Donald Trump Lives in My Basement

Grandpa, hiding under the basement bed, angry and aggrieved, as always.

First, he is apparently a she. It is hard to tell because cats’ genitalia, like some presidents’, can be tiny and indeterminate, resembling various minuscule species of fungi. But female cats have smaller heads than males, and this one is something of a pinhead.

As regular readers of this column know, her name is Grandpa. She is a cat Rachel rescued three weeks ago from very likely sweltering death, having been left in the street in 90-degree heat, in a cat carrier.

Grandpa is a boor. A shocking ingrate. She lives, at least for now, in our basement, where she hisses and growls when any human approaches, even to give her food. After obtaining the food, she struts and preens, as though she has accomplished something through her own wiles and guile. She has triumphed. I am a genius, she is saying, the best negotiator in the world! I have mastered the art of the deal!

She is, in short, a complete asshole.

Lexi, a breed of hound dog with astoundingly great senses of smell — second only to bloodhounds — does not acknowledge that Grandpa is down there, only that for some reason we have restricted her access to the basement. Like a MAGA person, she doesn’t know what she doesn’t want want to know, or is refusing to acknowledge what she deep-down knows, about this hissing, incompetent individual with whom she is sharing a domicile.

Everything makes the cat angry. Every time Rachel emerges from the basement, she reports the same thing, deadpan, in the same words and tone, as if it is news item reported by a naive, lapdog media: “Grandpa’s really pissed today.” If Grandpa had opposable thumbs, she would constantly tweet her grievances, and, of course, they would be nearly indecipherable, and misspelled, and she would use Caps Lock. She’s a cat.

Still, she makes her thoughts plain. If you asked Grandpa if poor people should get medical care, she would hiss.

Grandpa reminds me of this wonderful cartoon by Irma Kniivala:

Grandpa sucks, big time. We bought her a cat toy — a dangly, jingling feathery thing on the end of a plastic fishing pole — in the hopes of winning her affection. She doesn’t even do us the favor of fighting it. She ignores it. Because engaging it would give us a modicum of joy and hope.

Rachel uses Planned Parenthood for routine ob/gyn care. She went there yesterday and the nurse asked, as always, reading from a list: “Does anyone make you feel unsafe in your home?” Rachel is always grateful to be asked this and did not want to make a joke about it, but briefly considered a different answer than usual: “Yes, but not from my partner. From Grandpa.”

Yes, Grandpa swipes, usually after a sustained warning growl that sounds like a belt-driven lawnmower that is trying, but failing, to start. Our greatest achievement so far, after three weeks, is that sometimes she doesn’t have her claws out when she does this. She pads us, hard. But she has also drawn blood.

However, my point is that there has been mild progress. She also poops and pees in a gold cat box. She might eventually overcome her fear and anger — and likely, a cruel, cold upbringing that is her burden but not her fault — and eventually become a good individual. I think there is more of a chance of that than with the growling, hissing asshole in the White House.

—

Today’s Gene Pool Gene Poll:

And, finally:

If you decide to become a paid subscriber, I will not mail the cat to you in a cat carrier. No guarantees otherwise.