Pain, Cats, Survival, Insanity

 

 

 

The Turkish Angora*

 

I take the maximum narcotic dosage for a non-terminal patient. Narcotics reduce pain and elevate mood, but when they wear off, the pain comes roaring back, and I go into physical and emotional withdrawal. Such is my daily life.

For twenty years, I’ve been in pain from various sources. The first—and worst—was bilateral shoulder pain caused by rotator cuff tears and osteoarthritis (it was like having ice picks driven deep into my joints). I slept in a recliner because I couldn’t lie in bed, even for a minute; I walked with my arms crossed because holding them at my sides was unbearable. I had three shoulder surgeries that required a long recovery, yet I still can’t lift heavy weights, stretch my arms above my head, or pull objects toward me.

I also have bilateral knee pain that two surgeries didn’t eliminate, and I’m suffering from a failed hernia surgery (I haven’t seen a doctor for fear of Covid). My worst ongoing problem is soft tissue pain in my middle and upper back, pain that started in 2014, when I fell from a ladder and crushed two vertebra. This pain extends across a broad area, hurts every waking hour, and makes sleep difficult even with a Unisom, 15 mgs of Ambien, and 2,700 mgs of Gabapentin. 

Due to pain and accompanying stress, my hands shake; my balance is poor; my body is tense and achy; I unknowingly hold my breath and then gasp for air; and I can only stand in one spot if I have something to lean on. Pain has adversely affected my strength, energy, alertness, memory, patience, optimism, self-confidence, reliability, intelligence, concentration, and response to stress. I am so consumed by my problems that I have little attention for the problems of others. For years, I believed I would learn to cope, but the opposite has occurred. When I heard a war veteran say: “Soldiers aren’t strengthened but weakened by subsequent battles, and live with the growing fear that they will fall apart completely, failing their friends and dishonoring themselves;” I was struck by how closely his response to battle reflects my response to pain. 

Peggy, home, cats, online friends, sleeping pills, and narcotics save me from despair. In my world: To leave home for any reason is to abandon safety. Life without narcotics would leave me in torment, yet America’s War on Drugs threatens my supply. Even with all the pills I take, pain makes sleep so difficult that I get up a couple of times a night to read. Because I am constantly distracted by pain, and because worsening speech problems make it difficult for people to understand me, I am doomed to disappoint those with whom I speak. Speech problems even intrude into my relationship with Peggy, and for this and other reasons, I see myself as a terrible disappointment to her. She gives me her best only to receive my failures.

Online friends also give a lot while expecting little. For example, M___ and I share a long history, a mutual respect, a dark sense of humor, and a life beset by physical and psychological challenges. I can write to her for ten minutes or three hours; I can be sad or silly; I can write everyday for a week or not at all for three weeks; and, aside from Peggy, there’s no one I trust more. M___ was formerly social, and people were drawn to her. Unfortunately, Covid, a worsening speech impediment, and problems with memory and concentration, have forced her, too, into a life of isolation. For thirteen years, M___ and I have walked with linked arms toward a frightening future, there being nothing else we can do and nothing more we can give.

Harvey

Harvey—my son, friend, lover, father, brother, angel, comedian, counselor, sphinx, playmate, and objet d’art—just joined me, and I will now speak of cats. Harvey moved here in 2019 as an abandoned kitten whose huge ruff, long fur, wild eyes, foxy face, swaggering walk, arrogant expression, and great bush of a tail, won him oodles of toys and free food for life. I had long dreamed of having a world class feline beauty (see photo), and Harvey turned my dream into a reality. 

If I had to describe how cats and I relate in a single blessed word, that word would be simple. I know how to please them, and our relationship is guilt-free. I hold them in rapt adoration, and they respond by telling one another that, despite my intellectual, I am a pretty decent fellow, and that they will reward me with: poise, purrs, warmth, cuddles, athleticism, graciousness, dignity, playfulness, and friends with whom to watch nature documentaries. Like fluffy clouds in a deep blue sky, the mere existence of cats is, like the title of a Mormon Scripture, A Marvelous Work and a Wonder. Like Peggy, like my home, like my online friends, and like my pills, I wouldn’t know how to survive without cats. Fortunately, I won’t have to.

