May 5, 2025Why I Petted the Cat
Because I was tired and cranky and it was too late
to take a bus to Siena and ask Saint Catherine’s
mummified thumb to cure me of insomnia,
neuropathy, and other afflictions petty
and daily. Because Florence was threatening
to rain all over us, especially me. Did I
mention I was starving and that my wife
wanted to visit The David a second time?
Because this cat craved attention and because
my impatient American paws had to do something.
Because petting, according to some, is therapeutic
for all. Not a Persian or Maltese, this charmer,
nor a fancy ebony number, just a motley calico.
That’s a point in my favor, isn’t it? Me trying
to love all mammals equally. Because my species
once grew fur everywhere. When petting,
begin with the ugly cat head, face and ears
and neck, then under the greedy cat chin.
Sure, I worried about distemper and Lyme
disease and feline herpes and ticks but not enough
to stop. Because I considered myself a back-alley
healer, an amateur shaman (not that I bragged
it up on a crowded bus or at wedding receptions).
Because I liked tracing the backbone, transferring
lightning from human hand to feline spine.
Because I liked tabling my inner debate about
who would win in a painterly bar fight,
DaVinci or Michelangelo, and ignoring how
to bribe God into liking me again. Because I
could tell from the cat’s beseeching eyes
she was alone in Italy, like me, and spoke almost
no Italian. Because her purring was exquisite,
her swishing tail unregulated by Pope or police
or cloud. Because chaos was everywhere,
because I like the electric glow of a small success.
from #87 – Spring 2025