The heat beats down five degrees consistently hotter than it used to do, and the sun’s rays seem to have more of an edge in them too. The rain circles all around and disdains landing here. The end times begin.

I have my basic roof and it’s more or less proof against it. For now. I might say the same about my bodily instrument, which is inclined to ride out the worst of it in siesta some days, including this one.

As I woke from not-quite-sleep it occurred to me that I am the only actual cat-person in my family, and this holds true among the three generations I’m personally familiar with. A number of them keep or have kept dogs. Mostly they decline the notion of pet ownership. I’m highly sympathetic to the latter stance, but my ideally orthodox self is tainted by the fact that I like cats and always have.

Right now under the roof there are two ex-strays, and out in the yard, two more hardcore Barncats.

Kali-ma has been inside for a few years now. She is slowly and finally turning into a real love-bug of a calico girl.

Riley is the kitten of last Thanksgiving, and he is trouble every chance he gets, busting through imperfectly closed doors and lately splashing everything out of the water bowl over and over. But he needs loving too, and is a natural at collecting it.

In the yard are the brothers, Orangeman and Blossom, who come around at suppertime mostly. Everybody’s spayed and mostly up on their shots. These four constitute the core. There are supporting players popping in and out over time.

This is more cats than I really care to look after daily, but of course I’m an amateur compared to my dear one.

I think about history.

Why am I the only one who ended up with cats?

Is there a reason? Is it related in any way to the other things that set me mostly apart, like the addiction and cashflow issues?

Probably, but probably not in a way that can be described with meaningful precision, or clarity.

What I can offer with increasing certainty is that the human experiment is ending in ugly failure, and that any appeal to the good old days has to go back at least ten thousand years–and even that might be rose-colored anarcho-primitivist nostalgia.

This was slammed home to me today by an episode of Chapo I just caught up on.

I recommend it to you most highly.

Hell of Presidents: Episode 1 – Founding Daddies

Daddy’s really broken, and it was true way before the individual case of yours, or mine.

***

As I write this there is an unprecedented hole the size of a month in the Spill behind me.

I have a load of backfill, and good intentions about dumping and spreading it. Why it happened at all isn’t interesting or useful to natter on about, I don’t think.

So I won’t.

Probably.