 

*Prior to losing its place to the flat-faced Persian, an ancient breed called the Turkish Angora reigned for 400-years as the Western World’s most popular cat. Yet, they would have disappeared from the face of the earth forever if not for an American-inspired breeding program that began in Ankara in the 1950s. Close related to the Angora is the Turkish Van (van means white), which so loves to swim that it would be cruel to deny them access to water.

They Could Not Please Me More

I was reading in bed with Ollie in my lap. Ollie is a tail-thumper anyway, but because he and Harvey had argued, his thumping turned to thrashing. I grabbed his tail and distractedly started slapping him in the face with it. When he threatened to bite me, I apologized. Prior to my interaction with Ollie, I had been pondering cat behavior for much of the day. Here are some conclusions:

Covid isolation has reinforced my observation that the more love I give to cats, the happier they are and the more love they give back. While it is true that cats are independent, it would be tragically wrong to imagine that they don't need the love of the people upon whom their lives depend.

Obedience. Cat-haters insist that cats are too stupid to learn commands, yet my cats will seldom jump onto countertops if I ask them not to, assuming that I ask it while standing three feet away and pointing a squirt bottle. They also obey me when my wishes are consistent with their wishes. For example, if I call Ollie when I'm sitting in bed reading at 10:00 p.m., I can hear him galloping from two rooms away because he anticipates sitting in my lap, but if I call him at 10:00 a.m., he won't come because he doesn't know what I want. 

How cats regard humans. Some people say that cats consider us equals while others argue that they regard us as inferiors. When I ask cats about this, they go to sleep. I have no idea what this means.

Why do cats give us dead things? Possibilities: (1) They hate us; (2) They have a twisted sense of humor; (3) Corpses are to cats what chocolates are to us; (4) They regard us as failed hunters and are trying to inspire us. Finis. Because option four is the only option that accords with cat behavior, researchers favor it, although it would suggest that our cats view us as morons. Being indoor-only, my cats have nothing to present me with aside from beetles and spiders, and they usually eat them, proving that they don't care if I starve.

Burying poop. Until several months ago, Scully buried her poop. She now climbs onto the lid of the box and scratches as if she is burying her poop. The next cat into the box sees the poops, appears disgusted, and buries it. The sheen on Scully's jet black fur, her pristinely groomed white legs and chest, her gorgeous white whiskers, and the perfect symmetry of her markings put me in mind of human females who look like goddesses but have the IQ of rocks. Then again, maybe Scully's problem is emotional. 

Mental illness. As our other cats admit, Ollie has "issues." When he's stressed, he vomits and his hair falls out. Everyday for the four and a half years since he moved in, he has nursed on Brewsky. While the rest of the family relaxes together in bed at night, Ollie stalks the darkened house yowling loudly. When we hear him, we stop what we're doing and stare down the dark hallway in fear that this will be the night he loses his mind. If Ollie were human, I might conclude that he's afflicted with existential angst, but because he's a cat, I don't know what his problem is, and the other cats don't either.

Intelligence. Due to their resourcefulness in achieving private goals, I have concluded that my cats are reasonably intelligent. Yet, the human tendency to judge our pets according to what we value can result in a skewed assessment. For example, many people regard cats as intellectually inferior to dogs simply because dogs are better at learning things that interest us. These people are oblivious to the fact that cats excel at teaching us things that interest them. For example, when I throw his ball, Sage runs to it and stares at me. After awhile, I understand that he wants me to go to the ball, pick it up, and throw it again, which I do, at which time he runs to it and stares a second time. When I am able to perform the trick flawlessly, Sage takes a nap. The next day, he has me practice some more.

"When I play with my cat, how do I know she is not playing with me rather than I with her?" Montaigne

Emotions. Another example of people judging cats by human standards is the common conclusion that cats are unemotional based upon their relatively unchanging facial expressions. However, researchers have determined that, although cats do form expressions, they lack the musculature to form a great many of them. Another mistaken anthropocentric judgment is that cats' habit of capturing and releasing the same prey proves that they are sadists (they actually do it to instruct their young and to hone their hunting skills). Still another mistake occurs when people interpret as disgust the strange expression that some cats make after washing their butts, sniffing urine, or paying attention to the fragrance of a female in heat (they are instead wafting odors past something that scientists call a vomeronasal organ). How, then, given the ease with which we make mistakes, might a person know what a cat is thinking and feeling? Through patience, humility, voluminous reading, and hundreds of hours spent observing cats' body language, vocalizations, and eye movements. 

