I apologize for not publishing a review this week.
I can explain.
This week was supposed to be the beginning of a relaxing week visiting my hometown and family, including the surviving pets from my childhood . My plans were to eat good Tex-Mex (rather than the sorry excuse for “Mexican” they serve at Chipotle) and produce a lot of good content for you, preferably surrounded by fuzzy things.
Instead, my trip home began with putting down the cat I, myself, convinced my mom to let me bring home from the shelter ten years ago. While I am glad to report that True-Crime Cat, Sassy, is doing well in the care of my significant other and neighbor, this childhood cat of mine, Max, suddenly and inexplicably developed lung cancer. This was after a year in which my beloved grandmother died, and a summer in which my childhood dog died and another cat ran away after we moved out of the house I grew up in.
A fatal blow, right in the childhood.
Knowing the end was near, the ever-dignified Max was attempting kitty hara-kiri: rather than eventually suffocate, he was starving himself to death. The vet said he should have succumbed before I returned from Boston. Judging by the loud purr he gave, though emaciated, when he saw me again, and by how he declined in the few hours immediately after that, I think he was holding out to see me. This proves my belief that cats are capable of discerning and refined loyalty. It also makes me blame myself for any suffering he might have experienced.
Max was the finest hunter of any species I have ever met. If we mounted his “presents” to us, we would have a wall full of mouse, rat, squirrel, and bird heads.While he might have been a menace to the mockingbirds that nested in our yard, he was definitely the most effective pest control in our neighborhood. He was also an excellent cuddler and had the world’s loudest purr.
“America’s sweetest serial killer” rests after a hunting trip
After seeing the companion of half my life slump over on the vet’s examination table, I was in no mood to keep reading the anthology on high-profile executions in America I had planned to review for you last week. In fact, I was barely able to keep myself together in public. Trying to go shopping with a friend the day after, to keep me occupied, backfired, as I almost lost my s–t when we walked into a part of a store that had cats on LITERALLY EVERYTHING.
Okay, maybe there was just one pillow with a cat on it, but you understand.
Why so upset over a cat?
Because a cat, like all animals, is naturally good. Some might call them “inferior beings” because they do not have the range of choice we do, and have no conception of morals. However, I say this puts them beyond the reach of evil. They are “lower” than us only in that while they are aware, we are aware we are aware. Because of self-consciousness, we recognize their weakness in comparison to us, and have the choice of defending them or not.
Max played with his food because of instinct. He did not delight in causing pain to rodents. He never killed for sport. He never bribed a cop, robbed a bank, or defrauded old folks of their retirement money.
When someone commits a heinous crime, it’s unfair to call them ‘an animal.’ Man is the only animal that acts out of malice.
And it is that existential dilemma which draws me to true crime.
Tomorrow I will review something light and fluffy for you, two series available on Netflix that fall under “crime” in content but not in ethos. It includes lots of healthy animals and the people who love them, along with dumb American tourists carrying drugs across international borders.
I will also publish the review schedule for the next several months.
Thank you for your patience and understanding.