That Cat
When she had a cat, it was much easier to relax. Just looking at the cat lying about was calming, as if the sight of it triggered a physical response, releasing her cranked-up shoulders, and her knotted belly. She fancied they had a brain alignment that transcended her other close relationships. No, she wasn’t neurotic. She knew her husband was right, that it had a brain the size of a walnut. Yet there was some magical thinking going on as far as that cat was concerned.
But that was years ago before the seizures got worse and they had to put the cat to sleep. Sleep, ha! In truth, they paid a veterinarian and her assistant to murder it, and that cat fought the process with every ounce of strength it had left. Rationalizing might have helped, might have kept her from drinking so much. But no, she was a realist, she told herself. She had to own up to the fact that she and her husband paid to have the cat murdered. That old magical thinking could have come in handy as far as the guilt was concerned, but it had left her with that cat’s last breath.
And so it goes.
