No matter what century it is, the essential problem of being a scribe remains this: how do you keep the cats off your writing.
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No matter what century it is, the essential problem of being a scribe remains this: how do you keep the cats off your writing.
For everyone who helpfully suggested ways to keep cats off my papyrus: there was a padded envelope to his right, open and inviting. He's almost 14. He cares nothing for the desires of humans. What he wants to know is, how hilarious is it going to be when he shoves my hands out of the way and sits on the thing? That there, friends and comrades, is the face of a being who lives on wet food, stolen bites of whatever meat I'm eating, and my mild emotional trauma. Oh and love, but only once a day for five minutes or less and may all the gods help you if you aren't prepared to drop everything and provide it to him when he's ready. The rest of the time he exists in a perpetual state of "oh yeah? What do you think you're gonna do about it?"