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