The Cat's Meal

My cat Charlie watched me from the shelf above my computer monitor, as I avidly typed away at the keys.  I had been working on my novel for over a year, with hardly any interaction with the outside world.  Charlie was my only companion, and his disdain for that role was evident.

I couldn’t blame Charlie for his contempt towards me.  For weeks, months even, I spent every possible waking moment tapping out the words for my book. Some days I would forget to feed him; or myself for that matter. He used to try rubbing up against my legs or meowing at my feet to get some attention.  It was a futile effort, since my passion for writing had consumed me completely. But all of that was about to change…

I leaned back in my chair, hands behind my head, fingers intertwined, with a look of undiluted satisfaction on my face.  The next “Great American Novel” was complete.  I smiled arrogantly at Charlie, but dreams of fame and fortune clouded my vision of him.  I absentmindedly noticed his black furry body leaning up against the wall, tail swishing back and forth like a pendulum, as I mentally practiced my Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech.

Lost in my daydreams, rocking precariously back and forth on my chair, I suddenly lost my balance and went toppling over backwards.  I hit my head hard on the marble coffee table behind me.  Charlie didn’t budge.  I couldn’t move and the world was starting to go black around the edges.  Panic set in.  Who would find me? How long would I lay here?  As the light disappeared from the world, the last thing I saw was Charlie, watching me, his tongue lazily licking around his mouth.  I think he was smiling.