I am in a house of madness with a screaming madman who deludes himself he is the Cat God. He’s no more the Cat God than I’m the Queen of Sheba.
My cat is contemplative, like me. She looks out the window, lost in her own thoughts. I try to imagine what they are. Cleopatra? Catnip treats? Certainly not Covid.
My cat is writing her autobiography. Her penmanship is scratchy at best so I am her scribe. She wants it transcribed on parchment paper.