The cat’s eyes have gone cloudy, or maybe it’s just my imagination. She spends most nights in the garage, which would explain the need for a thicker coat. And in the morning she pulls a pipe cleaner out of the basket with the other toys and terrorizes it, dreaming of a bird to kill, chewing on the spine.
January, the Monday of all months, a good time for reckoning, for cod liver oil. It comes lemon-scented or straight and I take it as intended, and it tastes just like I put a fish in my mouth, uncooked.
Richard Brautigan, the poet from the 60s, writes about his time in Japan: fish for breakfast, fish for lunch, fish all day. Fried, pickled, uncooked. Richard, so much of himself on the page: a good place to start, not enough to end.