Category Archives: cat


Even Picasso must’ve come up empty sometimes. And I’m no Picasso.

I’m starting to run out of ideas. For postcards, that is. Somewhere along the line Myra-Jean persuaded me that three was not enough to assuage her grief at my newfound part-time employment. I should be leaving her four. Four postcards, three days a week. I’ve been working for about a month and a half now. You do the math.

No? I’ll do it for you.

Seventy-two. That’s how many postcards I’ve made so far. Seventy-two original drawings. I’m running out of subject matter!

I’ve drawn cats, dogs, owls, camels, elephants, sheep, snails, and flowers. I’ve gone exotic, drawing sloths, okapis, and octupi. I’ve crayoned pastoral scenes, gardens, planets, and the sun. I’ve made up creatures. I’ve drawn MJ herself. And still, three nights a week, I have to come up with more.

The results are getting increasingly random.

Last night, for example, I started with food:


Then moved on to a landscape. Which is not my strong suit. The result looked perfunctory.


Next there was my old standby: a dog. But I put a flower in front of him, to change it up a bit.


Because, you know, dogs and flowers are a logical pairing. Kind of like white wine and fish.

Finally, I sketched a dinosaur. Not a very good one, I might add. It looked more like a seal with legs. Plus, I forgot the tail until the last minute, then squeezed it in on the right. To deflect from this obvious error I put a cat on its back. Walter. Why not? At least up there he’ll be safe from Mina.


I tried to make the accompanying text expand on of the image.


It didn’t really work, but that’s another conversation.

The point is, I don’t know how I’m going to keep this up. And I have to. The postcards are the only thing keeping MJ from having a nervous breakdown on the days I work. But I’m getting a nervous breakdown making them! I need ideas. I’m not an artist. I was a philosophy major, for God’s sake.

Perhaps each card should feature a fragment of Socratic dialogue.

Or maybe I should move on to collage.

Walter Works

Just think about it. If Walter White had had access to Obamacare, the whole “Breaking Bad” thing could have been avoided.

Not that I would have wanted that–his loss was certainly our gain. But, having watched the last episode of the final season on the day open enrollment began, I couldn’t help but ponder the irony. From what I hear, his coverage would have been quite reasonable under the new plan.

The other Walter in my life–our new cat–feels much the same way. He lay next to me for the whole episode, totally engrossed, and told me afterwards that, in his opinion, none of that bloodshed was either seemly or necessary. Decent medical care from the outset, along with good nutrition and proper rest, could have handled the problem.

“So much killing, for why?” he added.

Such pacifism makes no sense coming from him. He’s been fighting my asshole dog all week. Tooth and nail–and that’s not a figure of speech. Mina makes nothing easy, much less the arrival of a new adolescent cat in the home. She’s been on Walter like white on rice, causing cortisol levels in the house to shoot up to record highs. For the first few days I was sure she’d try to kill him. At which point I would reciprocate.

I needn’t have worried.

For Walter has fought back valiantly. Oh, sure, he’s small. But he’s tough, too. Mina has so many scratches on her nose that I’ve taken to calling her Scarface. Try explaining that reference to your three-year-old.

Anyway. It’s getting better. She’s still stalking, but from a few feet away now.

As for Walter, he mostly lays around. I guess that’s what cats do. I expected more fireworks, more backflips, more nuttiness. But he’s six months old. Perhaps by that age cats have gravitas. This one does. Either that or he’s sick. Cancer. Shit. Maybe that adoption place knew they were passing off a dud. And his accompanying medical bills. Assholes. How the fuck will we pay? I lose sleep.

But he doesn’t.

Neither does MJ. She’s thrilled. When Walter’s not draped like a fur throw over the sofa it’s because he’s being carried by her, usually in an incalculably uncomfortable position. She totes him everywhere, calling him “Ah-WOLL-y.” She pushes him in her rocking chair. She covers him in cheap jewelry. She fold his ears backwards.

She tried to sleep with him, but he bit her. No matter. She is smitten. It is worth it for that.

It is worth it for someone to watch the last episode of Breaking Bad with. It is worth the bloodshed. It is worth the expense.

As long as nobody dies. Or gets cancer.

Because there ain’t no Obamacare for pets.