Dear Woman Living Alone with Cat: Please, just tell me how you do it. . . .

First off, I don’t live alone with a cat. My husband and I have a cat, a Covenant Cat, in whose beast mind lurks the idea that he permits us to dwell with him under certain terms and conditions.

First Parenthetical: I am coming around toward our friend Dave’s increasingly sensible, ailurophobic point of view.

What upended my entire morning was not the Covenant Cat’s fault. Nothing is ever the Cat’s fault. But the clean-up necessary to amend the conditions consequent to what was not the Cat’s fault exceeded my strength, I accomplished it anyway, I hurt considerably, I am thankful I don’t hurt worse, and I have the glow of Accomplishing Big Important Things All By Myself, while my adventurer husband meets with our county prosecutor, cutting deals for some dozens of defendants, and afterward will be in court waiting his turn to ask the judge to affirm the deals and set more court dates. The mercy of being in court is that he can’t take calls, and his voicemail box these days is always full—of messages from jailed defendants, bailed defendants, and mothers and sisters of the same, all telling him how to run their cases—and by all this and more, he bankrolls the incredible journey of wife (a former lawyer) and cat. In my unflagging independent spirit, all goals of the day will be accomplished, and, like the Cat in the Hat, there will be no trace of all the amazing merriment of my memorable day.

Second Parenthetical: I may be starting to flag some.


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