When to observe cats. All day everyday is best, but I especially enjoy doing it when they're stretching, playing together, sleeping in acrobatic postures, bathing one another, rolling in catnip, purring in my lap, chittering at birds, cuddling with one another, chasing laser lights, and requesting cuddles. A less pleasant—but very important—time to observe a cat is during those periods when he or she is vomiting frequently (as one wit put it, Dogs bark. Cats vomit). Because their vomiting often results from stress, it is my responsibility to make their home peaceful.

Us comforting cats. Rapidly-moving men with loud voices cause my cats to make like little Houdinis and disappear. If one—or more—of them remains disappeared hours after the person has left, I drag them from their hiding places and attempt to comfort them. If I succeed, they remain in the open. If I fail, they go back into hiding. Another time that I try to comfort cats is when I take them to the vet, and they push their heads into my abdomen. Although my ability to comfort a stressed-out cat is limited, I have the same problem with dogs and humans.

Cats comforting us. Peggy spent part of yesterday in bed with a stomach ache. When I went to check on her, all five cats were lined up against her sides. Were those cats acting as compassionate beings who were doing their utmost to comfort a loved one, or were they selfish jerks who found Peggy's bed soft and the heat from her body restful? People who wouldn't dream of interpreting every human act as selfish make such a claim about cats. 

There was a famous 1995 incident in which a homeless calico—whom the firemen later named Scarlett—was severely burned when she repeatedly dodged rescuers in order to save her kittens from a burning warehouse in Brooklyn (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scarlett_(cat). While many people praised Scarlett's courage, others dismissed her behavior as the product of mindless instinct. What, then, of human mothers who risk their lives for their children, such as the woman who recently tackled a man whom she caught looking through her daughter's bedroom window?

How can so timid a species be capable of love, and how can I love it? Despite being superb athletes, cats' small size and thin bones make them highly susceptible to injury, and so it is that facing avoidable threats is not within their value system (the exception being mother cats who act in defense of their kittens). This causes some humans to hold cats in contempt. To bring this part of the discussion closer to home...

Three-year-old Sage is my smallest and most timid cat. If I bend over to pet him while he's sitting on the floor, his big eyes get even bigger; he meows fearfully; and he runs away. Sometimes, he doesn't stop until he's under a chair. Other times, he only runs a few feet before rolling onto his back so I can pet him. I interpret his behavior as a struggle between trust and fear. While I know I'm making progress with Sage, I also know that I can never allow myself a moment's un-mindfulness—such as when I slapped Ollie in the face with his tail. 

Each morning, Sage asks Peggy to pick him up so he can sit on her shoulder, something he has never done with me. Sage also likes to sit in Peggy's lap, which is also something that he has never done with me. Researchers have found that it's simply easier for women to win the trust of cats, dogs, and even wolves. During the many decades that I walked dogs, I often met women whose adopted shelter dogs would either growl at me or hide behind the woman's legs. In almost every instance, these women had concluded that their shelter dog had been abused by a man. When I asked how they knew this, they would make the circular argument that their dogs were afraid of men.  

Why do I believe that intimacy with my cats continues to grow with every passing year? I believe it because of how pleased they are when I join them for a cuddle, and because of the liberties they allow. I can rough their fur, kiss their noses, squeeze them firmly, sweep them off the floor, flip them onto their backs, and rub their bellies, and I can even do these things with Sage most of the time. If you adopt an emotionally healthy dog, that dog will quickly reach a plateau of intimacy. By contrast, I still see signs of growing intimacy in all of my cats except for ten year old Brewsky, whose boldness approaches that of a dog. But how can I ever really know who my cats are within their deepest selves? I cannot. I can allow myself to interpret their behavior as love.

Isn't it unnatural to force a cat to live indoors? Here's what a natural lifestyle would entail: breeding freely; fighting competitors; killing their own food; suffering from climatic extremes, having their blood sucked by fleas, ticks, and mosquitos; being deprived of medical care; and starving when they become too old, sick, or wounded to hunt. Here's what a natural lifestyle would not entail: cuddling with humans, sleeping on soft pillows, eating Meow Mix, killing for fun, and staying indoors in inclement weather. No loving person would allow his or her cat to live naturally, and I resent being referred to as my cats' jailer. The person in my life who has given me the most grief about this has had two cats since I met him. One left home one morning after breakfast and was never seen again. The other came home with a broken leg, and he had her euthanized. Early death is often the fate of cats who are allowed to come and go.

