A book about her. The cat who chose you.

Cats are not loud subjects. The book shouldn't be either. Thirty-two pages, illustrated on cream — written around the very particular cat who lived in your house, not a stand-in.

Hardcover, matte-printed on matte cover. Perfect-bound. Mounted in matte hardcover. Ships in a plain box. Built to outlast the chair she claimed.

After we ship it, the file is closed. There is no second printing. There is only the one.

Don't try to write the eulogy. Pick the small things — the smaller, the better.

One sound she made. One time of day she always appeared. The thing she did when the post came through the door. The way she greeted you, or didn't.

Put them down in any order. Juno, our storyteller, writes the rest. You see proofs. You can change a line, or sit with it for a week, or ask for the colour to be quieter.

Her colour, and the small markings nobody else would notice — the white sock, the tipped ear, the patch on the chest. Her name. Three habits. The one window she liked best, and the time of day she liked it.

That is the brief. The press paints from your description; you don't need a perfect photograph.