Have you ever wondered what really goes through the mind of a cat as it gazes out a window, lies motionless in a semblance of sleep, or suddenly flees for cover for no apparent reason? Have you ever tried to envision how the feline species perceives Halloween, time spent at a boarding kennel, or the experience of having a tooth extracted?

Letters from Sugar provides delightfully humorous and often wise insight into one cat’s world. Sugar (Plum) writes regularly to her previous owners, “Mom and Dad” and relates in vivid detail her many escapades since arriving at her new home. Her adoptive family members, while caring and protective of her, are often kept in the dark about her adventures — and their unwitting roles in them.

Letters from Sugar will leave readers wondering what their own little felines might be up to when no one is around.

  • For fans of Dewey the Library Cat, Sophie Kelly’s “Magical Cats” mysteries and the Wingfield tales of Dan Needles.
  • Written in her own wry and humorous voice, adopted cat Sugar’s delightful letters bring her world to life.
  • When not transposing Sugar’s letters, author, animal lover and Ontario resident, Joyce Ernyes volunteers with numerous animal protection organizations.
  • Beautifully drawn by Lesley Bergen, pen and ink illustrations accompany each of the 21 letters.
  • Unique and original in concept and design, it’s a perfect gift for pet lovers and readers of humorous “cat lit”.


“Hope there is a sequel. Felines are so entertaining.”

––The Rafter Chatter Chronicle


Letters From Sugar

By Joyce Ernyes and illustrated by Lesley Bergen

$20.00 Paperback with French flaps

192 pages

Letters from Sugar


Buy the Book



“Who said cats don’t have a sense of humour?”

The Scratching Post Daily Observer


ISBN 978-0-9939231-0-4

Pub Date: January 4, 2016

Publisher: Sit Jack Publishing


Home Alone

I must admit that I had some reckless moments during the twenty-four hours in which I had the house all to myself. My hyperactivity was no doubt attributable to the fact that I began wolfing down the open package of treats as soon as the last suitcase went out the door and Wesley had engaged the Home Monitoring System. A moment of panic occurred when I realized that the HMS was another name for a burglar alarm. I had not thought of what I might do if confronted with a burglar, or worse still, one of those creatures that came to our door on the night called Halloween.

Normally the treats are doled out rather frugally by Jenna, her rationale being that if animals are given too many treats at one time they become hyper, much like children do when given too much candy. I have never suffered greatly from the enforcement of that theory since I can usually count on a few extra morsels from Wesley or Jason when Jenna isn’t looking. Of course some caution must be taken by them so as not to deplete the bag too quickly or the discrepancy would certainly be noticed. Anyhow, after consuming the whole package of Saveur d’oiseau morsels that had a distinct hummingbird aftertaste, I could feel the onset of a “hell breaking loose” sensation overtaking my body. YIKES! Jenna’s theory was right!

The draperies provoked a challenge, which could only be subdued by a view of the living room from atop the horizontal curtain rods. Satisfied that I still had the agility of a more youthful me, I then overturned a few flower pots. I have always found rolling in soft earth to be somewhat therapeutic so I indulged myself. Feeling ready for a nap, the nearest white chair called to me.

Adventures at the Bulrush Boarding Kennel

Day 2 . . .

Despite having my own basket and blanket, I slept poorly. I was missing my family and the familiar surroundings of home.

When my breakfast arrived, seemingly at the crack of dawn, I had just fallen back to sleep and was enjoying a dream that involved fresh morsels of mouse. My sleep interrupted, I looked over to see if my kennel mates were awake as well, only to discover that something was amiss. Neither had eaten the contents of their food bowls and Shenanigan was lying on her back, eyes closed, with all four paws in the air. Kai-Bosh appeared to be trying to regurgitate something from the back of his throat. My initial concern quickly turned to fear and then went into paranoia overdrive as I considered the possibility that their conditions were due to the previous night’s ghastly repast, of which I had partaken, albeit, very little. The power of suggestion brought on a sudden attack of “je ne sais quoi” which had me dashing for my fresh-scent, super-clumping, dust-free, soft-on-the-paws litter. With the possibility of another traumatic situation developing, Missie once again came rushing in. Kai-Bosh’s guttural hacking noises had now escalated considerably. With a face ashen with fear, Missie quickly entered their enclosure and began to examine Shenanigan who appeared to be in a catatonic state. Kai-Bosh, out of breath I suspect, slumped to the floor. Missie, in a state that could only be described as panic mode, sprinted to her office simultaneously speed-dialing for help as the situation was clearly in need of professional assistance.

Shortly thereafter a young man came bounding in with instruments already in hand, one of which I immediately recognized. I am of the belief that no feline ailment can be determined without the use of the dreaded thermometer.

After a thorough examination of Shenanigan, who was now responding to human attention, the diagnosis was “possible intestinal sensitivity due to the consumption of unfamiliar and indigestible food.” Likewise was the conclusion from the thermometer reading on Kai-Bosh, since there appeared to be no other logical explanation.

The young veterinarian eventually departed having recommended a menu change for my fellow felines consisting of nothing but freshly caught fish, deboned of course, or cooked poultry, likewise bone free. Either choice was to be chopped into small bits and served at room temperature every three hours.

A short time later, gazing at my still uneaten breakfast while Missie delivered the freshly caught fish, fishing pole still in hand, I wondered if perhaps I should have consumed more of my dinner. Clearly a “touch of intestinal sensitivity” had benefits.