To date I have delved deep into the vast troves of research material for my upcoming cat history of this fine city. It has kept me up nights and brandished my days with the gleam of historical knowledge and insight that tickles my fur with excitement and furnishes my beating cat-heart with fortitude. It is simply amazing what a good project can do for the feline soul. Perhaps the organizational aspect of my studies are slow in manifesting as yet, but oh the morsels of catformation that I've come across! For example, did you know that even before the French arrived, while this slightly raised plot of land on the Mississippi was not much more than an occasional Indian hunting ground and sometimes swamp rife with mosquitoes, it was actually the seat of an expansive cat kingdom? Its true. From Egypt my ancestors came and ruled with this land as our homestead, feasting on the mice and rats and birds and keeping the snakes and rabbits in line with good governance and thoughtful law making. Don't believe me? Well, seeing as I am no amateur historian, I will of course site my sources. Primarily, I have been reading from a work called The Great Cat Histories of The United States of Catmerica by Irish catwright Cassie O'Purry, pub. 1976 by Doublecat, the first catting-press out of Philade. It's a good read. I highly recommend it. Come by the shop and ask me about it, I'll point it out for you.

What, pray tell, is there to this beverage you humans constantly and persistently pour into your bodies? What thirst can such a vile smelling drink quench? I see you drinking it all the time and, well, I just can't help myself. It is as though such a scent touches off my muscle reflexes to just get rid of it. You may laugh when you witness the event of my sniffing one of your dark mud colored drinks and then my vain attempts to bury it as I would my unmentionables, but on my boots I cannot comprehend how you humans imbibe such filth.
In other more pressing news, we have officially entered into my favorite month of the year! When else does the very day impel you to move and get going on the projects of your life that you've been putting off for so long? I myself have been putting off far too long my plans to research and compile a comprehensive history of cat life in New Orleans...From our arrival in the bows of French merchant ships from the continent to our imperative to chase away English mice to our intermingling with the fierce and native mountain cats of the hills and swamps to our present condition as companions, alley lurkers, and occasional spiritual guides. When better to start the March of work? And when better for you, dear readers, to march your way here and pick yourself  up a nice book to read?
So bon voyage cruel February, from here we March!

Mardi Gras, Mardi Gras, all the wonders and friends from across the country you bring. I am annually stupefied by the illustrious contours of your parades, at least those that I can see from my fourth story windows, and the neon costumes that wear to garner such trophies as plastic baubles that nearly strangle you from their cumulative weight. Apparently these chains hold significant meaning for you. I, on the other hand, wear neither shoes nor mitts, nor a collar. I am a liberated being. Excuse me if my language is presumptuous, I've been reading Anais Nin recently. 

Anyway, to the point. Last night I received in my parlor a particularly important guest coming for these festivities: my maman. She occasionally visits, but she has lived away from her darling son (me) for several years. Though, I must say I owe her  quite a large amount of gratitude for finding this comfortable home for me before her departure. She reared me from weeks old through my first birthday, from the days of chasing a feather dangling from a stunted plastic fishing pole and eating all things. My tastes have become refined over time, narrowed down to knocking books and pencils off desks (to read and write in later) and licking freshly cut tomato slices. They are quite exquisite.

Maman was friendly and gracious, calling out my name and petting my thick medium hair coat. Her voice hasn't changed one bit. As the night wore on, and the humans continued talking and arguing and on and on, I dozed off a few yards away and barely woke in time to escort my maman downstairs and into the frigid night air. It's not often that we see each, but there is still love there. Our eyes held each other as the door softly shut. 

Good day fine patrons of New Orleans retail as well as you vaunted followers of my cat musings. Today is an exciting day, part of an exciting week, and indeed an exciting month. It is here! Mardi Gras season is here! This is a rather important holiday for me and for the bookshop and indeed for the entire city. So many new people come through and comment on how happy I must be to live so comfortably in a bookstore and I do not disagree. It is comfortable. My worries lull away with the litter from my catbox where I dispose of and bury my unmentionables.
For Orleanians Mardi Gras means parades and parties and costumes and throwing discretion and sanity to the wind. I am certain that if I were to venture outside these old brick walls I would partake in the festivities, but alas, I am not conditioned for the outside world. It isn't that I'm frightened and I should thank that vixenous molly Tabitha Furstein to leave her nose out of it - her and her taunting from just beyond the door - it is just that I'm not built for that part of the world. I am a bookstore cat, if I were to go to the outside, would I then be an outdoor cat? The prospects of such an identity shift are simply far too much for me to contemplate let alone actually put into action. Regardless of all this, I am excited for Mardi Gras because it brings a renewed energy to the shop and so many new people to meet.
To those many of you visiting this fine city for the carnival I implore you to enhance your own experience by picking up a fine piece of literature to temper your visit. Trust me, there is nothing quite so comfortable as the life rhythm one attains while reading an absorbing book. And during the insanity of Mardi Gras, such a rhythm just might save your life. Take it from me. I am, after all, a wise and venerated bookstore cat.

