My father taught Physics and Math at Putney School in Vermont. His lab had an acrid smell.
Dangerous bottles and taps arose from black shelves and table tops. He always called our cats static rags with a sly grin on his face. When I was little I trusted him and thought he was joking. But
the static rags I discovered in the far corner of his lab were soft and furry pelts. One was orange,
another grey, another black. Cats had disappeared. I took to the woods and wild places, befriended
cats, implored them to seek revenge. I let them in at strange times, let them walk all over his papers
and desk with muddy paws. I secretly fed them the leftovers he loved. They caterwauled outside his
study, gave him terrible headaches. He growled with grumpiness, snarled. They hissed when he
passed. They were close to my mother, who was herself half cat, and one dark night, she came to me
and said, get ready, we're going. But what about the cats? They'll find us, she said.
(from Growing Up In Animals)
I received an Arts Award from the Arts Council and have had prose published in various magazines,
including Tears in the Fence and Brand. A short memoir was shortlisted in the Fish International Memoir
Competition, another was longlisted.