He thought that to become great at art, you need talent. But to become a genius, you need a healthy dollop of pain. All the great artists had suffered. And since he had found out through this long perilous voyage of self-discovery that he was, or became a habitual coward, the thought of causing himself an injury was ridiculous, a pretty laughable idea. So, the cat got it instead. For purely inspirational purposes only.
To his surprise, he received a phone-call from the R.S.P.C.A late one-week ago. They were following up on complaints of callous cat torture. His neighbors were a little worried, they reported, and that they heard, usually at dinnertime, the sound of a cat, or cat’s, being molested or interfered with, in some unspeakable manner.
Intolerable, he thought, that I should be dragged away from writing what could be possibly the Moby Dick of this generation, to answer inane accusations of kitty torture. He assured them however, albeit precariously, that this was not the case. Okay for now, they said, but they would not hesitate in following up personally if another call should occur.
Anyway, the cat had wised up to him by now. Late last night, after tempting the cat to him with promises of delicious low-fat saucers of milk, she threw herself onto his face, attacking with such speed, will and ferocity, that her lion and tiger relatives in Africa stood up to applaud. Digging her claws into his fleshy ears, with the pure intention of eating his nose. She did them proud.
The man winced at this memory. " Damn beasts " he muttered as he felt his nose. A thoroughly unpleasant episode.
The cat darted from under his legs. What to write? He thought. What shall I write? The man looked hard at his empty writing paper and scratched his head. He remembered to concentrate. And now...maintain.