This is a joke. The author is responsible for the opinions expressed in the text.
Every day shortly after lunch the photo comes via text message. The motif is always the same. One picture is similar to the other, a little close, blurry. Very black shiny fur and a pair of sparkling yellow eyes.
The cat often sits huddled on my husband. Then his eyes light up with satisfaction. Sometimes he wanders restlessly between his husband and the computer to get attention. Sometimes he stands with his front feet on the windowsill and monitors the garbage collection.
It’s morning in America, as Ronald Reagan said in a presidential campaign. The family in the USA is waking up. But the teenagers no longer want to be in the picture and, by the way, are never particularly early risers.
So it will be the cat. Cat picture after cat picture after cat picture in the chat between me and my husband.
It’s no news to my family that a beloved pet fills the void. Agnes ruled my parents’ house in the time between children and grandchildren. My father can still vividly describe the moment of her death after several months of illness. “Tosca” on the record player. Signore, I can’t say what? Lord, why do you reward me like this?
It’s been almost twenty-five years. I remember a photo of the cat in the coffin, a wooden box for good wine.
Otherwise there were no pictures of cats back then.
Now I’m reading DN’s Olympic coverage about the American snowboarder Alessandro Barbieri, a debutant. He notes that the nerves can come before the start, but he has a special routine to calm the nerves. At every competition he asks his mother to send him a picture of his cat. He sees the pet and feels the peace.
Then I understand why so many of my messages from my husband are black and yellow.
So many days are a struggle. So much is difficult to manage when we are on different sides of the Atlantic. Then you have to resort to cat medicine.
So my husband tries to drug me.
He’s right about that.
The cat is like a marriage. Sometimes we lie huddled together. Sometimes we stand there at full speed and wait for the garbage truck.
Read more body series, like “Kalena,” about the feeling of having the Oscar jury on your heels wherever you go.
