30 Days With Aristotle And Me

My cat, Bradbury, is to me what Calliope was to the ancient Greeks -  my Muse.

For the record, Bradbury is a Scottish Fold, a somewhat rare breed known for being quirky, adorable, and extremely affectionate.

With his round face, sad eyes, and nearly ear-less noggin, Brad (named after my favorite author, Ray Bradbury) is a never-ending source of inspiration. But when I turn a corner and find him sitting in the middle of the floor like Buddha, or propped up against a wall (like in the photo), I can’t help but laugh out loud, which causes his forehead to crinkle up like he’s either (a) offended, or (b) trying really hard to get the joke.

I defy anyone to remain focused on writing when something this cute sashays up and sits at your feet, eyes pleading for attention.

The really interesting thing (among many) about Bradbury is that he’ll just sit there, not making a sound, until I look at him. As soon as we make eye contact, he’ll vocalize something that sounds like “waaaah.” He never says “meow.” Not once have I heard him say “meow.” (He probably considers it beneath him.) But he says, “waaaah” a lot. And if I don’t quite catch him the first time, I’ll say, “What was that, Brad?” and he’ll repeat it, louder, “WAAAAAH.”

If I persist in teasing him about his lack of clear diction, he’ll just give me “the look,” which is probably akin to, “You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me?” (Taxi Driver is one of his favorite movies.)

How much Muse can one guy take?

Gimme a break, Brad. Go Muse someone else for a while. Can’t you see I’m trying to write?