A writer's companion

There is something comforting about the image of the faithful family dog, sleeping by a fireplace as the flames crackle and snap and snow falls silently outside, visible through the glass panes of the window.

We no longer have a dog, although my husband and I had one for eighteen years, and another for thirteen. Both were beloved members of our family.

And then, a few years ago, a black cat adopted us, and moved in. We no longer had a dog in our home, and never considered ourselves cat people. In fact, the thought was absurd.

But things are different these days. There is now something comforting about our large black cat napping on the window seat in our den. It’s as if he belongs there, a designer addition added to the picture as if the decorator was trying to capture that Norman Rockwell feeling.

At the moment he is curled on the rocking chair, next to my desk. When I’m gone during the day, he seeks other places to nap, such as the pot shelf or on the rocker in our bedroom. But, when I’m home, he stays close to me. A fitting ornament for my cozy den, and a good companion for a writer, who sometimes needs a warm distraction, a friendly purr and a nuzzling reminder that it’s time to take a break.