Inception Story

It is no longer true that there is safety in numbers.  The corona virus is the quiet guest, the uninvited tag-along in groups of fifty, or ten, five or two.   Really, anything over one. 

Unless your place of business provides an essential service like selling groceries, medical care, or deliveries, you’re at home, or probably should be.  Of course, governors are starting to lift restrictions, but it’s still not clear how many consumers or business owners will be sprinting out of their gates.    

I hear again and again, from journalists and wannabe’s, that the virus is not political.  And yet, it smacks of politics.  I’ve been listening to a few political podcasts.  Red podcasts and blue.  It can feel like listening to a sporting event with divisions from the field to the fans.  Infections up, PPE’s down.  The virus doesn’t care.  It moves through the crowd while the game plays on.

I share my isolation with a cat.  Toby.  In the time that I have been working from home, both of us have gained about five pounds.  He naps on the Kitty Condo beside my desk until I am pinged to join a video conference.  It’s good to see the faces of my homebound co-workers.  It’s cute when the homebound kids or the homebound spouse appear in the background.  I consider it might be less cute if the homebound family members were crawling over the co-worker, kneading his or her lap or swatting at the foam-covered mic.

After work, I fire up a podcast and listen until I can listen no more.  I call family and friends to ask how they’re holding up.  They are good.  They are worried.  I give the cat some more treats to help him with pound number six.

My furry shadow stays with me in this difficult time.  He follows me into the bathroom.  He sits on my clean towel while I shower.  He watches my food while I eat.  I find him staring at me from the bedside table if I wake in the night.  Watching over me, watching over my food, whatever it is, Toby takes the loneliest number and raises by it one. 

Lately, he has been spending an inordinate amount of time upstairs in the litter box.  With, I need to add, no results.  No doubt, I assumed, he is picking up on my stress, and now his own worry is manifesting itself in the box.  Ask any cat-owner, what happens in the box, or any business conducted outside the box, is the surest indicator of a cat’s well-being.

So I followed Toby upstairs to see for myself.  

What I discovered was a troubled cat leaning over the side of his box, tracing his paw thoughtfully in the litter.  It’s not clear to me what he was trying to say, but he seemed to feel better having said it in the box. 

And so it occurred to me, that writing might be a good way to get out of my system all the pent-up feelings and thoughts about the new life under lockdown.  It seems cathartic for the cat.  If it doesn’t do the same for me, I can just scoop and delete.

Writing through it.