My cat sits on the desk each morning and evening and watches me get ready for my day or get ready for bed. It’s her routine. I walked up to her tonight to pet her before getting in bed, and she walked away as though she wasn’t interested. But I know she was because here she is all curled up next to me in the dark as I type. I thought, as she snubbed me earlier, how nice it would be to be a cat. No responsibilities. Sleep all day. Eat. Demand attention and refuse affection and get away with both, incurring no more than a sarcastic remark about the typical nature of my species. Like I’d care. Because I’d be a cat.

Anyway, my moment of envy was simultaneously countered by the idea of dependency. Cats have the life only at the mercy of their owners. 

I then got to thinking about the cards dealt in life, how some people get better hands than others. But it’s all relative, when you get to the nitty gritty. Mostly.

I’ve been reading a bit here and there on this blog, and tonight, what I read made me think of my desire to be a cat and thankfulness that I’m not one. 

The grass is always greener somewhere else.

Unless that somewhere else is Calcutta, so it seems.

My summer hasn’t really started. I’ve been lying to myself to make the end of the school year feel more satisfying. I have to get up early for the next couple of weeks and remediate students in their algebra skills. But my cat doesn’t. And neither do the unemployed. Nor do teachers who traded extra pay for vacation time. It’s all perspective.

But no matter how you look at it, I am falling asleep (quickly, as I type) in a comfortable bed with very, very, very little chance of losing limbs or getting run down by a rogue van or being stabbed with a large knife. I fear this list of unlikely events will increase quickly as long as I keep a record of the most recent ones. Tonight I am thankful for my safety and that I have hot water, that I have water, that I have the opportunity to bring in extra income, and even for this smug ball of fur curled up next to me. She’s thankful for me, too, but she’d never admit to it.


Author: uncaged

When Picasso painted a blue Seated Woman in a Chair, he was unconsciously thinking of me.

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