MSI Press Blog

  in honor of Ginger Cat Day   My cat doesn’t file returns. She doesn’t balance ledgers or reconcile accounts. But she does understand the principle of allocation . Every morning, she allocates her time precisely: 40% staring at the food bowl, 30% inspecting the sunbeam, 20% monitoring me for signs of movement toward the kitchen, 10% miscellaneous (usually judging). That’s a perfect pie chart — and she never needs a calculator. Watching her, I realized that good accounting isn’t about numbers; it’s about attention . Cats notice everything. They track inputs (treats), outputs (energy expended chasing imaginary prey), and depreciation (the slow decline of toy mice). They even understand accruals: the promise of dinner is recorded long before delivery. She also taught me the art of audit defense . When questioned — “Did you knock that off the counter?” — she maintains eye contact, blinks slowly, and says nothing. Silence, it turns out, is a powerful compliance strategy. And then...

People assume news reporting is about deadlines, interviews, and the ability to type while drinking lukewarm coffee. They are wrong. It is about cats . Specifically, my cat — who has spent years training me in the fine art of feline journalism. I didn’t realize it at first, of course. Cats are subtle. They don’t hand you a syllabus. They simply supervise you until you improve. 1. She taught me investigative persistence A good reporter never gives up on a lead. A good cat never gives up on a closed door. My cat will paw, scratch, yowl, and perform interpretive dance until the door opens. She does not care about obstacles. She does not care about logic. She does not care that the door leads to a broom closet. She wants in , and she will get in . This is exactly the energy required to chase down a source who keeps saying, “Can we talk next week?” 2. She trained me in stealth observation Cats are the original paparazzi. They appear silently, stare unblinking, and vanish before you can ask...

  My cat has never billed a single hour, never drafted a motion, and certainly never attended a CLE. Yet somehow she has become the most influential mentor in my legal career. She runs a full continuing‑education program in this house, and I am—regrettably but undeniably—her star pupil. Lesson 1: Stealth is a litigation skill. She can cross a room without making a sound, materializing beside me like a furry apparition. I learned to do the same when slipping into court with a stack of last‑minute exhibits. A quiet entrance is sometimes the most strategic one. Lesson 2: Cross‑examination begins with curiosity. My cat interrogates every grocery bag, every closed door, every suspicious rustle. She does not assume; she investigates. I adopted her method: assume nothing, inspect everything, and never let a fact escape without being sniffed—metaphorically, of course. Lesson 3: Negotiation is 90% posture. When she wants something, she sits three feet away, fixes me with a steady g...

  Tomorrow is Carl's deathversry #5 -- and the approximate date (they both left in August) of Intrepid's deathversary #9.  Intrepid fit the name. Nothing scared him. Kamikaze leaps from halfway across the room to knock over another plant (a favorite activity) to stealing the cheese from a grocery bag and sneaking off to hide it in his favorite cubby hole. Trep could be found on tops of refrgerators, cabinets, and tall cat trees. For sure, the name fit. But Trep had another side. Evening and evening, he would lay across Carls' chest and sleep peacefully for hours. He was Carl's pal; Carl was his. When he died, Carl said, "I just lost my best buddy." He never got over it. All during his cancer treatments and struggles, Carl was alone with humans. The other cats were pals, but they were not best buddies like Intrepid. He missed him especially much those days. After Carl died, our son asked the cemetery manager to put Intrepid's ashes into Carl's vault, an...

  My cat didn’t set out to teach me anything. She simply lived her small, whiskered life with the intensity and precision that cats naturally possess. But somewhere between the midnight zoomies, the laser‑focused stare into corners I thought were empty, and the triumphant presentation of a “caught” moth, she ended up sharpening my own instincts about household pests more than any manual ever did. 1. She taught me that signs matter more than sightings. Cats notice patterns long before humans do. A shift in her patrol route told me more about ant entry points than any store‑bought detector. When she began lingering near the dishwasher, I learned to check for moisture issues. When she stared at the baseboards, I learned to listen for the faintest rustle. Her attention was the early-warning system I didn’t know I had. 2. She made me respect the ecosystem inside my home. Cats don’t see “pests”; they see moving parts in a territory. Watching her track a spider with the seriousness...