A Prayer for Owen Meany | Wendy Welch: Books, Yarn, Cats, Opioids

Jack’s Wednesday guest post –

As Wendy has posted in the past, we’ve been having lots of folk dropping into the shop who’ve read ‘The Little Bookstore’ – some from quite a distance (hhmmm – that sounds odd). They range from fairly large book-clubs to family groups and individuals and from Michigan to Florida. We’ve even got someone coming from Oregon in a month or two!

Almost without exception they take photographs, and these usually include pictures of our cats. The cats react to this attention in a variety of ways. Val-Kittie ignores everyone and continues working on her 5 year plan, while Beulah poses on the front porch – her domain – with great pride.

But the newest bookstore staff cat, Owen Meany, is just coming to grips with stardom. We didn’t have him while Wendy was writing; he came just at the end, and is named for the book Wendy was not supposed to hate. Owen is still too kittenish to carry off ‘aloof,’ and doesn’t have a personal domain to be proud of, or a story from the book for people to react to, so he does – – – kittenish things.

His favorite thing right now is to try to swing Tarzan-like from the tassel on the end of the fan pull-cord, although when he is discovered doing this he will quickly pretend to be working hard at something very important. Poor Owen; perhaps when Wendy writes her next book, he’ll be in it. That will make it easier for him to find his place in the bookstore world.

Owen sizing up the distance.

I’m working – really I am!

I don’t read the reviews of my book, but Jack does. He says many have liked the book with 4 or 5 stars, and those who haven’t tend to say it’s either because I don’t like Amazon and box stores, or because I don’t like Owen Meany.

Not like Owen Meany!? I LOVE Owen Meany!! I’ve never had a cat like him.

Owen, for those who don’t know the story, was part of two families fostered together at the bookstore. We decided to keep him after the others were adopted—and his biological brother died in my arms, despite our best efforts to help him overcome a virus.

We are still trying to decide if Owen is a criminal mastermind or a complete imbecile. He’ll curl into my arms on his back in adorable kitten pose, purring away with that curious cat smile on his face, a picture of innocence—until he reaches up with lightning speed and bites my nose. It’s his little way of saying, “I love you, Mommy.”

His claws are like razor blades; they can rip denim. Ask our customers. And he’s allergic to milk, which he loves, so you can just imagine how much fun it is when I get out the cream pitcher to add some to my coffee. He’s a pushy little guy.

Owen’s favorite game is to push glasses—particularly antique long-stemmed wine glasses—off counters and tables. He loves the crash, and the pretty patterns of light reflecting off the broken bits. One day I raced across the room to save one, only to see him jump into the midst of the shards, pick up a large, curved piece in his mouth, and shake it like a mouse.

I’m voting imbecile.

Owen wrestles with Bert, our scruffy terrier who outweighs his feline brother by double; Owen grabs Bert’s leg and pulls him to the ground, judo flipping at the last second so he winds up sitting atop Bert, chewing on his ears as Bert, looking embarrassed, tries to find a way to extricate himself while retaining canine dignity.

And at night Owen comes to our bed, checks to see that we’re tucked in, and sits on Jack’s face in a loving way. Since Owen didn’t learn everything about cat hygiene that he needed to from his overworked foster mama, this can get… ugly. But, as Jack says, love comes in many forms.

Not love Owen Meany. REALLY!!! But, yes, I did hate the book.

Wendy Welch: Books, Yarn, Cats, Opioids

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