My Writing Companion
|The Wrong kind of Mousing|
Charlie the Cat likes to help me. Sometimes he helps a little too much, such as walking on the keyboard, lying down on the mouse, or trying to get my attention by biting my notes and tossing the pages on the floor one at at time. Did T.S. Eliot have these kinds of barriers?
After Savannah died, he moped around the house looking for her. Though he didn't really interact with her much, he seemed to miss her (and her nurse, who could do such a convincing imitation of his mournful cry that she could sometimes fool Ruby). He clung to me more than ever. They say animals can sense when their people are mourning and try to comfort them. If that is true, he more than played his role in our grieving process.
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