I am NOT worthy

Now I know a lot of writers are "infested" with felines.  No one knows why.  Writers and cats just attract each other.

However, I challenge anyone to find fuzzballs as cute as my four-pawed masters.  I am not worthy.

Her royal highness, Miranda, princess d’Ardenes, disturbed while napping by importune flashing camera.

    "You know, I can get another blob on two legs.  Probably nicer than you.  I have applications."

For the curious, Miranda is a Cornish Rex, and she was my "reward" for finishing first three books.

 Dejah Thoris Burroughs princess of Barsoom, our very dearest DT. She was the youngest of the "first batch" of cats.  Now at almost twenty, she is the oldest cat we’ve ever had.  She spends a lot of her time sleeping, doubtless dreaming of the happy times with Pixie and Randy and Pete.  We know we won’t have her for very long, but we’ll love her while we can.  She is Dan’s special girl, has been besotted with him from the day we got her, as a three week old baby, all fluff and meows.

Euclid-cat.  we got him at the humane society where he was scheduled for put-down in twenty minutes because of a respiratory infection.  Lovely affectionate baby, only he plucks all hair off his belly, lower paws and … er… behind.  We don’t know why.  It’s nothing physical.  We think "too crazy for words" just about covers it.  We gave him kitty prozac and he started suffering from alien tail syndrome.  His tail attacked him in his sleep.  He fought it for hours.  And lost.  Funny as it was, we decided not to give him any more prozac.

  D’Artagnan, the cat who came in from the cold, wandered in a day before Eric’s birthday, four years ago.  He was eight weeks old, starving, and a snow storm was starting to blow.  Dan and Robert went up and down the street asking if he was anyone’s kitty.  The answer?  He was ours.  Has been ever since.  D. answers to his name, wags his tail and is in many ways a puppy.  He also likes to sit ON my head (or shoulder) in winter, having earned the nic "the cat who mistook himself for a hat."

  Havelock.  The Patrician.  Havey.  Mr. Ridiculous Plume.  We brought him home from mini-golf course.  I SWEAR his eyes were open, when I shot.  Very sensitive to flash, is Havelock.

  You’ve heard of Three Dog Night, right?  Well, this is the feline version.