Following on from ‘I have nothing to do’: My cat follows my writing career.

I’m posting this under the guise it’s about my writing career because everybody except me has posted cat photos and stories on social media and I don’t want to be the only one who hasn’t. Because I have two cats. One mine, one inherited when derring-do daughter left home and couldn’t take her cat. Plus, I have nothing to do.

So here’s my cat, Jonesey, sitting on the highest piece of furniture in the room, as they do. 

(The reason I have nothing to do is that I just finished the draft of my next book, and it’s in the hands of trusted beta-readers for feedback, so I find myself bereft of anything to do, the book in question having kept my complete attention for the last month. A post about my cat fills the void.)

Here’s a story about Jonesey to make the post a little more interesting. 

Actually, he couldn’t care less what I say about him, because he’s a cat. But I care, and maybe that rubs off (when he decides to come home, that is).

Four years ago on Mother's Day I attended my first writer's course. It was the Romance Writer's of Australia Perth Roadshow. A one-day event where I realised there was a lot more to this writing lark than I'd thought. (Cue filing the six novels I’d written before this day onto the beginner’s shelf and worrying like crazy.)

Anyway, at the end of that day, my husband and daughter were texting me, "What time are you getting home?" I suspected something was afoot. We're not a family of three that go overboard with the sentimentality of commercial events such as Mother's Day, but we do adhere (I couldn't have it otherwise) to the sentimentality of wanting to give on a special day. Giving involves presents (which I love to receive and hardly ever get. So much for asking.)

I returned home triumphant yet exhausted from learning so much, while wondering how I was going to compartmentalise all that information so that I’d eventually understand at least some of it, to find Jonesey waiting for me. 

Cutie or what?

Jonesey with Harry the Lab on the armchair I never got back

We’d had a moment a few days earlier, Jonesey and I. I’d driven derring-do to the pet shop to buy food for her Angel fish and there was Jonesey, sitting patiently in his cage, front legs crossed. We looked at each other. He didn’t move but something moved inside me (and I didn't do cats. I thought them wierd). I showed him to my daughter who immediately suggested I buy him. “We can’t afford another animal,” said I. We had one cat, a dog, a rabbit, an axolotl, two angel fish and a colourful assortment of other fish tank inhabitants. “And I don’t do cats.” If I gave in, we’d end up with ten dogs, ten rabbits and ten cats, although I would probably have put my foot down at ten axolotls.

But thanks to my daughter persuading my husband to buy him (and that took effort. A whole three minutes) he’s mine, and I’m his. 

"So, do you want to go out, or stay in?" - "I don't mind, mate. Up to you."

He’s a man-cat now at age four, and not so keen on cuddles but he reminds me how long I’ve been writing with real intent and endeavour, so here’s to you and me, Jonesey-boy. Long may our careers as cat and author survive, and thank you for filling the blog-post void, my friend.

Jennie x

(I’m aware that two posts ago I promised a post about the glamorous side of my life as an actor, with rehearsal venues I have known such as crypts and toilet blocks, but I felt that since I had nothing to do, my cat blog post should take preference. Glamorous tales coming soon…)

The other cat (derring-do daughter's cat): Zena, the she-devil