Cats are natural companions for writers, not only because they’re relatively independent and undemanding of one’s attention—though there is that—but also because they tend to strike us as kindred spirits. Observers. Introverts. Always practicing their craft—only instead of wordsmithing, a cat’s craft happens to be hunting, and instead of word counts and margin scribbles, the cat’s main concerns are sparring, claw maintenance, and play-hunting: chasing shadows, leaves, laser pointers, and any other facsimile of prey. “The cat does not offer services,” William S. Burroughs wrote. “The cat offers itself.”- from The Half-Wild Muse: On Writers and Their Cats by Tim Weed

It’s Tuesday night, and I’m in typing on a keyboard while a cat nudges its head next to my leg. When you watch a cat, there’s something to envy. Their feet under their stomachs, posed like a loaf of bread. All of their worries flow off of their smoothed coats. Right now, I think about how they didn’t need a degree to have their expenses covered. Or how success can be found by catching a wild bird. I would love for all of my problems to be solved by catching a bird. Instead, I’m an academic. And right now, I’m on the job market.

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