Sometimes you have to go undercover. Cover of darkness. Cover of velveteen blankets. Cover of time itself, the great unbroken string from the world’s sunrise through the circuit of stars and unto the veil between light and greater light. Um, or something like that.
As you read this sentence, you’re getting older. Wait, you just did it again. Now you did it again. You can’t stop, and I won’t get in your way. But before we get all our farfalle twisted into bow ties of despair, remember: we’re not alone. The cats are aging, too.
Oh my goodness. Listen up, kittens. I have very big news. I’m pretty sure I’ve found the single most catlike man who ever trod the earth.
I’m not here to talk about Betty. I’m here to talk about Betty. Who, as it turns out, reminds me an awful lot of Betty.
It’s true that a mind is a terrible thing to waste. It’s true that our 44th Vice President once opined, “What a waste it is to lose one’s mind.”* But in the brain trust that is Tabby’s Place, it’s a matter of considerable debate whether or not one’s mind should be perpetually present.
It was the height of foolishness to open my heart to a fifteen-year-old cat. It was also the closest I’ll ever come to wisdom.
Quick. Take a screen shot. What does your life look like in precisely this frame?
This has not been a normal holiday season. Fortunately, Tabby’s Place contains precisely zero normal cats, normal humans, or normal salamanders. (I can neither confirm nor deny the underground salamander kingdom of Tabby’s Place, nor their effective rule over the rest of us.)
It has occurred to me that we spend a good deal of our time waiting. Waiting for a shoe to drop. Waiting for someone to put their shoes on so we can get out the door in time. Waiting for that email or that fat envelope or that text that will, for one luminous moment […]
We’ve come to the end. We’ve come to the beginning. We’ve come to the moment that sends us backward and forward like spiritual seesaws.