The Problem With Positive Thinking

For some time I'd known that the only thing standing between me and my finished book was a quiet place in which to write. And for just as long, I'd known there was no better place to write than in a cabin, preferably a cabin set deep in the woods. A cabin just like Sarah's.

My friend Sarah lived in a tiny house under tall fir. She was planning a month-long trip to Belize and needed someone to cabin-sit, so she invited me to her place to take a look. She offered me a seat next to the woodstove and handed me a cup of hot coffee. By the time she'd pointed out the nearby ski trails and the desk where I could work, I knew this was The Place. I could see it clearly: a whole month ahead of me with nothing to do but write. Only in passing did Sarah mention her cats.

"Petula, the shy one, never comes out of the bedroom," Sarah said. "And Leo takes care of himself." When I looked concerned, Sarah patted me on the back. "Don't worry," she said. "Relax. Take it easy. Write."

So Sarah left for Central America and I moved into the cabin with my sleeping bag, papers and pens. And for the first five minutes, everything was fine. Then I made the mistake of sitting down. Without warning, Leo attacked, landing on my neck.

"Yeeeow!" I screamed, before knocking him to the ground. Once again, with claws bared, Leo leapt for my jugular. Once again I screamed and threw him off. It soon became clear that if I was going to get any writing done, I would have to do it standing up.

Meanwhile, the first chance she got, Petula bolted out the front door. Great, I thought. The cat Sarah had described as agoraphobic was now loose in the wild.

"Petula!" I called from the front porch, but got no response, unless you count the two huge dogs that loped up about then. I clapped my hands to scare them off, but they retreated only as far as the edge of the property where they stood their ground, staring and sniffing. They looked hungry. Did they smell cat?

The days and weeks passed. Every morning I vacuumed up the two-inch-thick blanket of Leo's hair that covered the living room. Every day I replenished his food dish and water bowl and scooped out the litter box, which filled at an alarming rate and emitted a disconcerting smell. The few times I did sit down to write, Leo pounced on my head, quickly clearing it of any literary thoughts.

Every day it rained. Every day Petula failed to come back. When I looked out the windows, all I saw were the dripping trees and the two dogs, circling. I spent my time thinking up ways to tell Sarah that Petula was dead.

Sarah finally returned, relaxed and full of stories about Mayan ruins. And since Sarah was home, Petula came back, acting like nothing had happened. I thanked them all and packed up my things, swearing never again to leave home in order to write.

Then one day I heard from Michelle, a friend who lived in an old farm house in the woods. Michelle was going to Alaska for four months and needed someone to house-sit. She invited me to her place where she offered me a seat at the kitchen table and handed me a glass of white wine. By the time she'd pointed out the quiet and seclusion and the glassed-in studio out back, I knew this was The Place.

"I wouldn't be responsible for any pets, would I?" I asked.

"Don't worry," Michelle said. "I'm sure I can farm out the dog, which means all you'd have to do is make sure the cattle gate is kept closed."

Cattle?! That word might’ve been a red flag to anyone else, but not to me. I was too busy looking ahead to a summer spent in a quiet cabin deep in the woods. A cabin where I could finally write that book.

(First published in Oregon Home magazine)