If you've read my Witches of Holiday Hills series, then you already know Cooper. He's Abby's familiar, her constant companion, and the one character who never misses an opportunity to remind everyone that he's the smartest creature in the room. Because he is. Aren’t all cats?
He's snarky. He's opinionated; very opinionated, and he’s also very dramatic. And he's absolutely convinced the world exists to serve him.
People ask me all the time where Cooper came from. The answer is easy. He came from my Cooper, our non-magical feline. I sure miss that boy. We all do. Cooper was special.
Our Cooper crossed the Rainbow Bridge in 2022, and while I miss him every single day, I love that a part of him still gets to live inside these books.
The real Cooper was a Burmese cat, just like the fictional one. If you've ever shared your life with a Burmese, you already know they aren't ordinary cats. Burmese owners have a nickname for them. They call them "silky bricks." It's the perfect description because they have coats that feel like satin and bodies that weigh far more than they look like they should because they're solid muscle. You pick one up expecting fluff, and instead you're holding a tiny bodybuilder wrapped in velvet.
That was Cooper. He wasn't just beautiful. He had a personality that filled every room.
He snuggled with us and the dogs. He loved Allie. He talked a lot but sounded like a sick cow. He didn’t meow because I think he believed that was below him. He slept on our necks, and if he could manage to breathe directly into your mouth while snoring? Even better.
Apparently personal space was optional in Cooper’s world. And we were okay with that.
Birds fascinated him. He'd spend forever sitting in the window chirping at them. If they landed on the screened porch, his entire body would quiver with excitement. Pull up a bird video on my laptop, and he'd race across the keyboard trying to catch them with both paws.
He was convinced the world was meant for his joy and demands. Sound familiar?
That's exactly why book Cooper says things that make Abby roll her eyes.
One of my favorite things about writing him is that he never filters himself. When Abby insists she's pacing herself while staring at a blank screen, Cooper isn't buying it.
"Twenty-four now."
She tells him to stop counting.
"Twenty-four and a half. You're losing daylight, Ab."
When she insists she's pacing herself, he fires right back.
"That isn't pacing. That's a coma."
That's Cooper in a nutshell. No sugarcoating or sympathy. Just brutal honesty from nine pounds of fur. Or, as he proudly reminds everyone, nine pounds of silky muscle.
Of course, he also believes he's constantly starving.
After polishing off breakfast, he notices Abby gets a lavender scone.
"You got a scone, and I got nothing. It takes a lot of energy to make this little silky brick of muscle run. I need tuna."
When Abby reminds him he'd just eaten, he dismisses that tiny detail.
"That was a snack. This would be a meal."
And when she refuses to help?
"If you're not going to fight for me, I'd like to file a formal complaint."
She points out she's the closest thing to HR.
"Well, then, your complaint is denied."
Honestly, if the real Cooper had spoken English, that conversation probably would've happened every single day at my house.
The funny thing is that our Cooper really was dog-like. He followed us from room to room because he wanted to be where we were. He greeted us at the door. He played fetch when he felt like it. He was affectionate all the time.
The only real difference between my Cooper and Abby's Cooper is that mine couldn't deliver sarcastic commentary. At least not out loud.
Another scene that always makes me laugh happens whenever dogs enter the picture. Book Cooper is completely convinced every dog is plotting his demise.
When Barney, the sweetest German shepherd imaginable, walks into the café with his tail wagging so hard his whole backside wiggles, Cooper launches himself to the top of a bookshelf hissing.
Abby points out the obvious.
"His tail is wagging, and his butt is wiggling."
Cooper isn't convinced. "It's a fake out. Trust me, Abs. I know what I'm talking about."
Later, after Barney leaves, Cooper curls up for a nap, muttering one final opinion.
"That dog is evil."
Anyone who ever met my Cooper is probably laughing right now because, while he wasn't quite that dramatic, he definitely believed he was tougher than he actually was.
My favorite thing about writing Cooper isn't even the jokes. It's that underneath all the sarcasm, he's fiercely loyal. He teases Abby relentlessly. He critiques her writing. He complains about tuna portions. He judges her clothes. He questions nearly every decision she makes. But when it matters, he's there. Every single time. He worries about her. He protects her. He wants her to succeed, even if he'd never admit that's why he pushes her so hard. That's the part that reminds me most of my Cooper.
Cats love differently than dogs. Dogs usually announce it. Cats make you figure it out. Sometimes love looks like following you into every room. Sometimes it looks like sleeping on your neck until you lose feeling in your arm. Sometimes it looks like chasing birds across your laptop while you're trying to work. And sometimes it looks like a snarky familiar reminding Abby that she's procrastinating because he knows she's capable of more than she thinks.
When I write Cooper, I still picture my own cat watching birds from the window, stretched out in a patch of sunshine, purring so loudly the whole room could hear him.
I still remember picking up that little silky brick and wondering how something so compact could weigh so much. I still miss hearing him snore.
The wonderful thing about writing fiction is that the people—and pets—we love never really have to leave us. Every time Cooper rolls his eyes at Abby, demands another saucer of tuna, or delivers one more perfectly timed sarcastic comment, my Cooper gets to live another day. And honestly? I think he'd approve. He'd probably just complain that I didn't make his tuna portion big enough.
