Blue the Destroyer. Maybe. Her personality and gender identity aren’t clear just yet. Gotta vagina, though.
Hello readers!
When last I’d left you, things weren't looking good for the kitties of the Lamb residence. They all died, in fact. For the first time in forty years, I found myself without feline accompaniment. Mathematically, the house was more empty than it should have been. And yet, so it was. Not a great outcome.
The silence of the place screams. Deafening, depressive silence laying down heavy. The only one breaking things is me and on accident at that. My heart rate never passes eighty beats per minute, I never have to yell at anyone to get off the counters. Piss puddles about the house cannot be blamed on anyone else anymore. I don't sleep well without the lullaby of shattered glass at 3 AM.
The situation was entirely intolerable. I refuse to scream and sing while experiencing it. So, today Megan and I picked up a little lady by the name of Blueberry. Like nominalism itself, the name Blueberry is provisional. Hah! I got philosophy jokes again. I love kitties.
Blue exploring and refusing to cooperate with the camera.
She’s a Sphinx, of course. Megan is both in love with and allergic to cats, so they gotta be hypoallergenic. I don't mind a few allergen factories in the house, personally. I don't have any otherwise. I’m only allergic to bullshit that isn't my own. Probably cyanide.
“Cat ownership” is a bit of a misnomer. No one owns a cat like they own a dog. Humans didn't domesticate the cat, they just moved in one day around ten thousand years ago and never left. So, really, as my Editor notes, the traditional view of cat ownership is inverted. The cat owns you like extremists own our political parties. It’s an arrangement no one consciously arranged but everyone can see.
Speaking of conscious arrangements, the Soviets ran into a bit of trouble with cats, once upon a time. Nature itself appears to rise up against communists whenever they show up, but that isn't important here. The point is the citizenry benefiting from communism was so hungry and impoverished they started eating cats. They were there and they tasted better than your ratfink, informer neighbors’ kids did.
Something to understand about communists is they never, ever make small mistakes. Only gigantic, catastrophic mistakes. The political and social system they crafted didn't allow for experiments on a small scale, such as one sees in the various states here. Their plans starved the people, the people ate the cats, and then the rats moved in. Not only did they move in, but considering they were Stalinists too, they started attacking every human being in sight. Russia knows how to make them. This story is true, by the way.
Rats attacking Muscovites in the open street is something their apparatchiks weren't willing to tolerate. For once, they got it right.
So when the strong, liberated Russian people slouched forth to the bread line, they were met with a loaf in one hand and a cat in the other. They were told, in no uncertain terms, not to eat their bloody cat. Don't do it, they'll eat the rats if you don't. Unfortunately, for some, that meant more competition for food. Communism, remember.
My Editor showing how one deals with Soviets
Not perfect. But at least they didn't set anything on fire and let it burn for sixty years. Because yeah, they did that, too.
With the reintroduction of felines - alongside a solid exhortation forbidding their being eaten - the rats retreated. They still attack you occasionally, but so rarely now it becomes news, rather than any given Sunday. Even communists recognize the benefit of humans having been domesticated. Even if they do get the “cat ownership” thing backwards.
I don't need her to kill rats but I do appreciate that offer is always on the table. I need only her presence. All this is to say the cat photos will begin flying fast, fresh, and faced. It is also to say we won't be eating this one.
You know, unless she’s asking for it.