Dad is very formal with his cat, Kristen. She’s a senior citizen, like him, and she knows she has to remind him to feed her. In the morning she meows and scratches at his bedroom door, and in the evening she rubs against his legs. She was doing it the other day and he said, “I’ll be with you in a moment, Cat.” A few years ago, he made a sign on a piece of cardboard and posted it on his bedroom door, at cat eye level, about 8” off the floor. In big, black letters it read “Cats: No Entry.” The cat ignored it.
Today, on the phone with Kate S., Dad accidentally referred to me as her “kid”. When she corrected him with “best friend”, he said "my English is getting sort of shoddy, you know. I can’t think of the right words. I don’t know what it’s going to be like in one or two years. Maybe I won’t be able to talk at all.”
Watching me type this, he says “Speed. Jesus Christ. Holy mother of shit. I’ve never seen anyone type so fast.” “Are you writing a letter?” “No, a blog.” “What block?” “No, dad, a blog, it’s kind of like a journal, but it’s on the internet and people can read it.” “What would you have them read?” “It’s about you, Dad.” “I’m worried.” “Why are you worried?” “You must be writing bad things about me.” “No, Dad, listen to this,” and I read him the first paragraph of this entry. He laughed.
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