Be at peace...

Strange thoughts this morning. People are dying all over the place: thousands more in Indonesia, Terri Schiavo, Mitch Hedberg, the pope. I imagine the bereaved, if we were to trace the contacts and connections out from their sources, must number in the tens of millions. Sitting in my quiet, Milwaukee apartment on a Saturday morning, being piped information through the various tubes dedicated to such endeavors, this seems like an amazing and sad day full of strife and pain for all those losing someone they value.

But not me.

I sympathize. I think I even empathize. Today is not a day of loss for me, but I've had such days. I can think of nothing much that will bring comfort. Talk to your friends, your family. Cry some. Listen to your priests, if you are so inclined. Realize you've lost something that you may never replace. Don't pretend it's nothing much. Keep breathing.

All I can offer from my little apartment is this:



This is Gatsby. He's a medium-length haired, American domestic mongrel. His hobbies include attempting to escape my building, knocking stuff over, darting between my legs while I'm walking around the apartment, mewing piteously for no apparent reason every morning and focusing his walnut-like brain on vexing me every chance he gets. He has wicked claws and an hilarious attraction/avoidance conflict concerning running water. In other words, he's a cat, just like yours.

He's also fuzzy and warm and he loves to sit on my lap while I'm at the computer, where he purrs like a Sherman tank, chews the buttons on my shirt and digs his claws into my chest to get my attention. And, sometimes, when I remember not to reflexively scoop him off me and dump him on the floor in frustration with his interference, he brings me a bit of peace. Every day.