Angel Annie

This blog was originally going to be about Black Mirror, a scary, ingenious “British Twilight Zone” I just finished binge-watching that plunges the viewer into a quasi-futuristic society where advances in technology alter our social and personal realities for better and often worse.

Then last night’s Election happened (or as I now may call it, Beer Hall Putsch 2.0), and I suddenly don’t feel compelled to write about a dark fictional world when we are really about to live in one.

There’s plenty of anger right now in my many stages of grief, but mostly there’s just all-pervasive sadness. Sad for women, sad for minorities, sad for immigrants, sad for the LGBT community, sad for my young parent neighbors and their children, and mostly sad for America, a beacon of reason and democracy that had a nice 240-year run. If half of the country believes that a lying, ignorant, racist and sexist fascist would make a better President than a qualified career politician, good luck to them. Because I have no plans to ever accept a flaming, unhinged asshole as my President.

anniebBut let’s talk about Annie Boots, our cat. Home alone last night with the election coverage while my wife was on a job up in Washington State—planning a likely Hillary party with her nasty woman workmates—I had little reason not to be optimistic. Trump was ahead 19-3 in electoral votes when I was leaving work but had fallen behind slightly by the time I switched on the TV and began preparing night two of my spinach chicken salad. Then Florida was in trouble. Then Ohio and North Carolina and Virginia were in trouble. Then the entire middle of the country was turning red for Trump like a woman’s whatever.

I switched over to an old Hitchcock movie called Saboteur on TCM, but could barely follow what was happening. Went back to MSNBC for a spell, until new polls closed and new horrific numbers surfaced. I went to a Kings hockey game in Toronto for a short spell, but the noise of the skates sounded like scythe blades. Meanwhile, I was getting text after text from friends, loved ones, all wanting to share their panic.

I killed the TV and retreated to the living room to read through some pages-in-progress for my new novel. Maybe plunging myself into the fictional world in my head would help beat back depression. The problem was that my phone was perched on the arm of the chair I was sitting in. Before long, I was taking Twitter and Facebook breaks, which was like reading dispatches from the end of the world in real time. Couldn’t take that either.

But then Annie Boots pranced into the room and jumped on my lap. She didn’t give two shits about any election, had been happily carousing the driveway for mice in the ivy, drinking the scummy backyard pond water, and pausing for lick breaks. It was also starting to get chilly out, so leaping on my warm jeans and curling up was all that mattered to her. Within minutes she was dozing, purring like a new John Deere, happy to be taken care of while unwittingly comforting her dad to no end.

I shared a final consoling phone call with my wife before retiring and somehow getting five hours of sleep. Annie Boots had gone back out at 10 p.m., around the time the country that I love was going through its death throes, and when I rose about 4:40 am. to use the bathroom she still hadn’t clawed at the bedroom door to come back in. Oh great. Not only has American voted in Satan, but now a coyote has claimed our cat.

I called for her but she never showed up. I tried to fall back asleep and was maybe out for a half hour when Annie’s nails suddenly scratched on the door. After making sure there was no half-dead mouse in her mouth, I slid it open, more happy than ever to see her. Got up, made coffee, and let her sleep on my robe while I sat in the living room again.

When insanity happens, the world shatters, and you’re forced to live one day at a time, maybe love and little furry things are enough to keep you going.


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