Chapter 1

1

My name is Ginger. I’m a cat, a rather famous tomcat at that. You might have one of my rhyming books on the shelf in your child’s bedroom or my latest calendar hanging on the wall in your kitchen. You don’t? Well, there are still plenty of shopping days left before Christmas!

Maybe you drink your morning coffee out of a Ginger the Cat mug, instead, or sleep in pajamas with my face all over them. Baily, one of my humans, looks really sexy in his. Perhaps you’ve reached an age where a ceramic replica of my orange chubbiness in your curio cabinet is the more appropriate choice, there or atop your grand piano. That’s where my other human, Katherine, kept some of the ones she’d collected.

It’s possible you simply prefer to watch my real-life antics online or one of my animated holiday specials over and over on DVD. Even if you don’t own a single piece of Ginger the Cat merchandise, other people do. My third quarter profits were big enough to move me up the monetary scale from “well off” to “filthy rich,” even if the bank accounts aren’t in my name. A feature film deal is in the works for 2020—Watch your back, Garfield—though who knows where my career might stand, now?

Katherine Swann adopted me from a small local shelter when I was only ten weeks old. She was a wonderful human, very loving and obedient, and followed my orders with swiftness and accuracy. I always had a full food dish and a clean litter pan. Katherine bought all sorts of toys, too, some I ignored, and some that made me mellow. Most of the time, it was more fun to play in the Pet Mart bag or the cardboard box from Amazon. My favorite game of all has always been Toilet Paper, though. Our humble abode in the beautiful American North West has seven bathrooms. Seven! That’s two for every member of the household with one extra. If I only count the humans, that’s three for each, with one extra. Every bathroom, used or not, has a roll of name brand toilet paper I can unfurl anytime I want and pull halfway down the long, fancy, wood paneled and royal blue carpeted hallway. The object of Toilet Paper the game is twofold. One: See how far I can go without the paper tearing at the perforation. When the result is less than hoped for, the second objective is to shred the entire roll to make it look like an indoor snowstorm has hit the john. Good times.

“Ginger Wayne Swann! What have you done?”

Though I first learned my middle name, a decidedly more masculine name than my first, while playing TP, my human never really got angry at me for it. Sometimes, she’d gather up armfuls and toss it into the air, so we could play together. Baily will often do that, too. He’ll still do it, I hope.

Ah, Baily. He came to us a little less than seven years ago, not long after I moved in with Katherine. This tall, shy, ruggedly handsome stranger, with his hard, strong body, soft cozy hoodies, and deep, loving brown eyes is super crush worthy. Katherine was looking for someone to keep the yard neat and tidy. Baily is good at that. I often watch through the window as he works in the yard, my supervision extremely valuable, I trust.

It’s hard to determine which of the four seasons of Baily I like best. Sweltering summer days mean a sweaty, shirtless Baily pruning or mowing, as sunbeams catch his flexing muscles and highlight his furriness just so. Baily may not be as furry as I am, but he has quite a bit. Katherine would always have him come in for lemonade or iced tea on those June, July, and August afternoons. I’d claim his lap almost immediately for a catnap. Same in spring, when he takes a break from preparing flowerbeds, or in autumn when he smells like dry leaves and wood smoke. In winter, he’ll do a silly little dance for me at the kitchen door to stomp snow off his boots, once done clearing the steps and a path to the driveway.

“I get a kick out of the way he touches the snow and then shakes his paw,” he’d often tell Katherine.

I do what I can to make Baily smile. He didn’t smile a lot, at first.

“Get out of those wet clothes and into your warm Ginger pjs,” Katherine would tell him. “I’ve made hot chocolate.”

Once he’s changed, on his lap I get again, and before you know it, I’m asleep. Watching Baily toil is enjoyable, but it also tires me out. Hard work looks quite exhausting.