For the cat mom whose house is, in fact, the cat's house.

A hardcover storybook about the cat at the centre of her quiet house. A hardcover. Illustrated illustrated for this one book.

A cat mom gift is a private thing, for a private bond.

She does not tell everyone. She does not put it on her bio. She has, on her phone, twelve hundred photographs of the cat, but she will not post them. The relationship is interior. It is conducted at the windowsill at six a.m. and on the bed at midnight. The book has to meet the bond at the same volume the bond is conducted in — quietly.

She has been given the mug. She has accepted the mug. She has been given the keychain. She has accepted the keychain. What she has not been given is an object that says, in real sentences, that the cat at the centre of her house has been seen — by you, by the press, by anyone outside the household. The book does that.

The cat, named, painted, on a cream cover.

You give us the cat's name and three details — the chair, the window, the noise. Juno writes the story in the cat's register — long sentences, no fanfare, careful weight on the small repeated things. She is illustrated for this one book. The book is hardcover, matte-printed on matte cover, with a colophon at the back.

The portrait is painted, not photographic. The cat will be recognisable — the colour, the markings, the bearing. She will not be turned into a cartoon. She will not be put in a hat. The book is in our literary register, not a novelty. She will live on the shelf with the books your friend already reads.

Eighty-five dollars. One edition. One cat.

The book arrives in a plain box. She opens it on a Saturday. She does not, on opening it, make a noise. She reads the first page. The cat, on the windowsill, watches the page being read. Your friend will text you on Sunday and the message will be one sentence long. That is the right amount.


More from the press.

sundayfawn

a storybook no one else has ever read.

The press, indexed

Browse the full catalogue