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Home: The Toast

“His name is Duke, and he is a good cat.” Bubbles, you know some piles about kitties.

“I’m kind of the guy who looks out for all the kitties in the park. Otherwise there’d be nobody to take care of ’em. This cocksucker here, I found him in a storm drain. Fur all messed up, fuckin’ names spray-painted on ‘im, and bird ox all fuckin’ stuck to him. But I cleaned him all up. Look at ‘im. That’s one fuckin’ nice kitty right there.”

If you are having a particularly difficult Monday, and finding it painful to imagine making it through the end of this week, with the prospect of yet another week to come after that, allow this to wash over you. Perhaps there is something dim, distant, profane, tender looking out for you – it cannot be everywhere at once, and it cannot stop your fur from being spray-painted, but it is looking out for you, no matter where you may be in the park, and if you are stuck in a storm drain, this dim-and-distant caretaker will climb into it and coax you out with a bit of canned salmon and scrub you clean, and dry you with a small dish towel, and declare you “one fuckin’ nice kitty right there.” And perhaps that will be enough. One fuckin’ nice kitty right there, is what you are. Not just nice, but fuckin’ nice. Not just there, but right there, with all the other kitties in the park.

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