Thunder and the Cat

The cat sleeps outside, in his little home next to the wall, all snug. He's one of those ginger toms, but one who loves human company. And when at night, if there is thunder, he will meow plaintively. He wants a human presence.

I've found that just walking downstairs within six feet of his home is sufficient human presence to quell the meowing. It will keep him calm for at least 30 minutes, maybe an hour. He will hide in his house, and burrow into his catness.

I remember being young and missing human company. It was a lot cooler to pretend to a sort of Gothic aesthetic in which high and lonely was normal, and a jaded affect was a typical response. But sometimes, when the thunder cannonaded off the high places and the abyss opened up, it was nice to know somebody was around.

The right thing for a religious person is to seek comfort in one's religious basis, like a cat in its home. But I've found that most faiths also stress the lateral relationship between a person and his friends and relatives. It is the horizontal net that catches a person more securely and more reassuringly. The vertical rope is the safety of the bungee jumper, and it is a terrifying ride.

The only reason you are reading this is that the cat is meowing again. There is thunder, and the promise of a cold night's rain. I walk downstairs. The cat closes his eyes. He is reassured, and there is peace.

Out in the world, there comes a storm. People are nervous. They meow, or like the pigs, our closest intellectual cousins, they squeal. Imagine: God walks downstairs. The wise human is reassured, and there is peace.