~Edgar Allan Poe
“You see, it’s no good, Musey—I’ve lost my touch. Nothing’s working any more.”
My Tabby blinks his huge green eyes as if to say, trust me—it’ll be fine. Well, it may be fine for this Muse Cat, but that’s not putting food on the table for us.
I glare at him; I mean business. He yawns, turns over on the sofa cushion and promptly falls asleep.
Blocked again. I toss my manuscript onto the fire and stare out at the rainy skyline.
The brooding Toronto spring and misty distances take me back to when it all began.
I had been standing in the rain admiring an art deco building from the Thirties when I heard mewing coming from a nearby alleyway. Curious, I poked around some garbage and found a Tabby kitten huddled and shivering in a wet cardboard box. My heart melted.
I tucked him inside my coat and took him home. It wasn’t until later that I discovered he was a Muse.
It was his idea to buy the condo to turn it into an artist’s lair. He can be very insistent when he gets an idea in his head.
Oh, you’re probably wondering how this Muse thing works.
Well, I can’t tell you exactly how he communicates with me because it’s different every time—suffice it to say, for a mute creature he speaks with a clear voice, making his desires known.
Our partnership has been quite successful and our books are consistently topping the New York Time’s bestseller lists, but I still feel unfulfilled.
Also, I’m lonely. I always thought being a writer, it was best to remain a bachelor, but now that I’ve had some success, I realize I need something more.
The fact is I’ve been existing in a world devoid of feminine charm. Other writers’ Muses are goddesses—why does mine have to be a male Tabby cat—and a grumpy one at that?
I’ve tried dating, bringing several women by the condo to meet Musey, but he hates them all, or they hate him, tiring quickly of his incessant vocalizations.
So, here I am, staring out the window at the rain and complaining to an uncaring cat about my angst. Such is my cruel fate—a servant to an exalted soul in feline shape, whose gift is sacred poetry, but is unable to affect my daily life.