Just a Fat Cat

Everybody in the lunchroom is talking about MU and AMD today. I own a little bit of both, but not enough, of course. Nothing’s ever enough, is it?

I could’ve retired by 45 if I hadn’t listened to Dave Ramsey, if I’d taken the advice of my friend who parked cars for a living. He told me to buy boatloads of MU, AMD, and Bitcoin ten years ago. He’s not parking cars today. 

I thought about sending a nasty email to Dave Ramsey or trolling his Instagram page, but I’m going to take my girls for a walk instead.

It’s the kind of sunset here on the Big Island where even the black lava rock is tinged golden. We’ll stroll down to the cul-de-sac and play tag. I’ll think about the 1978 Phillip Brickman study I read last week, comparing the happiness of lottery winners and paraplegics. How after just a few months, the lottery winners ended up taking far less pleasure in everyday activities like drinking a cup of coffee, grilling a burger, or reading a book. 

As we get close to home, the sun will be almost gone. That’s when the “pregnant” cat will jump off the rock wall and run into the middle of the road just so it can weave between our legs, purring.

I’ll bend to pick her up. My girls will slap me on the shoulder, shouting, “Dad, don’t. She’s got babies in her stomach!” 

“Maybe she’s just a fat cat,” I’ll say. “We’ve been calling her the pregnant cat for almost a year now. How do we even know she’s a girl?” 

All four of them will stare at me with their hands on their hips, then proceed to examine the cat. 

I’ll walk ahead, looking back to keep an eye on them. They won’t follow, their bottoms on the tar, transfixed with joy over something so simple as a fat cat. I’ll wonder if all those people holding AMD and MU are as happy as all my daughters tonight.