Editorial Notes from a Former Street Cat

Obviously, I am helping.

​You may think the photo shows a human reading a book in bed while a majestic Himalayan cat rests a single, perfectly placed paw to stop her from turning the page. That’s adorable, yes—but incorrect. What you are actually witnessing is editorial supervision. You’re welcome.

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Allow me to introduce myself properly. I’m Cinnamon. In The Catmint Chronicles, I am male, mysterious, occasionally articulate, and possessed of superior intellect. In real life, I am based on Princess—though let’s be clear, that was my working title, not my destiny. Princess was merely the name assigned to me before I chose my humans. And make no mistake: I chose them.


Before my reign began, I lived rough. One month on the streets, dodging indignities like bad weather, worse food, and the general audacity of the universe. Then a kind soul scooped me up and delivered me to the local shelter, where I impressed everyone by being beautiful, dignified, and extremely sneezy. Chronic upper respiratory infections are very chic, I assure you, but apparently not a crowd-pleaser. I was older. I was snotty. I was overlooked.


Enter foster care.


My humans signed up to “help out for a bit.” Three months, they said. Temporary, they said. During that time, I underwent medical procedures, perfected my soulful stare, and coughed delicately in their general direction until they were emotionally compromised. I wasn’t a kitten, you see. I was better. I had presence. I had opinions. I had a way of curling up beside them at night that said, “You could send me back… but you won’t.”


They begged to keep me. Literally begged. The shelter approved. Thus, I became what is known in the rescue world as a foster fail—which is a rude term for “cat so exceptional the rules had to be bent.” Once adopted, they were no longer allowed to foster other cats. A tragic loss for other cats. A win for me.


Which brings us back to the book.
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As you can see, my paw is trying to stop her from turning the page. This is not accidental. This is my way of saying, “This paragraph needs work,” or “You’ve been reading long enough; it’s time to pet me,” or occasionally, “I demand royalties.” Sometimes all three.

I lie beside my human while she reads, writes, or pretends not to notice that I am slowly inching closer to her face. I supervise plots. I inspire characters. I remind her that cats should always be smarter than everyone else in fiction, because frankly, we are.

So yes—Cinnamon may be fictional. But the soul of him? That’s me. Former street cat. Chronic sneezer. Foster fail. Editorial assistant. Permanent resident. Princess no more.
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Now turn the page. Carefully. My paw is still there.