This is what happens when a grieving husband runs out of Xanax:
I screamed at the cat tonight. For the third night in a row, she knocked down the pictures of my wife I keep on the mantel in the living room (now known as the dead room—yet I continue to inhabit it).
I went crazy. I would never hurt the cat — her name is Bella Donna but I call her Babe, who I got for my wife Susan when her illness became a lethal presence in our home — or any animal for that matter. But, nonetheless, tonight I yelled and screamed at her like a madman.
Since Susan’s death last Christmas, Babe is all I have, and I’m all she has. She thinks I am (and I say this as humbly as I can) the Cat God.
But when I yelled at her tonight I told her I was the Cat Devil and that I had killed the Cat God and taken over the house and I howled like a crazy Cat Devil, and Babe — who had assumed a half-hidden supine position on top of the bookcase — looked at me with detached curiosity and I told her, in my Boris Karloff voice, “You think I’m mad, don’t you?”
She just kept looking at me with the feline equivalent of ‘arched eyebrows’ as I continued my mad speech: “Well, let me tell you, I’m glad I’m mad! I’m glad I’ve gone mad, because I prefer insanity over the reality of living without Susan — the Cat Mama to you.”
Whereupon Babe jumped down from the bookcase and trotted over to my armchair and looked at me with a look that said: “I understand. I miss her too.”