But is it possible for indoor cats to be happy? My cats are well-loved; well-fed; well-protected; never alone; show no interest in going outdoors; and own a bucketful of toys, a commodious window shelf, multiple cat trees and lots of scratching posts. Their lives are as predictable as I can make them, and cats adore predictability. Although they're less adaptable than cats that face outdoor challenges, they're also healthier and can expect to live twice as long. They're also peaceful and content, properties that are surely more important than happiness.

But are they happy? Perhaps, the question can be more easily approached by asking whether they are satisfied, the reason being that happiness is a fluctuating mood boundaried by extremes. It is also a mood that I feel unqualified to judge. Yet, I have observed my cats closely their whole lives long, and I strongly believe that they're  satisfied. Just as the man I mentioned pitied my cats for staying indoors, I pity his cats because he somehow imagines that it's kindly to allow them to kill countless birds and mammals and to have their young lives end violently. The only good that comes from letting cats outdoors is that it allows their humans to evade the responsibility of providing for their physical and emotional welfare indoors. 

Should cats be worshiped? If, as Keats wrote, beauty is truth and truth beauty, then the spirit that embodies catdom deserves worship. People generally believe that the ancient Egyptians worshiped cats, but what they actually worshiped was the spirit embodied by cats, a spirit that found its ultimate expression in Bastet, a goddess who made cats her earthly representation. I own but one religious symbol, and that symbol is Bastet. Because Jehovah was a "jealous God," his chosen people prophesied the destruction of her holy city, Bubastis: 

"The young men of Heliopolis and Bubastis will die in battle, and the women will be taken away as slaves." Ezekiel 30:17

These events never occurred, although murderous persecution by Christians finally put an end to Bastet worship. Then came the Dark Ages out of which little good came, among it a 9th century poem by an Irish monk. Because this poem was written on the back of a Bible text, a thousand years passed before its discovery in the recesses of a monastic library. Its anonymous author named the poem after his cat, Pangur Bán (which means A Fuller White), and its sentiments echo my own. A sampling...

Tis a merry sight to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

Gen. Robert Edward Lee: Soldier, Citizen, and Christian Patriot

My father's parents, into whose Mississippi home I was born, owned but three books: a King James Bible, a homesteading encyclopedia, and a book entitled Gen. Robert Edward Lee: Soldier, Citizen, and Christian Patriot. 

During the Civil Rights era, the Confederate Battle Flag became common on Mississippi's car antennas (I had one). Even before the ubiquity of rebel flags, Confederate statues and howitzers graced courthouse lawns; and parks, buildings and military bases had been named after Confederate generals. Those who betrayed their nation (among them my ancestors) were honored in lavish ceremonies. Many towns held grandiose celebrations called pilgrimages, which featured belles in hoop skirts and tours of antebellum mansions.

The South called the Civil War: "The War of Northern Aggression," and I was taught that although the North triumphed on the battlefield--due to having far more men and guns--the South had achieved a victory of ethics, patriotism, Christian values, and military brilliance. "And, no..." my teachers insisted, "the war wasn't about slavery. The war was about state's rights (i.e. the right to enslave), fidelity to the Constitution, and obedience to God. According to this view, America's liberals had become so hostile to our nation's values that its conservatives were forced to take up arms. 

It all sounds so modern. Here are the justifications that the insurrectionists gave for trashing their nation's capitol:

(1) This is the people's house, and we're the people, so we can do with it as we please.

(2) This is our country, and we're taking it back.

 

Who is "we"? They're those who voted for Trump and who support Boogaloo, Patriot Prayer, KKK, Proud Boys, Oath Keepers and Young Republicans. They are white, evangelical, rural, and primarily reside in the South and Midwest. They hate Jews, blacks, Asians, Hispanics, Muslims, liberals, atheists, Roman Catholics, welfare recipients, and RINOs (Republican In Name Only used to mean Republicans who, on some issues, held Democratic values, but it now refers to any Republican who isn't totally in line with Trump). Here is what I interpret as their message to America:

Despite vowing to oppose the inauguration, we avoided going, but don't count us out because we've set our sights on such softer targets as celebrities, Congressmen, city council members, bridges, power stations, and commuter trains. Harassing people on the Internet is a great way to fill idle hours, but remember that an explosive-filled rental truck worked extremely well in Oklahoma City; shooting Mexicans at Walmart won us favorable publicity in El Paso; and the patriots who blew away Jews in Pittsburgh and niggers in Charleston also did us proud. We're only keeping a low profile at the moment because we're a little discouraged over being unable to stop Sleepy Joe's inauguration. Then came the worse blow of all when, instead of pardoning capitol-raiding patriots, Trump's final pardons were of mangy niggers. While it's true that those niggers supported him, for us to get nothing for attempting to overthrow the government on his behalf hurt. Three hours into the attack, he told us, "We love you. You're very special," but since then, he has done nothing but criticize us. It's like he's trying to win votes in 2024 by treating us like garbage. Finis.

