instantaneously shed a tumble weed as their punishment for this atrocity.  

But worst of all, the walking animals don't understand my quest for being at the top and routinely try to thwart my advances. So, when they're not looking, I jump up to my carpeted perch and wait for that perfect moment to land onto the highest point in the room - the writing desk.  This coveted position is all I care about, and I cannot be swayed.  The walking animals usually start screeching at me as I move towards the desk, but I’ll give it a go to see what happens.  I can only hope that one of their nice, warm electronic devices are already waiting for me.  

I scrunch my legs back and catapult myself toward the desk, all the while fiercely spotting my landing. I gracefully touch down on all fours and wait for a second for her response, but luckily the short walking animal is too entranced with her computer (that will soon be mine) rather than worrying about my whereabouts.  So, I meander slowly to a clearing on the smooth surface and slide my belly out from under me with a plop.  So what if a few papers swirl away in the heat of the moment or pencils go flying.  She can pick them up, or I can chase them around the room later.  

As I become more comfortable, I take in the view outside which is quite entertaining.  Birds swirl by.  Butterflies swoon onto petals. Lizards bulge their orange necks. And I am in pure ecstasy.  Well, okay, maybe not totally.  It could only be better if I could stretch my neck over and ever so gently lay my head on that heavenly keyboard that knows how to treat a kitty right.  

First I start with reaching one of my paws out and show the keyboard how my claws are brilliantly aligned.  Of this, I am very proud.  Then, when the walking animal seems mesmerized by her so-called story, I quietly stretch over to my prize and claim a corner as my own.  Most of the time, she seems to think I'm cute.  So, I make sure to scrunch my face up all the more for a better affect.  Then, I crock my head back, to make sure I'm in that irresistible position known as upside down and start purring.  How could she resist this?  I am, by all accounts, absolutely adorable.  And sure enough, I receive my bonus prize and sprawl out as much as I can for the full massage.  I just love it when I finally take over the face of this old oak desk.  It's a good thing it can't breathe, because I'd block off any hopes of respiration.  

All is heavenly, until the walking animal drags me onto her lap.  How demoralizing.  Not only am I not on the highest table in the room, but I am stuck in a coddling position with the only sight being her ugly face as her nose touches mine.  I want to puke from her disgusting breath.  I beg for mercy and round up my legs for another good catapult, but that sneaky witch holds my legs, preventing me from leaping back to the desk or clawing her eyes out.  And why she has to kiss me on my head is beyond me.  Her nasty lips always have a little spittle on them which she leaves behind on my fur that I will have to vigorously clean off later. Look, all I want is my desk.  It's mine, not hers.  I'm not sure why she has to hog it.  It's a perfectly good desk with good bones.

Because she has completely pissed me off, I have no other choice but to hiss.  Yes, I said hiss.  And with full teeth blaring.  I just can't take it anymore.  I hate being held.  I hate being cradled.  I wish I could tell her to go find herself a damn hamster. Instead we engage in a staring contest which she knows I will win, so she forces me down, looking deflated.

And here I sit on the wretched floor once again, resigned to being Sonny, the low-life cat.  That is until the next time she concentrates on her novel.
  

The Writing Desk Saga (see "A Cat with a View" and "A Jewel of a View" for the sequels)

I seem to be good for several things including holding paper, pens and books of all flavors. For providing storage. A place to lay the newspaper. I am my writer’s old oak desk. We do not speak, but how I wish I could. She sits at me in the early morning sometimes with a laptop, sometimes with a pad. I hold her glasses, coffee mug and phone. And I support her as she writes for hours.

Today is the same. She hums as she sets up on my surface, brushing off pesky cat hair that has accumulated on me from a nuisance named “Sonny” and gently scolds this beast who’s blobbing out next to me on his feline post. She stares out the window at obnoxious birds who race by to find a perch in the trees prior to scooping down to the feeder before another has a chance. She mentions how she loves the old oak outside despite being crooked from age and the yard of green which causes her nothing but hours of labor. And she pets the useless, long-haired dog that loves to brush up against me, half the time with a wet nose that on a good morning doesn’t land on my leg. It’s downright inexcusable for all of these distractions to be bothering my writer at such important times, but alas, I cannot help, or do, or say anything. I am her desk. I am the unseen, unappreciated support, but I would rather be nothing else.

She plugs away at her characters and settings for an hour after things settle down and is now in full concentration mode. Her writing is going well. She’s living life through her characters, acting out scenes and feverishly jotting down lines. She’s talking to herself in jubilation, as if defendant Johnny Goldchild is pacing in the room or young Emma Fairsworth is running around. These are my favorite times.  

But as usual, this wonderfully serene time has to be interrupted by a cat paw that has just rested on my side and provides a perfect catapulting position for landing onto my shiny top only to bother my writer. With its purrs and cuddles, that puff ball Sonny ends up interrupting the flow and ruining the blow by blow scenes that are now nothing but a blur. And what does my writer do? Pets him once again. It is quite beyond me how these forced break times are acceptable by her, but it never fails that she inevitably and disgustingly baby talks him and lets his oversized body lay on mine with a tail whipping around like a viper ready to damage my almost pristine 50-year-old surface. I may have a ding or two on my curves, but overall, this old lady is in good shape.

Thank goodness, eventually, she tires of the cat and shoos him off so we can get back to business, wiping his hair onto the floor again that she’ll have to clean up later. She’ll then usually go back into her world for a few more hours, but now it seems she’s lost it. Her elbows are on me with her head in her hands, trying to find the characters again. When she gives up, she peers out the window. She sips on her coffee. She calls the dog. But she never notices me.  The one that is the old standby. The one she leans on. Her one constant.

I wish I could tell her to keep going. To not be discouraged. That it will all come together like it always does. To not listen to those annoying birds or be distracted by the view or the pets. But I know she’ll never hear me. All I can do is stand strong, holding her up when she needs it, providing support for her elbows, arms and various beverages.

She gets up from her chair and I know she’s going to leave. She looks out the window, then to the pets. She grabs her coffee and glasses with a sigh. Typical behavior for when my writer is frustrated. But then, something happens that never happens. She pauses before me and runs her fingers across the front of my surface. She grins ever so slightly and says, “Thank you, my old friend.” She finally sees me.

As she walks away, I can’t help but think better of that tub-o-lard cat and maybe his slight usefulness. After all, he’s just trying to comfort her, I suppose. And I guess I can see her attraction to our beautiful backyard and the nature that goes along with it, though I could live without the relentless chirps and thoughtless singing. But, they get her for only short moments in time. I, on the other hand, have the honor of her leaning on me every morning. And I will always be here to support her.

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I bet you will never look at your desk the same again. Next time, you might want to consider giving it a hug. ;-) Sandie