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A postcard from the writing life

According to Wikipedia, in the days before elevators, the garret was the “least prestigious position in a building.” While the third-floor garret (a.k.a. “home office”) I write in is much nicer than Jo March’s or Sara Crewe’s, I can attest that it is not a particularly prestigious space. This was brought to my attention yesterday when one of the cats–the one who has a strangely laissez-faire attitude about using the litter box–decided to take a whiz on the carpet by my desk. I picked him up and put him in the litter box as soon as he was finished, and he looked at me like, “Lady, what are you doing? I’m done!” and hopped out again. (Yes, we have taken him to the vet, changed the brand of litter, etc. He’s just a pee-when-he-feels-like-it kind of guy. Good thing he’s cute.)

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