The conservatives serve God, and liberals serve Satan argument that is in vogue now and during the Civil War, was also popular during the Civil Rights Movement of the '50s and '60s. I heard it preached from pulpits. I encountered it on page 1A editorials in the "Jackson Daily News." I read it in pamphlets that the KKK left in my family's driveway, and I saw it on Klan billboards. So it is that now--as during every year of the 160 years since Confederate cannon fired upon Fort Sumter, those who fight to destroy America regard themselves as its defenders, and they refer to those who fight for it as traitors.

The one obvious difference between the "patriots" of 1861 and the ones of 2021 is that today's "patriots" are not across-the-board racists, some groups even going so far as to completely disavow racism. My own belief about this is that they'll say or do any damn thing to win public sympathy, but that if they ever succeed, blacks will be thrown under the train because, in their view, no real patriot would want his daughter to marry a nigger.

I stopped counting when I reached ten uncles and grandfathers who fought for the Confederacy. The only good thing I can say about my ancestors of the era was that a single Alabama aunt openly professed her loyalty to the Union and unsuccessfully did her utmost to discourage her brothers from joining the Confederate army (one was killed but the other--a fundamentalist preacher who became my great grandfather--made it out alive). A neighbor later testified that only her gender saved Aunt Sarah Jane from physical harm. Clearly, the traitors who raided the capitol with the goal of murdering Nancy Pelosi, Ilhan Omar, and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, felt no such restraint.

Prior to Trump, Peggy had no interest in politics, and because we rarely watch commercial television (aside from the news and Jeopardy), neither of us knew much about Trump. When he started appearing on the news, it was a case of disgust at first sight that has inspired her to learn more about politics than I know. Yesterday, she got up early to watch the inauguration, and shed happy tears throughout, both in honor of Biden and in celebration of the fact that the Trumpian nightmare is finally over.

"We're taking back our country," the capitol raiding Trumpians proclaimed, and as I watched the inauguration two weeks to the day later, I smilingly thought, "Not today, assholes."

Last Week and Next

 

 

 For the first time ever, the certainly of violence has led to the public being warned to stay away from the presidential inauguration on January 20. Also, the FBI is warning states to prepare for armed invasions of their capitols. One such an invasion succeeded in Michigan last April, while another failed in Oregon in December.*

 

The coming of last week's D.C. attack was so well-advertised that the ADL (Anti-Defamation League) called it the best predicted terrorist attack in American history, yet the capitol police--despite having all the intelligence resources of the federal government at its disposal--professed ignorance. Once the assault started, some capitol cops even sided with the Trumpians, the most notorious of them putting on a MAGA cap and directing the terrorists while a fellow officer was murdered.

During the DC occupation, many Republican legislators smirkingly refused to wear the required Covid masks as they hid packed-together (the count of those who contracted Covid as the probable result is in progress). When the invasion was finally over, 147 Republican Congressmen calmly and cheerfully continued their attempt to overturn Biden's victory by un-Constitutionally giving the presidency to Trump. Clearly, even if they didn't know that the assault was coming, they would have known that all those zip-ties weren't intended for them. For Pence, the outcome might have been less agreeable because Trump had tweeted during the occupation that Pence had refused to hand him the election. "Hang Pence!" cried the invaders, and at least one of them had thought to bring a rope.

