Dottie the Elder, the monochromatic old lady cat with the mysterious punctuation mark on her nose that my brilliant chum Samantha calls her ‘catastrophe’, was nestled in my armpit staring at me serenely while I whimpered and whined to her about feeling like a birdhole. I’d hit yet another impasse with the fella I love, but can’t seem to feel sure of, since I’m keeper of a never-ending spreadsheet of evidence that He Loves Me / He Loves Me Not. Yes, he said he loved me on the phone earlier, but then he responded ‘ok’ to a sweet text I’d labored over, and those two little missing letters, the absolutely crucial ‘ay’ on ‘okay’, told my birdhole brain that he’s sick of me and I need to shut my bird-pie-hole. And on and on. I’ve exhausted him, I’ve exhausted myself, I’ve exhausted Dottie. Dottie, who isn’t even my damn cat. Dottie, Knitting Assistant I mean, yes, I’ve had her since December 3, 2006, when the kids and I went to Wayside Waifs with my then-beau S. to check out the cats. ...
Cheaper than therapy.