Cracks in the ancient, stone floor harbor the foul evidence of ages past. Dank and musty walls close in under the cover of darkness like some draconian cell. The way of the writers pen, a prison of the soul. The dim lit room embraces me, hunched in the corner at a lonely hutch on a simple stool. A solitary candle beats a breast against the encroaching darkness. A useless vanity. I draw closer to purge the aching in my hands and seek heat from its vain promise.

A single blank parchment lay prostrate before my waiting quill, clutching the wooden desk as a babe clings to the security of a mother’s bosom. It waits, unprofitable to maintain chastity, having no conceptions applied in a slattern orgy of ideas from a fertile mind and adroit hand. It is soon to be soiled in the exhilaration of some arriving creative whim.

Across the pallid room, beyond the waning reach of light, I sense my lone companion stalking intently in the dark, and staring down the banquet of mischief that lay before him. ’Il Gatto’, the cat, as I branded him thus, pads silently about the room, never to see a paw touch the lowly floor, rather, availing himself of every object that would scarce allow a moment’s pause as he decides on the next perch. A feral waif that sought minimal comforts of shelter, alee from horrid elements. With the off chance of indulging in some minor ort and a gentle, kinder touch than the outside world affords, he settled into the sanctum of my lonely room and took dominion over all surveyed.

A single deft and graceful leap propelled him out of the dark. He silently exploded onto the corner of my desk as light showered his face and drew a sharp contrast to each furry stripe he possessed. Cautiously wending a path around the open flame, avoiding the singe of whiskers, his eyes squinted and lips pursed in the fresh light which drew him from the darkness. He plopped prone in the middle of my creative process and donned a concerted effort to meddle with, and delicately paw the edges of my current work.

My lame attempt to brush aside invasive, playful paws, was rewarded only with his new found fascination of the pen with which I was poised to write. He declared an open challenge to title of ownership, as the gnawing and batting began. With each pen stroke, the discourteous sweep of a paw made his distressing intentions well known. One last flicking effort of the pen, as punishment, yielded poor results as a swift twist of his head and a mouthing grab secreted my instrument away. He bounded into the dark, pen deftly secured, as a dog muzzles a prize bone

The bane of my existence, as creative inspiration finally arrives in the night, so also does Il gatto, my fiendish friend with a pen and paper fetish. He fosters no consideration for art, save his own ability to craft a stealthy escape.