 

If there's a bright side to recent events, it is that both the House and Senate are now Democratically controlled, and a Democrat is about to assume the presidency. In other good news, Trump's role in the attempted insurrection has led to numerous resignations by high ranking appointees.** In fact, Trump has come to be so detested that many Republicans now view his campaign endorsements as a liability in hotly contested races (such as the two Georgia run-offs that Republicans recently lost despite a personal appearance by Trump). Finally, it has become impossible for fence-straddlers to argue that Trump only pretends to be violent in order to reach his hardcore base. How they ever pulled it off in the first place is a mystery given the scores, if not hundreds, of times that he encouraged, demanded, or praised violence.*

 * https://www.thedailybeast.com/heavily-armed-far-right-mob-descends-on-oregon-capitol

**  https://www.wsj.com/articles/heres-who-resigned-from-trumps-administration-after-riot-at-the-capitol-11610061311

*** https://www.vox.com/21506029/trump-violence-tweets-racist-hate-speech

Christmas Letter Containing Peggy’s Health Worries and How We’re Faring In Isolation

 

Peggy and I celebrated our 49th anniversary on December 19th (she’s 69, and I’m 71), yet this is our first ever Christmas letter.

Our family now includes five indoor-only cats that range in age from 18-months to ten years. All are in good health, and all enjoy playing together, sleeping together, and bathing one another. We own hundreds of cat-related books along with cat art, and, prior to Covid, we volunteered at a cat adoption center. Peggy had originally proclaimed her intention of only having one cat, yet chose all but one of the next four. Saying no to another cat is like saying no to another potato chip.

We live in a 1955 era fixer-upper house that we bought in 1990 and spent years renovating. Many of the neighborhood’s original residents were alive when we moved in, but all have since died, and we are now the oldest people in our area.

Since Covid, we never go to stores or visit with friends. I’m not finding isolation difficult because Peggy and the cats provide sufficient companionship. On those occasions when I miss shopping or having dinner with friends, I remind myself that Covid would probably kill me, and would most certainly kill Peggy who has the occasional bout of asthma and a calcification in her right lung. Then too, our deaths would render our cats homeless. Such thoughts could keep me isolated forever.

Peggy is mostly doing well with isolation, but she has her sad moments when she reflects upon the things that she has had to give up. For instance, she had two weekly pinochle groups and two or more monthly meetings and workshops related to clothing buttons—which she started collecting in 1988. Many of these events are now being conducted on Zoom, and while some things have been lost, there have been gains. For example, the Portland Button Club recently hosted a speaker from France, and just last week, Peggy was among the 87 attendees at a meeting of the Idaho Button Society. She is now organizing her own Internet events, plus she uses the Internet in conjunction with her computer’s art program to design button displays.

For me, the worst part of Covid is that I’ve been postponing important medical and dental procedures. For example, I had two dental implants installed in my upper front teeth last Spring, but because they don’t extend above the gum-line, they are worthless until I get crowns, but by the time I had waited six months to become eligible for crowns, Covid was so widespread that I was unwilling to get them. In the meantime, eating is difficult and I often bite my lip with my remaining teeth. I’ve also developed a hernia, but I don’t plan to see a doctor until I’ve had a Covid vaccine or the pain is too great to bear. (After writing this on the 20th, I had a tooth break-off at the gumline on the 21st, but the dentist said I could postpone treatment—he suggested yet another implant—because the calcified pulp is keeping bacteria out.)

Peggy is suffering from two health problems for which treatment can’t be delayed. One is a squamous cell carcinoma on her nose (a former mountain climber, she was often exposed to high altitude sunshine), which she will have removed on January 5, in what could be a five hour surgery (the surgery is lengthy because samples of excised tissue will be tested throughout). Another problem is that, after years of unsuccessfully trying to lose two pounds, she recently dropped eight pounds, a loss that is continuing and is accompanied by pain and vomiting. In early November, her internist ordered blood tests and a CAT scan, but when they didn’t reveal anything, he prescribed an “upper GI with follow-through.” When she discovered that the contrast medium contained a migraine-causing ingredient, he substituted a “gastric emptying study.” It is to be done on December 29, and, like her surgery, it could take as long as five hours.

As the winter-long Oregon drizzle continues, Peggy and I are watching documentaries on PBS along with classic movies and TV shows from the fifties and sixties. We are also playing six or more daily games of backgammon, and I continue to be an active blogger, having no face-to-face friends who I love more than two British bloggers, Philip and Michelle, both of whom, I am extremely sad to report, are in poor health. Philip honors me with the occasional phone call, and while Michelle had suggested visiting online, she later developed a voice problem that made it impractical. I, too, am having voice problems, in my case “quivering vocal cords” for which I had just started seeing a speech therapist when Covid hit (I haven’t been back). Fortunately, I’m able to talk well enough after I’ve been up for awhile, although I fancy that I sound a bit like Katherine Hepburn.

