Every time Obama invoked grace during his landmark eulogy at Reverend Pinckney’s memorial, my permakitty bounded into the room and stationed herself in front of the television, as puffed up as could be. “I AM Grace and I serve at the pleasure of the President!” What a day. Between the Supreme Court’s marriage-rights decision and Obama’s pure and powerful testimony, our hearts were bursting with pride to be Americans, even as we mourned the lost souls of Charleston. So much is still a mess but our President said it best: “Today we have made our union a little more perfect.” I am very grateful, and so, apparently, is Grace.
I often wonder what takes place in my apartment when I’m not there. Today I came home to discover every rug crumpled, a pile of cat toys lined up on the welcome mat, candles on the bedspread, and baby kitty Grace herself sprawled, limbs akimbo, in the bathtub. Is Little Miss hitting the catnip too hard? Has she scored a dealer of her own? Do her pals enter via the fire escape and hold under-age, inter-species parties? Has she, G-d forbid, fallen in with the wrong crowd? Inquiring cat ladies want to know.
Sunrise coffee on my fire escape: the gentlest of breezes ruffling my feathers, the rosiest of light pinking up my plans. Even timid Grace steals by my side to inspect the splendor and mischief outside our window. I’m smiling, still living inside this sculpture I saw on Monday at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Such a sweet embrace.
Every time Obama invoked grace during his landmark eulogy at Reverend Pinckney’s memorial, my permakitty bounded into the room and stationed herself in front of the television, as puffed up as could be. “I AM Grace and I serve at the pleasure of the President!” What a day. Between the Supreme Court’s marriage-rights decision and Obama’s pure and powerful testimony, our hearts were bursting with pride to be Americans, even as we mourned the lost souls of Charleston. So much is still a mess but our President said it best: “Today we have made our union a little more perfect.” I am very grateful, and so, apparently, is Grace.
I often wonder what takes place in my apartment when I’m not there. Today I came home to discover every rug crumpled, a pile of cat toys lined up on the welcome mat, candles on the bedspread, and baby kitty Grace herself sprawled, limbs akimbo, in the bathtub. Is Little Miss hitting the catnip too hard? Has she scored a dealer of her own? Do her pals enter via the fire escape and hold under-age, inter-species parties? Has she, G-d forbid, fallen in with the wrong crowd? Inquiring cat ladies want to know.
Sunrise coffee on my fire escape: the gentlest of breezes ruffling my feathers, the rosiest of light pinking up my plans. Even timid Grace steals by my side to inspect the splendor and mischief outside our window. I’m smiling, still living inside this sculpture I saw on Monday at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Such a sweet embrace.