There is a time. There is a season, for everything. Trying to make sense of the mess we’re in is challenging. It’s much easier to say fuck it and retreat from life, from the pain of the world’s inhumanity. Life sucks, and then you die. End of story.
It was last fall when I first brought Hunter and Crash home. I went to the rescue for one kitten to replace the 16-year-old cat I had lost, but was talked into a bonded pair.
Okay, so I don’t know who the heck opened Pandora’s box, but here we are facing all the evils in the world unleashed by COVID-19. There are no guarantees we’ll survive this virus or the economic disaster thrust upon us.
As a Crazy Cat Lady, I have a confession. Over the years, I have been guilty of judging other cat owners. Yes, it’s true. I’d see photos of really fat cats and blame their owners.
Living on the edge of chaos. The death toll is rising. The economy’s in cardiac arrest. The world is melting down, and we are powerless to stop the burning.
Toilet paper. ✔ Paper towels. ✔ Hand-sanitizer. ✔ Cat Food. ✔ Pasta, beans. ✔ All good. I’m ready. We’re in this together, right? Let’s all hold hands and sing “Kumbaya.” Okay, we have to skip the hand-holding, but we can wave at each other from a safe six-foot distance. We’ve got this.
I lamented that baby boomers had become irrelevant in my “When I’m 64” blog. Now Grandma is expendable. Cue the firing squad.
Maybe I dropped acid in the 70s, and maybe I didn’t. I plead the fifth, but I know a drug song when I hear it, and Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” is definitely one.
1967. It was the Summer of Love. Youth gathered in Haight-Ashbury to hear music, dance, do a few drugs, and celebrate peace and love. Rolling Stone magazine published its first issue, and the Green Bay Packers and Kansas City Chiefs played in the first Superbowl.
It happened. Seemingly overnight. I was scrolling through photos on my phone when it hit me. Could it be true? So I counted them. And frantically recounted.