This is one of the times that I envy cats. Not only have they no obligations, no tasks that can't be put off, but they display every evidence of a remarkable capacity to endure what, to most humans, would be an intolerable monotony. The sultry hours pass, and we watch our clocks, waiting for the arrival of dusk, while the cats dream, or whatever it is that they do when they are ignoring unpleasant reality. An occasional twitch of whisker or fur, a brief switch of a tail, is all the indication they give of not being utterly comatose. Until you get near enough to see the shallow rise and fall of the chest which reveals that they are breathing, you might assume them to be dead. I suspect that they are, in fact, enjoying themselves tremendously in their mental cat worlds. How do they do it, I wonder?
I have survived another hot afternoon, and the fan is blowing again, its monotonous whir almost as enervating as the room's heat which it barely displaces with only slightly cooler outdoor air. I still wish I could loll as a cat does. But here are still things to be done. I think I'm going to have to take over mom's bookkeeping, as her vision has deteriorated to the point that she can't find the right lines in the check registry. It's actually been taking me as long to double-check her figures as it would to do them entirely on my own for several months now, but I've been reluctant to take away one of the last of the tasks she can do that allow her to feel useful. Her failing sight may now make it impossible for her to continue. Getting old is a drag.