meow, man

So I’m a pretty angry guy, if you haven’t noticed. I got some issues. This country. This callousness. These cruel things.

When I was younger, I had such a chip on my shoulder that I made at least one tall friend who shall Rayle-main nameless think I was gonna drag him into a brawl with some idiots in a fast little redneck car, who thought they were the Duke Boys, cuz they did some damn-fool thing to set me off. Hold my sweater … !

Anger. It’s a thing.

But then, I come home, these days, in my many churning fumes and furies, prattling on at my lovely spouse — of this injustice and that, of the King Fool Orange Loon, the racist and bigot baboons, the climate-change deniers ignoring the rising tides of our horrorstruck moon — with her trying to humor all my Tasmanian devil-ing about. Soon enough, I inevitably wander off to go check on my Old Blind Boy Kitty, and then he and I talk, though mostly just me, still rattling on, my head down near his head. And the purring starts almost at my voice, a deep rumble of calm. And then, at some point, he will often extend a paw, to find my face. And? Well.

Meow, man.

Anger? To hell with it. Old Blind Boy Kitty always wins.

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