A Cat Named Grandpa
There’s so much missing from Donald Trump: A scintilla of a sense of shame. A breadth of knowledge of history. An innate understanding of right and wrong. A feeling of responsibility for his treason. But mostly what is lacking — fueled by all the rest — is a sense of compassion. In his shabby hands, we are a stinking, compassionless country.
(When asked yesterday, at a performance of Les Mis, whether his sympathies lay with Jean Valjean, who stole a loaf of bread to feed children, or his maniacal pursuer, Inspector Javert, Trump called that question “a tough one” and deferred to Melania, who just smiled her characteristic painful smile.)
Yesterday Rachel was out walking with Lexi when they ambled past a seemingly abandoned cat carrier in the street. Lexi kept pulling toward it, so much so that Rachel yielded to the dog’s demand to sniff it.
It turns out that inside was a terrified little cat. Maybe a year old. Your basic tiger alley cat. Some bastard had abandoned it there, along with a full bag of kitty litter, as though this somehow had inoculated the bastard from blame. Intuitively, Lexi was gentle with the animal inside. The animal inside hissed in fear.
Rachel zipped up the carrier (the cat had been free to leave, but was too smart, or too traumatized, to wander outside into the 90-degree heat) — and brought it home. We still don’t know for sure what gender it is (we are not cat genital experts) but we can’t stand calling it “it,” so at Rachel’s suggestion the cat is now named Grandpa, whatever the gender. This is to tickle my grandkids, who consider their own grandpa a ridiculous hoot. Grandpa, at least for now, is ours. Grandpa will visit a vet as soon as he or she is psychologically able.
We didn’t want a cat — years later, we are still mourning the sudden death of Barnaby — but there are times when you simply have to show compassion on the theory that if you don’t, who else will?
Grandpa has been hiding and cowering in a storeroom in the basement. The cat doesn’t trust us, yet, and why should he or she? How has this cat been treated so far, by people? We’re not sure that Grandpa has eaten or even drunk water yet. But we’re giving this time. Cats, like people, tend to be resourceful under pressure. We’re not sending this cat back outside to die in the heat.
The bastard who abandoned this cat cannot win. Trump cannot win. No kings.
I’m sorry to make this political — it’s cheap and easy — but, as the maxim goes, all politics are local. Let’s fight this bastard one baby step at a time if need be. Show by example.
That’s it for today.
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Questions and Observations:
See you in a day. I have a dramatic Father’s Day column coming up. I’ve been writing it for 20 years.
Oh, wait. One more picture. Grandpa is very slowly allowing himself to emerge.
Your mention of compassion leads me to share this story from a public radio newsletter I received yesterday that moved me to tears.
“When I was 9 or 10 years old, I remember my dad befriended a homeless man in our small, rural town who was suffering from mental illness. My dad would stop and talk to Jim on the street corner, take him out for a meal, and bring him to our house to work on our car (JIm had some mechanical skills) and have a meal with us. Jim was typically very dirty and often hallucinating or delusional which sometimes scared me. But my dad treated him with respect and dignity. Two moments I will never forget...Jim walked into our house unannounced one evening and was obviously very upset. My dad approached him and Jim wrapped him up in a bear hug. Without flinching or hesitating my dad hugged him back and Jim began to sob. I could smell Jim from at least 8 feet away, but my dad held on and held him in his arms for what seemed like forever. Another time Jim came to church with us (although Jim hated church, but he went because he liked my dad). He was covered in scabs and some open sores and when he got out of our car he took a can of Lysol spray and doused himself like one would with bug spray. We walked into church and my dad walked to a pew in the center of the church. People literally got up and moved out of the pew because of the smell, but my dad acted as if everything was totally normal. At the time I was a bit embarrassed because a lot of folks were staring at us and quite frankly I hated the smell of Lysol spray. But looking back, I am so grateful for my dad's humanity and compassion. He treated Jim with such care and dignity and I admire him and strive to be like him.”
Sometimes the cat chooses you.