Reading about Neil Gaiman losing a sweet cat named Zoe lately, I've been thinking about how much cats impact my life. 2007 and 2008 were pretty bad years for me, and thinking back I realise now that it was due in no small part to my aunt moving out and taking her cats with her. The daily reality of existing without the cat presences you're used to is actually sort of repetitively bleak. It's a loneliness that can't be alleviated by humans. Humans have too much bullshit. A dying cat seems like a massive injustice--maybe somewhere in my mind I'm still locked into death as being related to mankind's deal with supernatural forces. Cats seem like they should be exempt.
But I guess that's exactly opposite of the way one's supposed to feel about animals. I saw another coyote outside the other night and I'm hoping Snow the Cat's okay. I haven't seen him since the storms started.
The sky's been clear for days now and it doesn't look like there's going to be more rain, though the water on the umbrella I keep in my back seat seems to have transformed into an invisible, stinking cloud in my car. Condensation coats the inside of my windows when I start the car at night. I can't wait for summer. I need to live somewhere where it's summer all year long.
Last night's tweets;
Melted, cold apples kill the cranberries.
Bread and soup pull arms off at the market.
Your CD's accepted by car faeries.
Like an eye having sex with its socket.