Reading also continues to be a vital part of my life, most of my books being 100-plus year old novels by largely forgotten authors.  The only author for whom I’ve sought first editions is American poet, novelist, and short story writer, Margaret Deland (1857-1945) who went from fame to obscurity during her lifetime. I also own several of her letters and photos, two biographies, and her two-volume autobiography.

Peggy, too, enjoys reading, but also spends time on her button hobby, working Sudokus, and listening to music. While I get little exercise anymore, she alternates between taking long walks one day and working out with weights the next. Marrying such an admirable woman was the best thing I ever did, yet I don’t know if we would have survived had our relationship not been helped by the fact that we are so much alike. For example, our attitudes towards money, politics, vegetarianism, religion, entertainment, clothing styles, personal safety, celebrating holidays, having five cats, house and yard decoration and maintenance, and, of late, staying isolated.

Happy Holidays,

Humans Versus Staph: Further Evidence of My Perverted Atheistic Values

If I had to choose between saving the life of a good dog or a bad man, the man would die, and the same would be true if I had to choose between the endangered mountain gorilla and all 37-million humans of metropolitan Tokyo.

“You don’t know anyone in Tokyo, and might not racism play into how breezily you would render them dead? What would you say if you had to choose between a species of blind fish that only lives in a single isolated cave versus yourself and the 4-million other humans in Oregon?” 

Whether my decision involved Tokyo or Oregon, it would be based upon my belief that the value of an entire species outweighs that of millions of humans. It is also true that cave fish only harm their prey whereas we humans harm everything but the germs, rodents, and insects that prey on us, and so it is that the earth would be better off if several million of us were suddenly dead.

“How many humans would you trade for the Anopheles Mosquito, the Norway Rat, or a staph-causing bacteria?”

While it’s hard to imagine the harm of killing-off a flesh-eating microbe, destroying the Anopheles Mosquito is another matter because of the species that feed upon them and are themselves fed upon by other species. Even so, if I were a caribou whose breathing passages were being clogged by clouds of mosquitoes, my choice would be easy. My point is that immediate suffering could inspire me to adopt a remedy that would make the overall problem worse, yet the absence of immediate suffering gives my species an excuse for rationalizing problems out of existence; for example, greed, global warming and habitat destruction.

As I see it, my species relates to the earth like staph germs relate to their host. What I mean to say is that while staph germs might become fat and sassy from feasting on human flesh today, it never occurs to them to cut back in order to keep their host alive for tomorrow, although when it dies, they die. How, then, are we superior to staph? Given our wasted potential for good, how are we even the moral equals of staph?

 

Irrelevant Endnote: Peggy is sitting beside me (on her own desktop computer) with Harvey purring loudly in her lap. A new universe was born when he entered the world, its reality being so all-encompassing that I can scarcely remember the old universe despite the fact that it occupied 69/70ths of my life. We came very near not applying to keep Harvey (for many months, we had been his foster parents), and when we finally did apply, we came very near being forced to give him up due to our age (I’m 70, and Peggy—the poor old thing—is 69).  How nightmarish the image of being forced to surrender him to the young woman who wanted him, and how unimaginable the possibility of someday losing him to death (his or ours). What would I not give for him? How much trouble, how much money, even how many lives? Some people love humans. I love cats. The five that I have aren’t nearly enough, but if I had more, I would be spread too thin for intimacy (a recognition that causes me to question the values of cat-laden households).

It is said that the Abrahamic deity created humans in his likeness (as if that’s a good thing), but I’m much more invested in the beautiful and virtuous cat goddess, Bastet, who so admired cats that she molded herself in their likeness. I have a statue of Bastet on the window shelf overlooking my bed, and I often open my eyes in the wee hours to see her outlined against the semi-darkness of the city sky.

The Immortal Harvey (d.o.b. June 18, 2019)

I share my home with four gentle and obedient cats who adorn my life like precious jewels, and a fifth, Harvey, who is cocky and impudent. Only he fights over food; only he brazenly ignores my wishes; and only he makes me run from one end of the house to the other to see what he’s up to when it sounds like he’s rearranging the furniture. He stares into my eyes with the cunning of a cartoon fox, and he disobeys me even while I’m scolding him for disobedience. I chase him around the house yelling, waving my arms, and, sometimes, slapping the upholstery with a yardstick, but after a few circuits, he rolls onto his back—like ten-year-old Brewsky did when he was a kitten—and invites me to rub his belly.

