T.S. Elliot loved cats. William Butler Yeats loved cats. Christina Rossetti loved cats. John Keats loved cats. J.R.R. Tolkien loved cats. Mark Twain loved cats. Marianne Moore loved cats. Ernest Hemingway loved cats. Oscar Wilde loved cats. Doris Lessing, Rita Mae Brown, Carolyn Chute, Nuala O’Faolain…

The Pocket Muse, Monica Wood

Alright, so I’m not exactly spinning the next great novel here…  After all, this is a blog. And blogs are more fun with participles that dangle, an overdosing of inappropriate slang, frightening abuse of the ellipsis, the occasional misused homonym, and the perpetually absent spell-check button.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself, anyhow.

(Hey, it’s my bubble. I’ll stick my fingers in my ears and sing the “I’m not going to listen to this” song if I want to.)

But on the off-chance that genius really is born of the petting of felines,  I googled myself a cat.

Yes, you can totally do that.

Then I spent all of my iPhone money on him… Genius trumps main-streamed, right?

Phineas (First name that popped in my head. Obviously, the genius bit takes a while.) is a Blue Tabby Persian from Tennessee Purrsians. He won’t be ready to come home until the end of the month, but the super-sweet and dedicated Darlene posts pictures and videos daily on Flickr so that I can watch him grow.

Of course, my cat owner=genius theorem is probably about as good as that idea to switch to the low-dose birth control some three years and nine months ago…

This time, however, the resulting product will come home already weaned and potty-trained.

Which in itself is genius.

So it’s all good.