My cat, my formerly sweet tempered and intelligent black cat has morphed of late into a harpy. Whereas she was deferential and equable before, she’s now a shrew-bully who’s got it out for any four-leg within sight distance. She picks fights, both those she can and those she can never hope to win with the heedlessness of a teenage kitten, and while she’ll be sixteen in July, I had expected her to behave closer to a feline in dotage than to a homosapein sapien (yes, I mean to say sapein twice) in adolescence.
It says a lot about a creature when they change who they are so late in the game.
I’m angling for the same type of change.
I’ve been the type of person who has given herself lots of room to shirk off big goals. Instead I’ve focused on the smaller stuff, trying to get along, be appropriate and pleasant. But it hasn’t gotten my anywhere except older. And most people who think they know me consider me a very “nice and considerate” person without any major heartaches. Hmph!
Inside I’m awash in Klingon-style outrage that exists beyond the cantankerousness, treading very close to recklessness, just like my newly bad-ass cat. And just like her, I’m having a hard time concealing it anymore…discontent keeps punching its way through.
By a stroke of fate though, I’m not a cat and have more leeway in creating my own reality (nor do I have to poop in a public sandbox or wait on someone else to put the kibble on the table). I’ve no excuse to let my concealed resentment erupt onto everyone else’s landscape. Admittedly kitties are smart and have the right to be spiteful when they want to be but I’ve been given many TOOLS to be smarter about going after what I want.
So meow. Do the right thing, kiddo. Writing is a duty.
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