I’m writing this blog post before the election.
Who won? Trump? Biden? Jill Stein? It’s impossible for me to know. It is the 30th of October. All Hallow’s Eve Eve. Or Halloween’s Eve. Or something like that.
Heck, we might not know who won the election for another few weeks. Or until 2104 if democracy collapses. I hope it doesn’t.
I’m not convinced that this election will fundamentally fix or destroy this nation. Yes, I have my horse in the race, but I don’t think the deeply rooted polarization in this country is going anywhere. The violence that has been stirred up? Well, it has been stirred up. Hard to put violence away. I wish people would. Put it away, that is. Violence is stupid.
I’m musing here. In the past, these blogs contained funny little anecdotes about things that happened to me during the week. Those are my favorite blog pots, anyway. Stupid little stories. But the pandemic has altered my landscape. I rarely leave the house these days. And there’s only so many times I can complain about Solomon’s appetite for (loud) destruction. Leaves me with less to write about here.
Other than cats. I write about cats a lot.
I’ve written much about our new kitten over the last few weeks. Theo. He’s a real peach. His testicles are gone now. As the sage-poet Bob Barker was want to remind us: Spay and neuter your pets, y’all. Mission accomplished, Bob.
The cat rescue in State College wouldn’t allow us to adopt young Theodore without making sure that our elderly cat Yara was up to date on her vaccines.
Up to date on her vaccines? Well, er, um, you see. Yara is 13 or 14 years-old. And she’s never been to a vet. Let alone vaccinated. She’s a real anti-vaxxer. Cats can’t even escape our polarized silliness.
But I promised the good people at the local rescue. And the day came. Yara’s first visit to the vet happened last week.
It took 10 minutes and all my brutal strength to stuff Yara into a tiny cage. She was a real panic attack. Howled the whole way there.
“This could be rough,” I told the receptionist when we got there. Over the phone.
“Oh,” the receptionist laughed politely.
They came for my cat. Curbside pickup. Like Applebees. I sat in the car and listened to Comedy Bang Bang. Great podcast. I got a call 20 minutes later. Yara’s vet seemed very nice.
“Yara is frozen with fear. She’s been great. Totally healthy. Do you know she has a lump on her stomach?”
I did know that. I agreed to pay an extra $100 to see if our elderly cat Yara had cancer. She didn’t. Just a milky cyst. Great news.
Yara made it home safely. It took her a day to forgive me. Poor thing. All because of little Theo. Who she detests. So it goes, Yara. Life is full of nuisances, even during a pandemic.
I did leave the house one other time last week. I got an email on Thursday morning. The fine folks at Penn State had selected me for random Covid testing. For the second time in two weeks. Penn State must be concerned about me.
I stuffed myself in my Honda CRV. Drove to campus in a monsoon. Got soaked as I walked to pick up the test. Spit in a cup in my office. Walked back to the drop-off. Forgot the UPS bag for the test in my office. Back and forth in the rain. It was a delight. I was as annoyed as Yara on her way to the vet. Howling in the rain.
I hope I don’t have Covid. I don’t think I do. I’ll probably get the results of my test by the time I post this. And I’ll probably know the results of the US presidential election. And I’ll probably have officially adopted young Theodore. And Yara will probably be angry about it.
And that, my friend, is all I have to say about that.