I have hit the ground running. Finished revising the first act of the novella (4 to go), working on an interview, working on some short pieces, working . . .
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This weekend I am mailing a check for $256 to Planned Parenthood and I am pleased as punch about that. I was going to do it in Pence’s name but fuck him, he doesn’t deserve it. Every penny from our hearts, mine and yours. He doesn’t fucking deserve it.
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Right now as I type these words my oldest cat, a difficult, crotchety, Persian mix who we took away from abusive neighbors 12 years ago, is out in the cold and wet and I cannot find her. She will be 17 in April if she lives that long, which she probably won’t for she is dying. Our two younger males are typical housecats, affectionate tusslers that patrol the house and take turns on my lap, but Princess Killie von Smackypaws has always kept us at a distance. She is one of those cats that wants petting now, and three minutes later bites you hard, and three minutes later wants treats damn it all and did she say to stop petting her? She punches the door when she wants out, which is almost always. She has a way of stamping her feet that creates a circle of personal space around her and woe to those who invade it. She growls and purrs at the same time; she growls and eats at the same time. She once cut my father’s foot so bad we considered the emergency room. For 12 years it has been like living with a fluffy, belligerent drunk. Now her kidneys are failing and her heart beats funny and she smells like the way zoos used to smell when they were just cages at the height of the summer and I cannot find her. I cannot find her. I will post this now and put on my coat and my boots and get out the flashlight and I will call Kill-ie Kill-ie and hope she will let us be kind to her one last time.
That little punching paw. That refusal to do anything, accept anything, be anything save what she chooses in the moment. So much we don’t realize about those we love until it’s too late.