My name is Birrosa Parsley and I have taught myself to write. I write accounts of the things I see. I have a sparkling temper, this is why the first part of my name is Birrosa, something that has to do with being fizzy. And I’m always looking for something to understand.
Being present when something’s happening, and worth explaining, is related with the second part of my name: Parsley, one of the most used seasoning. Someone says that I’m too naïve, and perhaps it’s true. But bear in mind that I wrote what I wrote when I was still a kitten and totally inexperienced about feline and human life.
I live with my hosts: Sándor, a former orchestra conductor and author, Godet, an illustrator, set designer and painter, and with my best friend Wiko, a cultured and reserved tomcat. Everything you will read in the first book, The Writing Cat, is extracted from the numerous notebooks that I have compiled taking notes on the feline and human life that are inexorably bounded together.
When I can’t figure things out on my own, I ask my friends for help. There are my neighbourhood cats that I usually meet on Theo’s house-wall, as well as the members of CHAOS, the feline committee that meets in the shade of the great beech tree to discuss incomprehensible human affairs. And for higher order matters there is the Homergrow, a huge committee of domestic animals.
I’m lucky, there’s really everything in our world: cuddles, kibbles, friends, music, art, literature, sun, lazing about, skirmishes and reconciliations, and believe it or not, even solemnity.
Hopefully I presented myself quiet well. What remains for me to do now is to send you an invitation to read, along with my noisest purring.
Yours felinefully,
