The blue door above is the outside entrance to my living quarters, a cozy one-bedroom in my sister and her husband’s home in St. Catharines, Ontario. Within this door is everything I need: comfort and ease and quiet to pursue my interests, whatever they might be at any particular moment. A perfect lair for a retiree and her cat. Meet Roy.
Beth and J.C. are my great friends: Beth and I take turns making and serving pretty darn good dinners; we enjoy weekend games nights with our friend Karl and our summer evenings are full of Blue Jays – not the avian kind.
Beth and J.C. know, however, that there is something odd about the critters in their basement. Sometimes it’s not the least bit quiet down here, because Roy is the loudest and most opinionated feline you’ve ever seen. I’ve had many, many cats and he is the most vocal of them all, by a country mile. (Is a country mile longer than a city mile, do you think? And if so, how?)
He doesn’t look like an insecure cat, does he? Just check out that impertinent stare. But if I am not anywhere that he can hop on my lap when he has a mind to, he makes a great deal of noise – his voice, and powerful it is, sounds like that of a heavy-smoking, whisky drinking karaoke acapella metal music singer. I’m going to record that voice and post it here one of these days. Just so you can experience Roy in all his wild glory.
When it’s quiet down here, though, it’s very, very quiet. Sometimes Beth fears she’ll find me comatose with the TV remote in my hand and the screen gone to bright silent blue. We are that age, you know. But, so far, it means I’m writing and Roy’s hanging around, just chilling. As long as I remember to feed him, he’s good for hours at a time, lounging beside me where ever I’m perched – couch, bed, armchair. I have a desk but I’d rather slouch somewhere soft and warm.
Sometimes, though, he’s had enough. He installs himself beside me and works his pointy little head under my arm, worms his face up to mine to lick my nose. Then he twists his rather long legs around my belly and pats the keyboard with one or two paws – enough to wreak havoc on whatever I’ve just put up on screen. Roy’s one of my blocks. I dedicate this blog to him, and all the other things that trip us writers up mid-sentence.
Hence the name writersblocks.blog. Here’s to you, Roy.
Canadian Stories 