Concluding Unscientific Postscript to the "Issue of Chimba"

Now that W is out of office, our cat in residence, Chimba, or Mr. Chimba as I like to call him, remains quite possibly the most maddening figure in my life. I want to love him with everything I've got, but he makes it so hard sometimes. He has the ability to make me weak in the knees as he looks up at me with his big eyes, only to turn around and fill me with an irrational amount of anger towards him for single handily making our apartment smell like a used diaper filled with Indian food. Just when I think we've made progress, he goes and pees in my closet. One step forward, two rancid steps back. When we turn on the living room light after coming home from an evening out and disturb his golden slumbers, his squinty-eyed glances from his favorite spot on the couch make my heart flutter. But I want to wring his neck once he starts clawing that same couch after waking up. He's used our laundry basket as a litter box and our living room as a training grounds for chasing flies and imaginary things that only he can see. He tries his best to cover his scent when he does use his litter box, which is most of the time, and even goes so far as to try and collect pieces of litter that have scattered about the floor in the process into a neat pile. Sometimes, when you hold him - or rather, when he lets you hold him - he produces a soft, rumbling purr that reverberates through his entire body and tickles any exposed skin in contact with him. More often, he emits some sort of howling meow that makes it sound like we're hosting a basset hound, not a cat. I'm not exactly sure how to reconcile these competing attitudes towards his erratic behavior. I try to give him love, but then I almost throw up after looking for a pair of shoes so I'm forced to rub his face in his own urine so my footwear stays clean. Right now he's curled up in his spot and all I want to do is lay there with him, yet I'm pretty sure he's exposed a previously unknown allergy to cats that makes me a bit stuffed up and itchy when he joins us in bed (which could explain the aforementioned tickling sensation). In an hour, I wouldn't be surprised if he did something that makes me curse our decision to take him in and hope for Andrés' speedy return to Buenos Aires. But right now, at this very moment, he could stay as long as he liked. So, in concluding my "Concluding Unscientific Postscript...", I wish to offer some perspective for myself and for you all: if the figure causing me the most grief in my life is a rogue, unneutered cat, life can't be that bad, can it? A quick, yet giant, shout-out to our readers who braved the cold, early wake-up, and crowds to celebrate the Inauguration last week, I wish I could have been there with you and was obviously there in spirit. Also, a special shout-out to our faithful reader, Bristol, for correcting my grammar and exposing me to the hyperlink at the beginning of the post. Check it out, really incredible stuff.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is our president: