According to my dictionary, a “Muse” is any of the nine Greek goddesses who preside over the arts. This means that, as a writer, I not only get to work in my pajamas1, I can also claim my own goddess who will answer my prayers in times of literary distress.
Luckily, there’s no need, since I have Necco, a peach-colored tortoiseshell2 cat to serve as my own personal “mewse”.
The cat discovered us at the local animal shelter. We were looking for a quiet, neat pet toplement our boisterous3 dog, Emma. We found Necco instead.
As soon as we entered the shelter, she called to us in a noisy chirps that made it clear she required immediate attention. The yellow tag on her cage—the symbol showing that this was her last day—backed up her urgent request. When the cage door swung open, she stepped into my arms and settled back with a look that clearly said, “What took you so long?”
Six months old and barely three pounds, Neeco wasted no time establishing herself as the one in charge of our lives. The leather chair was her scratching post. The Christmas tree was her playground. And the mantel, neatly decorated with a collection of brass candlesticks4 of all shapes and sizes, was where she discovered the Feline Law of Gravity: Cats go up, candlestickse down. The first dainty swipe of a paw resulted in a satisfying crash. So did the second, third and fourth. By the fifth crash, Necco’s face bore the cat equivalent of a grin. She had discovered her purpose in life.