I just came home to a giant, warm pile of shit sitting in the middle of my bedroom floor. That pretty much sums up this week. I conducted an interview with a chef and it didn’t seem to record. I wrote a fashion week dining round-up for Bryant Park when this year it’s at Lincoln Center (never mind that I have work work that, you know, is supposed to get done). I think I might have bedbugs and have barely been able to sleep all week. And after washing all my bedding and clothing, I discovered that my cat, Sukey, peed all over everything in my laundry baskets. I haven’t been able to get this cat to crap in a litter box for at least a year so I’m used to piles of shit all over the house, but indiscriminate pissing is a new one. If I was (or is that were? I’ve also realized I have a tenuous grasp of grammar rules, despite never mixing my palettes/palates/pallets or flairs/flares, the two errors I see at least weekly) my mom, this cat would’ve been booted back to the pound years ago. No remorse.
I can only think of one cat, L.C. for Little Cat, out of the many we had growing up, who died of old age. Bwana Casper got hit by a car a month after receiving her as a 16th birthday present, right when I was getting ready to go out and see A Night in the Life of Jimmy Reardon. Another, whose name I’ve forgotten turned up dead on the sidewalk on Halloween 1990 and I’m convinced someone killed it. Handfuls of other felines would “disappear.” Spook was the only cat we got back after someone in Portland (we lived in a Gresham, a suburb) miles and miles away found her and our phone number was still on her red, reflective heart-shaped collar. I don’t remember what happened to her after that, but she definitely wasn’t around much longer afterward.
Then again, my memory is selective. I couldn’t tell you the plot of A Night in the Life of Jimmy Reardon either.