Editor’s note: Bear With Me typically appears Thursday’s but the Colorado Daily won’t be publishing on Thanksgiving Day, so it’s running a day early. The Daily will return to regular publication on Friday.
I woke up Monday morning after a restless night of sleep. Whatever I dreamed about must not have been that entertaining because I immediately forgot what it was.
During the night, the cat had scaled the refrigerator, torn to shreds a hot pink gift bag, sailed an empty cookie tin over the side and sent 10 Yukon Gold potatoes to their untimely deaths on the dirty kitchen floor.
“Dude, what the hell is your problem?” I asked the cat, whose name currently Chango Ramirez.
“Answer me! I don’t know what you want!”
Ms. Ramirez has been strange for days. She refuses to eat cat food and will only accept the residue of human food, be that a piece of pizza left on the coffee table or the butter in a frying pan on the stove top. She’s nearing 11-years-old and, while she was once fat, she has lost a considerable amount of weight during the last year. I’d be worried she is going into physical decline, but her svelte renaissance has only made her able to scale the kitchen counters to search for items to throw and high ground from which to yowl.
She also demands to be let out, quite frequently. The door must be left ajar, otherwise she will run to a neighbor’s house, cry at the front door and refuse to follow me home. She’s kind of dumb.
Ms. Ramirez has also taken to sleeping on my head and use my face as a springboard to jump into the window well for a sun nap. She often stands on my laptop to write her magnum opus, a long series of commas and the occasional semi-colon. I don’t know how she figured out how to use the Shift key. If she gets a book published before me, I’m going to lose it. I swear to god.
I don’t know what her problem is.
Maybe it’s just me. It did occur to me when I rose from my non-slumber this morning, that some sinister government organization appears to have dropped a Depression Bomb on the apartment. The evidence of its destruction is everywhere.
All four chairs at the kitchen table are lined with jackets, sweatshirts, t-shirts, bandanas and whatever else I peeled off upon returning home and was too tired to properly stow. The floor in front of the television is cluttered with empty DVD boxes. The coffee table is piled high with antacid tables, ashes, pornographic trading cards I picked up at an 1980s nostalgia shop, and a paper Burger King crown.
At 1 p.m., my girlfriend and I scheduled a fight to the death to settle for good and all who gets to use the solitary clothes basket to do a wash and then promptly put the clean clothes back in the basket. It’ll be fine. Neither of us deals with the public all that much. The wrinkles are just a stylistic choice.
You know, I think the cat is just picking up on my crazy.