What, I ask you, can be better than a good long stretch and scratch? If you've never tried such a thing I highly recommend it. Just find a piece of cardboard located somewhat above your head, arch your back  and reach reach up as far as you can with your front paws and scratch into that cardboard with your claws. Ooh! You outdoor cats jetting around the narrow Quarter streets don't know what you're missing!
One of my favorite things to do during these stretches is to have an open book right underneath my torso so that I can satiate my mind's curiosity whilst I satisfy my body's urges. Here at Beckham's we've just gotten in a shipment of books about the rugged strong women (that's human women) of the great American Frontier. I'm sure stretching was important to their daily perseverance in that harsh and open terrain.  I take after their example. Huzzah!

What a day we're having! Without drawing too much ire and resentment from some of my fellow Quarter felines - I'm looking at you Tabitha Fur-stein, you prowling molly of Clinton St. - I am going to allow myself the indulgence of a momentary boast. As all cats know, there are few better things in this world than the comforts of a small snug cardboard box in which to curl into a furry mess and nap like its midmorning...or early afternoon...or late afternoon...or early evening...or late evening...or nighttime. It is a pleasure not unlike sipping warm milk only to be wonderfully surprised with a lively mouse at the bottom with which to paw and play. Now, when such a box has a pile of newspapers in it to make into a bed? Warmth fills my body just thinking about it. And indeed, I don't have to just think about it as today such a box has materialized and been filled with newspapers for me to sleep on so many times, so well.
What was in the box you ask? Nothing less than thirty seven tomes of The World's Greatest Classics published by Grolier's. Now I can purr myself into cat dream world in the full armor of the warriors of the Iliad or the moral grace of Anna Karenina or amongst the detailed goings on of Dickens' London in Great Expectations or with access to the higher plains of Emerson's Trans-cat-dentalism. What sweet purrfect bliss (puns are generally the foray of Tabitha Fur-stein and I give her full credit for this particular gem).

Good day all and welcome to my very first personal and professional blog! I've found that there are few spots on the internet to hear first hand about the life of a French Quarter tomcat and after meowing for years about what a shame such an egregious oversight is, I've decided its time to place the complaints of kittenhood in the past, put paw to keyboard, and tell my story myself! 
A few things by way of introduction. For years, indeed nearly the entirety of my young life, you walking patrons of this, the beautiful vieux carre, have likely noticed me darting around the carpet floor of Mr. Beckham and Mr. Cook's shop, lounging comfortably by the fading graybrown wood window, and defending myself from unwarranted attacks by stray pieces of plastic wrap and packing tape (though a worthy foe you are, you shall never beat me fiendish plastic wrap!). Many of you have taken to coming inside and petting my back or scratching my face or knocking my nose around playfully. To you I give unending gratitude. 

I would like to take some time to answer some of the more pressing questions that you regularly seem to ask me and which, but for my inability to make the proper sounds of English with my narrow jaw, I would happily answer. My name is Juniper. I am a boy cat. Yes I like, nay love, it when you playfully scratch my head. I am four years old going on a whisker ...that's an old cat joke. Yes I can read (I do live in a bookshop) and while it's always difficult to pick a favorite writer, today my mood is quaintly Faulkner-esque (though I doff my ears to Haruki Murakami as he seems to have some amazing insights into the soul of my species...suspiciously amazing now that I think about it) . And finally, I'm always excited to meet new people and if we haven't met yet, well come on by and say hello already!

One last note: At risk of upending my own grandiloquent vocabulary and sounding somehow crass, I would like to take a moment to send a message to the birds: I will find you. I will eat you.

Here's a picture of me next to my latest reading pile - a collection of cookbooks. Tonight's main dish: Cerulean Warbler.