The Cat Who Went to Paris
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"Norton is clearly a charmer, and Gethers tells his story with contagious affection....Will warm the heart of any confirmed cat-lover."
THE WASHINGTON POST BOOK WORLD
Before Peter Gethers met Norton, the publisher, screenwriter, and author was a confirmed cat-hater. Then everything changed. Peter opened his heart to the Scottish Fold kitten and their adventures to Paris, Fire Island, and in the subways of Manhattan took on the color of legend and mutual love. THE CAT WHO WENT TO PARIS proves that sometimes all it takes is paws and personality to change a life.
(with a lot of flesh to tan) that had a tiny tattoo on it. I had an irrational fear that if I got too close to the tattoo, it would say, in micro letters, “Life’s a Beach.” So I averted my eyes, or at least refocused them on the clam. “I knew that anyone with such a cute cat,” she began, “wouldn’t mind sharing his food. I’m starving.” She showed me all her teeth in the friendliest smile I’d ever been on the receiving end of. It would have been more effective if her gums hadn’t gone from her
hotel in America because they wouldn’t accept small, very well-behaved felines. I worry about him, I talk about him (and to him, I have to add) to the point of idiocy, and if he doesn’t sleep within a crooked arm’s reach of my pillow—which he doesn’t about one day a week—then I don’t sleep very well. I actually worry that I’ve done something to offend him. I sometimes—and this is a particularly tough one to admit publicly—let him eat off my spoon. Usually ice cream or yogurt. Chocolate’s his
sojourn with an author to make sure he or she felt loved and appreciated. My writing career was also keeping me busy and on the road. When you live in New York and write for Hollywood, you’ve constantly got to prove to the networks and studios that living three thousand miles away from the people paying you—and usually paying far too much money to write things that never get made—isn’t anything they should worry about. The only proof is visibility, which meant my partner, David, and I had to hop
the feeling was he didn’t have long to live. Norton and I were on a plane the next day. The stewardesses, perhaps sensing my sadness, never said anything when I let the cat out of his box and onto my lap. He spent the whole flight sitting there, letting me pet him, occasionally licking my fingers with his rough little tongue. I remembered when my dad had had his first operation. He’d had a lung removed. We were all terrified of what would happen, and Norton and I had flown out then, too. When
listened to. I liked nothing better than having Norton stretch out on the bed or couch with me lying on top of him, the full weight of my head plunked down right in the middle of his body. He would purr and purr and purr in delight. I soon realized I was passing up reruns of “The Rockford Files” in order to spend an hour listening to this motorboat sound. I had also never seen fur on anything’s back stand straight up or claws that retracted. I was particularly fascinated by his claws because, as