A Post-Election Cat Story

From left to right: Bob and Bubble

It’s been a tough week for half the country. I think it’s time for a cat story.

Recently our two cats, Bubble and Mama, spent two and a half weeks on their own while Bob and I were in England for a Story Summit writer’s retreat. The cats received excellent care from two young women—twins who are seniors in high school—who came to our house to change the litter and food every other day while we were gone.

They sent us photos of Mama and Bubble soaking up their “smoochfests,” as they called them. I tried to get into the feline mind, imagining how it felt to spend all that time alone in the house. Did the cats get bored?

Mama Cat is used to spending a lot of time outdoors. Did she sit on the back of the sofa in the living room, watching the squirrels she couldn’t chase and the birds she couldn’t catch?

And Bubble. He alternates between being one tough cookie and snuggling in my arms like a baby. What did he do all those nights alone?

Meanwhile, our time in England was filled with story and magic. Glastonbury, where we held the retreat, is a center of pagan and Christian and King Arthur lore, all intersecting in the Tor, a hill rising up out of the earth that was known as Avalon, surrounded by morning mists that look like inland seas.

As part of a special program for the women in the group, we met daily for meditations, journaling, and discussions, and we ventured to sacred sites and the Roman Baths and museums dedicated to Jane Austen and Mary Shelley. Every night we gathered to share readings of these talented women’s work—writing so rich and deep it seemed planted in the very roots of Avalon.

Every day I thought of the cats, sent prayers that they would know we’d be home soon, and enjoyed the emails that the twins sent with the photos of their visits.

After the retreat, Bob and I spent three days with good friends who live north of London, doing a little bit of nothing—eating fish and chips, teaching them to play cribbage, and marveling at their three-year-old grandson’s ability to count by twos and twenties.

Yet in the last few days before we headed home, I fell into one of the most sullen moods I’ve been in for a long time. I know it was fueled by many things, including traveling to four writing and spirituality retreats in the last ten weeks. I’ve been on the road a lot with little space of my own, which always challenges my introverted self.

Several friends and family members have serious health issues, too, which is often on my mind.

But I think most of all, I was feeling the energy of those last days before the election. The collective anxiety and uncertainty. The roller coasters of emotions from polls and predictions. Bob and I are on opposite ends of the political spectrum, which is always a tricky dance, but means we get to love each other anyway.

By the time we left London, all I wanted was to get home to the cats. To sit in our family room with Bubble on my lap and watch football. To look out at our own back yard, open our own refrigerator, have a bowl of my favorite cereal.

The more sullen I became, the harder things were. Our flight through Charlotte was changed to a Chicago connection, something we try to avoid. Then the flight was delayed by 12 hours, meaning one more night before we could be home in our own bed.

The airline put us up in a questionable hotel, and that’s where we spent election evening, eating instant macaroni and cheese because we were too tired to look for a restaurant.

We crawled into bed after seeing where the election was headed. I woke up several times in the night and checked the vote tally. I couldn’t go back to sleep. The night dragged on forever.  

I thought about the cats. They were waiting for us at home, and we were so close. Just one more short flight from Chicago to Des Moines, then a 30-minute drive to our house.

The next morning, the shuttle driver to the airport greeted us with a happy “How are you?”, and the airport security agent apologized for his passport camera being slow. Starbucks had plenty of coffee and cake pops. No one seemed visibly panicked. Every stop along the way challenged my mood. Despite the election results, the world seemed not to have tilted on its axis.

And so we made it home. Home to the cats. We walked in the house, and there they were, seemingly unchanged. Mama Cat acted aloof as ever and shot out the door as soon as we opened it for her, ready for a good hunt. Bubble attached himself to me, rubbing my shoulder with his face and kneading me incessantly with his paws.

That evening, I sat in the family room with Bubble on my lap for a little while before jet lag had its way with me. Bubble curled up next to me, spooning my knees, and sighed.

I woke up the next morning to a day filled with Zoom calls and a class with my A Course in Miracles group. We talked about the election. People were finding their equilibrium and drawing on their inner power. And later in the day, my writing group agreed to use their feelings about the election as fuel for their stories.

My mood started to improve a bit with the help of quiet time in front of the computer, laundry—weird, I know, but it’s a meditation for me—and lots of sleep. 

Day by day, the fog is lifting.

I know that stories are supposed to have more highs and lows than this, more obstacles and resolutions. Stories hinge on something big happening. But the point of this story is that, on a personal level, nothing really did. No enormous ah-has, no high drama or crisis.

You could make a good argument that there’s been plenty of drama this week. The world has changed in the past few days, for sure. In fact, I believe it’s the end of the world as we know it.

But then, that’s true every day.

Not to minimize anyone’s feelings about the election, but constant changes, even upheaval, always give us a choice to shrink or grow.

Believe me, I’ve had other feelings about it. I know how real the fear can seem. But Bubble has been sitting with me a lot, kneading those stubborn knots of sullenness out of my joints. Sometimes he runs through the house like a buffalo, changing direction when you least expect it. Sometimes he just sits and stares, like he can’t believe we came home.

And Mama. Well, she’s only managed to sneak one small animal into the house since we’ve been back. The older she gets, the more adept she becomes.   

I’m grateful for England, for writing, for writers, for inland seas, for friends and grandkids and flights that eventually bring us home.

I’m grateful for cats who need and knead us. Something as small as changing a bowl of water or rubbing some velvet ears keeps me connected to something much greater, no matter what’s going on in the world.

I think it’s time to grow.

“Take a deep breath,” I remind myself with a purring cat in my lap. “It’s going to be okay.”

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