Harvey is my only cat who, when we’re cuddled-up in bed at night and I’m rubbing his belly with one hand, pins my other with his claws and squeezes a finger between his teeth as he dozes off. Peggy insists that I not let him bite me, but I only follow her advice on the rare occasions when he causes me pain.

But why does Harvey pin me with teeth and claws? A cat’s unprotected abdomen is so vulnerable to evisceration—by another cat’s hind claws—that many cats will bite anyone who touches that area. Then there are cats like Brewsky who will allow humans to do pretty much anything to them (I sometimes answer the door with Brewsky hanging upside down from under a forearm). Harvey resorts to the middle ground of allowing access to his abdomen while keeping his teeth and claws engaged. 

For much of my life, I found it intimidating to sit or lie while other males were standing, so when I did, I would keep an eye on them, although I knew that it offered little protection. When I observe Harvey’s protective measures, I see myself. Although Brewsky always gave me complete access to his body, I appreciate Harvey’s gift even more because his desire to surrender goes against his need for safety.

As I stroke him, I lose myself in adoration of his foxy face and long fur—I prefer longhaired cats, and he’s my only longhair. Although Peggy laughed when I called my little ten pound bundle of cuteness a man’s cat, Harvey truly is a badass who goes for broke while roughhousing with fifteen-pound Brewsky. Yet, I know that Brewsky would never really harm him, and I also know that Harvey’s exaggerated self-confidence is the result of human protectiveness. May Peggy and I never find ourselves unable to maintain the illusion, and may he never discover how nearly powerless his human parents really are. Perhaps, it would be possible for me to love him more, although my heart would burst if I tried.

Two Days to Go: Why I Hate Them So

 

Trump has spent four years sowing division and heaping hatred upon anyone who disagrees with him. He has told thousands of demonstrable lies; purged the government of those whom value duty to nation above loyalty to him; done his utmost to prevent Democrats from voting and their votes from being counted; and trashed every value that I hold dear. Those who voted for Trump made all this possible, and are determined that it continue. The harm that Trump has done to people like I--and millions of others--is harm for which I hold them responsible.

Two days ago, Trump supporters used their vehicles to harass a busload of Biden supporters who were on their way to an event in Austin, Texas (the event was cancelled). Trump, who has a long history of encouraging violence on the part of his supporters, tweeted photos of the harassers along with the words, "I LOVE TEXAS!" (Earlier in the week, a similar incident occurred in Missouri, and the FBI is investigating both incidents.)

Election day violence (the election is November 3) is a major concern in America. The reason for the concern is that Trump has been saying for months that he can only lose if the election is stolen, so in a country that contains more privately-owned guns than people (most guns being in the hands of Republicans), and is under the leadership of a violence-promoting demagogue, violence seems likely. Might it get worse than a few out of control demonstrations--might there be an attempted coup if Trump calls for one? No one knows.

I do know that, prior to Trump, fears of election violence like that which is seen in the Third World didn't exist here because people imagined that the country was strong and stable. Yet, in four short years, America has gone from being the world's most powerful democracy to standing upon the precipice of fascism and possible collapse. I feared Trump and his supporters from the outset, but because I trusted that America's laws and democratic institutions would protect us, I didn't foresee that two days before the election of 2020, I would be writing such a post.

But why is it that the very flag-wavers (they have now swapped the American flag for the various Trump flags) who sing, "I'm proud to be an American because at least I know I'm free," support a man who runs roughshod over the very values they formerly expressed a willingness to die for? I can but point out that their words are the same words that were spoken in 1930's Germany, which were the same words that are spoken by all people who regard "strong-man" dictators as the solution to their nation's problems. 

If I awakened one day and discovered that half of my fellow citizens were child-molesters who passionately defended child-molestation and attended large rallies (during a pandemic, no less) at which they chanted "Lock Them Up!" whenever their leader criticized the opponents of child molestation, I would wonder what signs I overlooked that might have allowed me to look beyond the fresh paint adorning their souls to the rot underneath. Even if Trump loses and even if there is no attempt at a coup, I will never again respect his supporters, not because they are dead to me, but because I foolishly imagined that their authoritarianism was tempered by decency. It was not the first time that I so wanted to believe in the goodness of people that I traded truth for fantasy.