I realized this morning, riding in carpool on the way to work, that I must limit my exposure to the stories of Flannery O'Connor. It's easy to forget how dark her stories can be, how twisted. They could give a body nightmares. The one I finished this morning, a grandfather and granddaughter beating the crap out of each other, with disasterous results, is a prime example.
Then I started to think about my cat, Flannery, the one who died last year, and how her eventual death (suggested by vetrenarians and agreed to by me for humane reasons) would have been a fitting subplot to one of her namesake's stories. A cat who loves to eat is stricken with cancer of the jaw, but still maintains the same strong desire, the same lust for food, even moments before her end? How dark and twisted is that?
But I'm far enough beyond that terrible day to remember that sweet, demanding, big-eyed cat as a friend and companion, an early a.m. complainer, a face-tapper, and a mooch, with fond, misty gratitude.
Thank you to both Flannerys, wherever you are.