I have a cat. I have never wanted to have a cat, but I do have one. He is a living consolation prize; a reminder of a time when my wife and I wanted a dog and lived in a dog-free zone. But here’s the funny part: the cat is soul-bonded to me. Imprinted. I’m his chosen one. Whatever you want to call it, the cat decided on day one that I was to be his everything, and that all other organisms may as well fall in a hole. I didn’t sign up for this. He is gross, and weird, and obnoxious. But by golly, he is mine. We are inexorably linked, and I’m no longer sure where my pity ends and true affection begins. I do love him, as repulsive as he may be. He has delusions of grandeur, but he is kind of good looking and soft to the touch (claws and teeth aside).
Why am I telling you about my dumb cat? The cat that I often call dumb in order to shield myself from truly opening up my heart? I dunno, but it kind of sounds like a connection I have to a certain baseball team. While the Mariners perhaps didn’t do it consciously, they have perma-linked to me as well. I am their person. Many of you are their person, too. For better or worse, mostly worse, we are stuck. But sometimes that gross little baseball cat can surprise you.
Oh, one more thing about my cat — he stress barfs. And guess what? He feels stressed a lot. A. Lot. The Mariners just stress-barfed their way to a 2-7 road trip. It’s fine, I’ll clean it up. Nothing I haven’t done before. Hopefully the comforts of home can settle their tummy.