Clompity-stomp

I scare the be-jeezus out of my cat pretty regularly. It’s tough for him because he loves me so darn much that he wants to be close to me, but I’m always dropping things and knocking things over, and it’s pretty dangerous to be in my fall-out zone. Anything can happen.

I’ve got a pair of black leather, steel-toed motorcycle boots that make a really great post-apocalyptic fashion impression. But when I wear these boots, I can’t feel anything on the ground or really sense where I’m putting my feet. This isn’t the worst thing that could happen to your feet while walking in Chicago, but in my crowded apartment, it’s a pretty darn scary prospect for my cat. He’s been stepped on so many times with the big black boots that he runs and hides whenever I put them on. Poor guy. It’s tough to love me so much—I always hurt the ones I love.

Matthew calls me Chaos since I’m always knocking stuff over and breaking things. It’s not on purpose; it’s just that wherever I go I seem to wreak havoc. My joke is that Matthew knows where I am in the apartment by how much noise I’m making as things go crashing to the floor and I say “oops.” My cat knows that I am Chaos. He looks at me with the most mixed emotions you can imagine in a cat’s eyes. He longs to get close to me because he just loves me so much, but he’s so afraid of what might come falling from the sky if he gets too close. The cat knows that Chaos rests when I am sitting stationary, and he’ll come sit on my lap for that. But while Chaos roams, the cat knows to watch with trepidation.