My Cat Mouse...Editor's Nightmare

I'd like to introduce everyone to my cat Mouse. I didn't name him, if it were up to me, his name would be Moose. He's 25 lbs with a bit of an eating disorder that we attribute to the weeks he spent starving on the streets.

Mouse loves my laptop. He seems to love pushing on the keys most of all. I can't tell you how many times I've looked away, answered the phone or the door, only to return to utter nonsense spewed across the screen. I'm sure he thinks he's writing the great American novel, but for me it's just embarrassing. I constantly have to go over what I've written to make sure Mouse hasn't added his own personal touches.

I almost sent out a query letter with Mouse's signature extra words toward the end of the letter. I never even noticed him stretch out and hit the keys! So, just to let everyone know, I attribute any and all typos in my novels and on my blogs to my cat, Mouse. Pretty convenient, huh?!

Here's a look at Mouse's last great work:

My gaze moves to the prone, unconscious form of my father, Simon. True to form he finally passed out from alcohol. At least this time he managed to fall face up. I doubt most people here would be kind enough to kick him to his back to keep the sand from suffocating him. It’s difficult to fault him completely for his alcoholism. Simon started working for Uriah twenty years ago. Two decades with that sadistic monster would drive anyone to the bottle. My mother’s public infatuation with Uriah doesn’t help matters. As Jack drags me through the parking lot, I see something that makes my stomach roil, threatening to reject1565135454.                        fdl,ssj456874651fs65sf4
kguyhubjybhujvhu  468544444446

Okay so you may notice that he actually did type a couple words in there: guy and hub. So the whole 100 monkeys on 100 typewriters writing Shakespeare, probably not. I told Mouse not to quit his day job as my foot warmer.