Chaos & Catastrophe

“On that day that now seems so long ago, I watched as Republicans and Democrats rose to sing Carter’s praises (among them the sons of former president Gerald Ford and former VP Walter Mondale). And even though it was all for show, it appeared that the five living presidents were adhering to some form of decorum and mutual respect. Of course, I wasn’t really fooled by the latter, and I feared it might be the last time the two parties would at least feign civility. Would we ever see that again?”—Kathryn E. Livingston

Words & Wonder

By Kathryn E. Livingston

“Authors like cats because they are such quiet, lovable, wise creatures, and cats like authors for the same reasons.”—Robertson Davies, from “mehitabel.”

BOGOTA New Jersey—(Hubris)—May 2025—Back on January 9, I was watching President Jimmy Carter’s funeral on my laptop when my husband entered the room. He stopped short, peered at my screen, and gasped, “Are you crying over Jimmy Carter?” 

“No,” I sobbed. “He was a wonderful man and he led a long life. I’m not crying over him.”

Mitch seemed baffled, for I’m not one to cry over TV funerals (corny commercials are another matter).

“It just seems like our country is in that casket there!” I wailed.

And so, perhaps, it was.

On that day that now seems so long ago, I watched as Republicans and Democrats rose to sing Carter’s praises (among them the sons of former president Gerald Ford and former VP Walter Mondale). And even though it was all for show, it appeared that the five living presidents were adhering to some form of decorum and mutual respect. Of course, I wasn’t really fooled by the latter, and I feared it might be the last time the two parties would at least feign civility. Would we ever see that again?

I felt as though our country was in that casket, and I wasn’t far from wrong. In the days that followed a barrage of horrors ensued. Heartless deportations, feuding with our neighboring countries, the obliteration of diversity, equality, and inclusion (as if these were bad things), the rude and tragic treatment of Zelenskyy and Ukraine, the crashing stock market, the destruction of entities such as the Department of Education, NOAA, and USAID, etc., the threats to social security and health care, the trashing of the National Parks and the EPA, the absurd Gulf of America, the demise of . . . well, need I go on?

Instead, I’m going to switch gears, because several months ago just as I was about to plummet even more deeply into despair, rage, and a bottle of gin (I never drink hard liquor), one of my sons dropped off his cat, Jennifer, for me to babysit—for five months or more. (He and his wife are undergoing major construction in their house in another state.)

I haven’t had a cat in more than 20 years (the last was my mom’s after she died, but just for a year before the zaftig Jill, too, met her maker). Before that, when we first married, we had the creatively named “Kitty” (inherited from Mitch’s former gf). And my tiger cat “Happy,” when I was a child. I loved all these cats, but I will credit none with saving my sanity. Until Jennifer, that is.

I personally know a handful of people who have lost—or will lose—their jobs due to the maniacal slashing of needed services. Thus, the insult to our system of government feels personal as well as national, and (due to our newly minted un-neighborliness toward Canada) international. Like many in a similar state of shock, my sadness and anger reflect my concern for all who have been erroneously or purposely fired and for the folks bound to suffer as a result. 

But as each day dawned, once Jenny arrived—before I could plunge into my now-habitual state of despondency—a delicate “mew” would be heard in the hallway. I would lurch from our bed and traipse downstairs where Jennifer would be waiting to be petted and fed. Because she has a habit of rolling from side to side (somewhat like a puppy), I’d soon be in stitches. I now begin each day laughing—a miracle of sorts.

As the weeks have gone by and I’ve been increasingly prone to despair, this cat has kept me grounded. She needs her litter changed, her long hair brushed, special foods acquired (of course, she is picky), my plants all needed to be hidden away (some are toxic to cats and the spider plant—which is not—is nevertheless a worrisome source of fascination and snacking). I have redecorated with comfy blankets upon which our princess can rest, feeling safe and secure in her new temporary home. And of course, we need to play with her various toys throughout the day because that’s what her “parents” have advised.

She sleeps nearby when I’m reading on the couch, and creeps over our tables and kitchen counters. (I clapped my hands at her in the beginning but then gave up, opting to change tablecloths frequently or clean more.) It was upsetting when she pranced over my laptop keys and deleted a few words, but perhaps she was just editing. I wasn’t even tempted to yell.

She’s calmed me down, because I tend to rant at the news. I often now whisper to my husband, “No loud voices in front of Jenny!” It’s much like caring for a baby. I’ve had my share of those—three—a tremendous amount of work and responsibility. A cat is certainly more manageable, but in some ways the attributes of a pet are similar. Jenny has no interest in who is President. She doesn’t know red or blue. Like a baby, she just wants to be loved and fed. And of course, admired, but ahem, not in a narcissistic or sociopathic way. 

We have a lot in common, since we both like to nap (she doesn’t read but she’s content to watch as I do). She likes sunlight (as do I) and hiding under the bed (I haven’t tried this—yet). She also observes the birds out the windows (as do I) and cowers when an airplane flies too low overhead (likewise). I’m not saying all cats are perfect, no, indeed. I once fed my friend’s cat while she was on vacation. I had to enter the kitchen with a broom as a weapon as the immense and ferocious Toby would go after my ankles with claws and teeth, even though I was the source of his sustenance. That cat scared the crap out of me. Some cats crawl up curtains, scratch antique chairs, or bite at wires. Jenny does none of that. 

In her book, Beyond Anxiety (perfect reading for now) sociologist Martha Beck talks about “glimmers,” (she gives a nod to Deb Dana, LCSW, author of Glimmers Journal, a book I have not read). Glimmers are things in one’s day that create a sense of well-being, such as a sunset, a cup of tea or, presumably, a cat (though not a Toby). Consciously disconnecting from anxiety-producing thoughts (like ruminating on what the hell will be axed next) can help us out of the downward fear and anxiety spiral. 

Jenny is a glimmer for sure.

I’m not saying having a cat (or a dog for that matter) will solve the crisis we are in or bring democracy back from the dead. And of course, a pet is not an excuse for hiding one’s head in the sand or failing to show up at a protest. But it’s helping me navigate a very tough time. 

When Jenny finally goes home, I may have to, gulp, get my own feline. Though I love my freedom,  there’s something about a living, breathing, purring reminder to laugh and love. A grandchild would also do the trick, but that’s another story.

More: To read more of Kathryn E. Livingston’s work, write to her at livwrite@yahoo.com, or order her books: click here,  and here. (Yin, Yang, Yogini: A Woman’s Quest for Balance, Strength, and Inner Peace is available at Amazon.com or through your favorite bookseller!)