Orange cat swimming.

Furious orange cat swimming.

No—outraged, indignant, and drenched orange cat propelling his body with determination through flood waters. 

Determination? Resolve. 

This is a cat who intends not only to extricate himself from the sea that has suddenly engulfed his normally dry environment, but a cat who seeks retribution for this indignity and punishment from whoever is in charge.

I don’t believe he’s blaming God or whatever gods cats venerate aside from themselves. I’m sure he’s thinking “stupid humans did this, and as soon as I find one, there will be hell to pay.”

This cat has not found himself suddenly dunked into the relatively pristine waters of a northern Idaho lake. Nor has he suffered an ignominious and sudden plunge into a swimming pool or a toilet bowl by miscalculation. 

That would be horrific enough.

What this cat is experiencing is a sudden and horrifying immersion into an overwhelming volume of fluid containing horrors seen and unseen. Will something pull him under? What’s that “thing” floating by, now? How much longer will this hellish experience continue? Will he be able to find a sufficient piece of dry land where he can lick himself clean and dry off? And, will he die if he attempts to lick off the toxic waste?

This cat is all of us.

Printed newspaper headlines used to “scream.” I’m sure they still do, but they don’t hit most of us with the same impact they once did. Now, we have notifications. They “pop up” incongruously throughout the day on our ubiquitous array of personal devices. Floodwaters of information—all of it distracting, some of it useful, and much of it toxic waste that appears to have been sent from the yawning gates of the abyss.

Keep swimming.

Like the cat, I am searching for a place to get rid of the accumulated debris clinging to parts of me and attracting more and more detritus to drag around. 

This would be a good time to withdraw to a cabin in the woods, go off the grid, and let this country and the rest of the world figure out what happened, how to fix it, and what happens next. I’m sure the cat is with me on this plan. All we need is dry land, a nice warm fire, and a chance to sleep off this nightmare.

Last summer, during our annual pilgrimage to the woods of Northern Idaho, our family fell into the familiar circadian rhythms of waking early, walking the dogs, fixing breakfast and wandering down to the lake for the first plunge of the day—adults nursing early morning mugs of coffee and the kids dragging along sand toys and inflatable water toys in our wake. We hiked, read, talked, played and swam, and let the sunrise and sunset determine the beginning and ending of everyday. 

Although I could paint this as a remote wilderness excursion—it wasn’t. We work at making it a time “off the grid.” If we wanted, we could wander down to the resort lodge and watch television, surf the news via WiFi, or pick up shipments from Amazon. We choose not to participate in that continuation of what we all have waiting for us at home.

We do wander down for the occasional latte, draft beer, or decadent dessert.

We participate in movies on the beach once a week (with candy from the store and popcorn).

Otherwise, we are left to peacefully exist in a bubble that has few technological intrusions. We read. We laugh. We talk. We put puzzles together. We build with legos. We color. We rent a pontoon boat a couple of times and venture as far as the upper lake on an excursion. Occasionally, we encounter lightning, wind, and high waves, and we appreciate the calm after the adventure. And we eat an amazing amount of food.

The bubble of this idyll is only penetrated by the “need” to communicate by cell phone since some of us have to commute back and forth during our two week stay. I say “need” because we send lists of needed supplies to those of us who are commuting between home and our idyllic refuge. After all, we have to replenish the amazing amount of food. As it turns out, my cellular network only functions in this paradise if I stand on the farthest reach of the public dock or take my phone to the middle of the lake in a canoe. This last action isn’t always a practical solution.

Thus, I found myself trying to find the best possible connection last summer, standing on the public dock, cell phone in hand. The only other occupants of the dock were a man and woman who clearly wanted to talk to me. Sigh. 

I was annoyed. And then I realized that my annoyance with them is wrapped up in my usual eyes forward, stuff to do, please-don’t-pull-me-into-your-business-when-I’m-on-a-mission attitude I assume at home. 

Wasn’t I in the woods to shed that everyday demeanor?

So I smiled. I greeted them. I listened. For a very long time. (Apparently, my impatience didn’t slip off with the rest of my everyday skin). I learned where they were from, where they lived now, where their cabin is (up the road), how many children, and how many grandchildren they have. 

And how very happy they are that the grandchildren are gone now from the cabin.

(At this point, I began contemplating the cabin full of four grandchildren and two daughters that I had left behind to place a quick phone call.) 

Gone? I’m no grandparent “saint,” but I know that if my grandchildren and their parents weren’t visiting the cabin with me, my days would soon feel empty and the hours would seem very long. Our rented cabin is boisterous, overfilled with toys, activity, and food, and aside from the hour or two I take to hike with Nellie (the now-exhausted labrador) or to read a book during rest time—I love the mayhem of our woodsy paradise.

My wandering thoughts were pulled back to the couple on the dock when the female member of the duo exclaimed, suddenly: “But I miss my Fox News! I can’t get Fox News at the cabin!”

Dumbstruck. 

Like the orange cat, I began to sense that these were dangerous waters approaching. Nope. Not going there. Stay on dry land.

I tried to keep my face neutral as I backed away, citing the cell phone as my excuse. “Well. Gotta’ make this call! Nice talking to you. Enjoy your time!”

Next time, I’m going out in the canoe.