I’m a creature of habit. I get used to a routine and there is a certain comfort about the ritual and expectations of a well-planned day. All that goes out the window when a creature of another sort appears–#NotMyCat. This furry little bag of attitude has thrown my routine into the litter box.
I like to settle in at the keyboard with my morning coffee and pick up working where I left off on a project. I like a continuous, uninterrupted period of time to be at my most productive. Recently, that’s been the revision and rewriting a new crime fiction manuscript. It has a working title of Lost Life, and apparently, there was something prophetic about that title. #NotMyCat seems to have made it her mission in life to torment me.
I’m deep into rewriting a scene and I’ve just about got it figured out when–BANG! I hear a crash from downstairs. I push back from the desk, trek downstairs, and find that #NotMyCat has pushed something off the kitchen table. I clean up her mess while she pretends to be asleep on the other side of the room–until she reaches out and swats me.
Back upstairs, I tuck behind the keyboard and start that scene again because my thoughts on how to revise it are completely gone–vanished–like a cat in the night. Okay–okay–focus. A few minutes later I start getting the ideas coming back again and the revisions get on the page. Until that is, I hear a scratching sound from downstairs. The planned revisions disappear because I know #NotMyCat is ravaging the fabric of the sofa to shreds. I jump up to stop the terror campaign against the furniture because when wifey gets home she won’t care if the cat did it–I didn’t stop her from doing it. The but it’s #NotMyCat excuse doesn’t seem to work…
I stumble downstairs, nearly tripping over the Corgi “Watchdog” who has given up trying to police the house from #NotMyCat. As I pull into the kitchen, the scratching stops. #NotMyCat is pretending to be sound asleep on one of the kitchen chairs. I swear she gave me a little side eye with a chuckle.
My writing train of thought is fully derailed, so I put #NotMyCat outside to blow off some of her excess poltergeist-like energy. I grab a book off the end table and go off to sit and read for a while. Before I can open the book, #NotMyCat sneaks in the doggie door and plops in my lap–on top of the book I’m trying to read.
#NotMyCat stretches out on her personal perch (me) and purrs. When she purrs she drools…
It just ain’t happening today with #NotMyCat
James L'Etoile
James L'Etoile 
Hilarious, if frustrating for you!
This furry trespasser keeps me hopping. She can go home (2 houses away) anytime she wants—but here she stays.
James:
You have it easy, try dealing with three of them. This morning, we had all three on the bed which lead to a spat which led to us getting up early. That was probably their plan in the first place. You must learn that humans exist for cats, not the other way around.
Ellery
I am learning what it feels like to be “owend.”
When I still worked, my routine was to get up at 4 am each day; no alarm needed, just a terrible habit of my life. If perchance I did not arise at the “designated” hour my cat would sit at the bedroom door and hit the door stop with his paws until I either threw a pillow at him or got up. This was particularly annoying on weekends to say the least. Alas, Miller died after 21 years of faithfully bestowing live presents from outside into my house; mice, baby bunnies, birds, lizards with their head eaten off….ok, those were not still alive, but you get the picture.