A very huge market, kat. Years ago I was vaguely acquainted with two people who wrote the most generic sorts of romance novels. One was an alcoholic sixtyish fellow who wrote nurse-doctor romances under a female pen name. The other was a sophisticated middle aged lady poet who made a fortune writing the exotic locale/heaving bosom/orgasmic kiss type of romance. Both were very well off.

I think if you threw a few fabulous cats into an exotic locale/nurse & doctor novel, you'd have a real winner.

Cats are real individuals. I've had cats as kind as leeneia's and Gurney's, and one cat who was so mean the other cats only relaxed after she was dead for a week, and I had nightmare's of her coming back from the dead.

She used to sit atop the fridge and glare with huge yellow eyes at guests, and not only did she abandon her kittens a day after birth, but would sit looking into their bedbox hissing and growling at the poor mewing things. The vet could find nothing wrong with her, mammarily speaking. I managed to keep three of the five alive by feeding them dilute yogurt (one couldn't get cat milk in those days).

One of them lived for eighteen years, including surviving distemper, getting lost in the busiest traffic area of the city after a move, five apartment changes including a move to a rural paradise where he became an avid hunter. One of my favourite cats, a lovely white-speckled black fellow with a head the shape of those you see on cats in pre-eighteenth century paintings, small eared and flattish.

Oh dear, now I'm cat-rambling.