By Sam Baars
One of the best things about my cat is that he can’t read a newspaper.
Nearly half a million people have contracted COVID-19, and the body count of this global health crisis continues to climb. The planet is warming at an alarming rate. And a certain white supremacist ex-president staged a literal attempted coup at the symbolic center of American democracy. But Morris doesn’t know about any of it.
When I’m stuck at home curled up in the fetal position beside a phone that’s flooded with New York Times push notifications, he crawls onto the fattest part of me he can find and we share a special moment: I look at him like all 15.7 pounds of my orange, anxiety-reducing cat blanket are God’s greatest gift to earth—and he thinks curling up on me is slightly more comfortable than the floor.
Plenty of times in this year of social unrest, it’s felt bad to be of the same species as the people still making the world so unjust and ugly. But there were some days when I got to press pause, and feel with Morris the simple thrill of rediscovering the dust-covered Satan’s Pony cap he’d batted under the fridge. His innocence keeps me grounded, and even if just for a moment, life feels really good. We’re living in a kitty world where bottle caps are king, fluffy tummies are celebrated, and civilization isn’t falling down around our ears.
I cherish the days we’ve spent trapped inside together while hiding out from the coronavirus, but we go outside, too.
Fifty-eight percent of respondents to a recent study conducted on behalf of the Recreational Boating & Fishing Foundation said they didn’t appreciate nature as much as they should have before the COVID-19 crisis, and 32 percent said they’re participating in more outdoor activities than ever.
Morris isn’t one of them.
Though he may look like a meager house cat, he’s a longtime outdoor enthusiast and my go-to guy when it’s time for some fresh air. The way he shrieks by the front door when he wants to get out is almost endearing. The way he slinks like a caterpillar down the sidewalk definitely is. And the heads a leashed cat and his disheveled mother can turn in town are the cherry on top.
When I took this handful of fur home from the shelter eight years ago, I’ll admit I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. But I’ve learned a lot from the tabby cat who’s worried only about where his next quarter cup of Science Diet is coming from.
Now I know the weight of the world isn’t only mine to carry, and while ignorance is a privilege it truly can be bliss, too. Sometimes a quick bite and a short walk are a cure-all. And one can never be too finicky.