A look at the home of James Herriot.
A look at the home of James Herriot.
Zizi isn’t reading in this picture, but she is lounging on the arm of the comfiest chair in my studio-library.

Look at those eyes!
“I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.”-Jean Cocteau
“I don’t know which is more discouraging, literature or chickens.”-E.B. White

Chicken condo
Who needs Grumpy Cat, when this kitten is in the house?

“Meow means “woof” in cat.”-George Carlin.
Dogs are love. It is as simple as that. I defy you to look at Crosley and tell me otherwise.

My freckle-snouted cutie.
Cros warms my feet as I am writing, and fills my heart with love 24-hours a day.
Duncan does not have literary interests like his feline sister. He prefers to run around like a cyclone, chasing shadows. He’s hard to photograph because he is rarely still. Even when caught in a moment of relaxation, he starts bouncing around as soon as he sees the glint of the phone or camera, trying to find, then kill, the light source. Thank goodness for the existence of the burst shot.

Duncan in a moment of stillness.
“Not Carnegie, Vanderbilt, and Astor together could have raised money enough to buy a quarter share in my little dog.”-Ernest Thompson Seton

Caught in the act of reading one of my favourite literary biographies.
“I dwell in possibility.”-Emily Dickinson

Pondering Dickinson
I’m still sick, still struggling to find energy, still spending my days curled up on the couch. Fortunately, I have great, wet-nosed company.

Napping Crosley. Instagram. “Happiness is a warm puppy.”-Charles M. Schulz
What happens when you combine the poetry of Pablo Neruda with photographs of cats?
You are welcome.