My husband has been giving me gentle nudges, the kind frequently
accompanied by a coal shovel or well-placed boot, to get my pen and
keister in gear and write something whose working title is "Cat: A
Memoir." We have been discussing it for several months, and only last
night did I manage to dredge up the cojones to put a prologue into first
draft.

It is about Fritzie, narrated by the Venerable One himself; it is
ultimately about the difference one creature can make in the life of
another and that an animal is not a dumb critter to be tossed out like a
McDonald's wrapper. The only thing I want from this is print credit. I
don't think that is a selfish request. My aim is have all proceeds from
its sale benefit 10th Chance and Ten Lives, the shelters which gave us
our little girls; also our county's humane society and the Veterinary
Emergency Fund. If we do it right we can set up a charitable trust
through the bank where I work. Then, if I can get all my other stuff off
the ground, I'll never have to work in that cesspool again and I can
just write full time and continue to market Fritzie's tale for the good
folks who gave us our Roxie and Brandy and Odessa.

I've been approaching this with a tight throat and shaky hands. When our
Fritzie crossed over in December of 2003, I went on a shopping fit and
had to have my medication temporarily increased. I want the memories of
the Venerable One to be happy and to make other people laugh. I mean,
who wouldn't roll over hearing about the time his constipation cleared
up and he dropped a few pounds of Tootsie Rolls down cellar all over the
floor, just before the meter-reader came and we had no idea what was
happening? Who would not sympathize with a woman with a scuzzy boyfriend
so contemptible that the cat pretends he is scraping litter over his
shoes? And who would disagree with the fact, indisputable to myself and
Louie, that Fritzie was a sentient cat who can make the point, even from
the place of eternal summer, that there is no such thing as a "dumb
beast" and that the creatures humankind perceives as lower may actually
have more going on spiritually than "enlightened" Man?

And why am I suffering from creative constipation when I want to tackle
this project? I can tell a story with the best of the old-tyme bards. I
can make people pee themselves with our cat stories. It took me over
seven months to butch up and just do a lousy prologue. Stephen King
could write his on an airsick bag while his plane's taxi-ing and get
half the damn book done before take off. And then he could sell the
airsick bag on Ebay and make enough to send one of his kids to Harvard.

If there is such a thing as a brain laxative, where can I find it?
Because I really think Fritzie wants to say something.

Blessed be,
Baha