Cats have been household guardians since the earliest of times. Before that, they were cave guardians. And before that, they watched us, cold eyed and curious, from the edge of our fat-dripping campfire. Or some such. We have a cat named Dirty Harry. Don't let me go on about how she, not he, got this name. But here she is now the guardian of our online bookstore, Best of the Books.

Harry's room is neither large nor small. Harry, too, is neither large nor small, she's fifteen pounds of feline fur and jowl. Pretty fat for a cat, but not big just well-upolstered in the tummy. You can't tell this from the picture because she's scrunched up in a corner. Harry's against picture taking. In fact, we had trouble getting a shot of her. One day I came into the Book Room to get a certain book and the cold eyes I described above surveyed me from a bookshelf. That was the picture I wanted and I ran out to get the camera. When I came back into the silence of the books, Harry had gone elsewhere.

How long have cats held jobs in libraries? Or been associated with books? Well, the first mention of a cat in print is Pangur Ban, the Celtic puss who whiled the midnight hours with his friend, a monk. As said monk transcribed sacred texts, Pangur captured mice. The ninth century Celtic poem goes . . .

I, and Pangur Ban, my cat
A common task we are at;
Hunting mice is her delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.

Often times some mouse will stray
Out my sleeve in Pangur's Way;
Often times a thought is set,
Caught quick in my mind's net.

The two of us work as one,
Day moon, night sun.
I who study moral law,
She the keeper of the claw.

___

I read this poem to Harry, but she was unimpressed. Then I told her how hallowed was her library job, and how lucky she was to have it. She gave me a frosty stare. A few hours later, she'd flown the coop, left the library, quit her job at The Book Room. I found her upstairs in the guest bedroom, snoozing. Instead of brow-beating her about her glorious job downstairs, I begged her to come back to work. I patted her and browned her up for business.

A few hours later, Harry was back at work. She'd caught a big cockroach and left it on the carpeted floor, as if to say, "If you want a cat to work, be nice. Honey is better than vinegar."

Now I pay Harry daily compliments and heap the praises on her. Book sales are up, but she politely refuses to read Gray's Anatomy.