Apparently, he's not satisfied with the level of my work lately, as he's taken to shielding the world from it with his 13 pounds of shiny black wonder.
And he talks to me. Normally he's a quiet little guy, but as he splays himself across the first draft, he meows repeatedly, which roughly translates into "You should stop now. Save yourself incredible literary embarrassment and just come play with the kitties."
Or he might be saying "Crunchy treats. I want them. Right now."
Either way, I'm not getting much done.