I was in a card store today and happened to notice a whole slew of pet sympathy cards. A sign of the times. And maybe another sign from the universe since I got home and saw a headline that the Clintons’ cat Socks had died.
I’m not buying them a card. I didn’t follow Socks’ adventures while he lived in the White House, or read the book I’m sure he wrote. But when I read that he died I felt sorry for the Clintons. Then I read the whole article and learned that since he left the White House, Socks has been living with Bill Clinton’s secretary Betty Currie and her husband. So now I’m feeling sorry for Betty Currie. And for me.
Because that could be me someday.
I never thought I was a cat person. But then I fell in love with Daniel’s
former cat Peppy. And I started thinking I could end up as one of those old ladies living in a house surrounded by cats and clutter. Thanks to Cluttercast I’ve got less clutter. I don’t want a house full of cats, but even before Socks died, I’ve been thinking about getting one more.
A sibling for Peppy. Kind of ironic since I wrote about siblings just yesterday. I’m all for siblings—I think they bring lots of benefits. But in this case, the one who would benefit is not Peppy, but me.
She’s certainly not suffering. Peppy is the queen of the house and V and I exist to wait on her. The problem is that I’m already projecting towards the day when she’ll be Socks and I’ll be Betty Currie.
I think about her getting older. I can’t imagine life without her following me around. I can’t go to sleep unless she’s right there on the bed. She’s the focus of my time and attention—and my anxiety— because she’s the only cat I have.
I remember feeling like this once before. I was overly neurotic and I felt it wasn’t healthy to have all my emotional eggs in one basket. I felt I needed another outlet so I could spread out my love and diffuse my anxiety.
I was right, as it turned out. Everthing worked out fine—as soon as we had Daniel.