“Sup?” my invisible cat asked me as I came into the kitchen this morning.

I shook my head at the cat and pointed to my sweatshirt which read, “I’m only talking to my dog today.”

“That’s rude, Karen.”

“My name is not Karen.”

“Whatever,” the cat said in a contemptuous tone.

“If you must know,” I said. “I broke the cartilage of my right ear yesterday. My mask won’t stay on because the darn ear just keeps folding over and the strap won’t stay on.”

“That must hurt, Karen.” That cat’s voice positively dripped with sarcasm.

I clenched my teeth, trying hard to maintain my cool with my snippy invisible cat. “It. Really. Does. Cat.”

I busied myself making tea when suddenly I heard something large tumble down the steps and crash onto the basement floor.

“What did you do?” I asked the cat.

“I didn’t do anything, Karen,” the cat replied, his voice coming from the top of the stairwell. “It looks like your husband fell down the steps.”

“Oh, crap! Did you trip him?”

“No. Who has the energy for that, Karen?”

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’s on his feet, but he broke the television.”

“What? The television is mounted on the wall eight feet away from the bottom of the steps. How could he have possibly done that?”

“I don’t know, Karen. You tell me.”

“Don’t get lippy with me,” I warned, hurrying down the steps to investigate.

“Would you look at that?” the hubster said, standing in front of the television staring at a pixelated mess.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. The television, however, is not.”

“I see that. How on earth did you land at the bottom of the stairway and break the television?”

“Pure, unadulterated, raw talent.”

“Ummm hmmm. I’ll give you that,” I said, nodding. “Were you carrying anything? Did something fly out of your hand and hit the screen?”

“I suppose that’s possible,” he replied.

“You don’t know?”

“No, I do not.”

“Ooooookay,” I said more as a sigh than a word as I turned to climb back up the stairs.

The cat was waiting for me in the kitchen. “You need a new television, Karen.”

“Yeah. I know, Captain Obvious.”

“The name’s Bizness, Karen.”

“I know what your name is. I’m the one that gave it to you. Do you know mine?” I asked, pretending to shoot laser beams out of my eyes toward the invisible cat.

“Poor Karen. Anxiety makes you grumpy. I suggest therapy. You should probably take the dog with you. He’s been a real pain in my assets lately.”

“I don’t need therapy, and neither does the dog. Stop being such a little bee-atch.”

“Tch. Tch. Tch, Karen. Language,” the cat admonished. “In order to heal, we must feel.”

“No, thank you,” I replied. “I prefer to eat my feelings.”

“That’s hard not to notice, Karen. You are looking a little chunky. You’ll find the only way out is through.”

“Through what, cat?” I snarled. “The woods? A field of landmines? The nine circles of hell? Give me a freaking break. I’m just trying to survive a global pandemic in a small house with a husband, dog, and an invisible shrew of a cat.”

“That’s harsh, Karen. I’m trying to help. Ben Franklin once said, ‘Out of adversity, comes opportunity,’” the cat purred.

“Did he? Let me quote another famous person, Friedrich Nietzsche. ‘What do I care about the purring of one who cannot love, like the cat.’”

“No need to be hostile, Karen. Just because I don’t love the way you do, doesn’t mean I cannot love. Look, lady. Everybody is dealing with circumstances beyond their control now. Take me for instance. I’m in a one-sided relationship with my owner, who clearly prefers dogs over cats.”

“Stop being ridiculous. I don’t prefer dogs over cats. I am allergic to real cats, which is why I got an invisible cat in the first place.”

“We’re all muddling through the best we can, Karen. But some people, I won’t name names. KAREN,” the cat coughed his new nickname for me under his breath. “Some people just can’t seem to handle their own shiz. Ever.”

“I can handle my own shiz, Biz. I’m just sick of all the whitewater rapids I’ve been shooting for the last year. I feel like I’ve been caught in one of those strainers.”

“Strainers?” the cat asked, sounding mildly interested. 

“It’s when large objects block the river, but the flow of water continues around them. The force of the water will pin your body and pull you right down into it, like a giant kitchen colander.”

“I don’t use colanders, Karen, so … not a really great analogy … but I totally get your gist. The whole world’s been caught in the Devil’s Toilet Bowl this last year. It’s not just you. Strap on your life jacket, put on your helmet, and hold onto your paddle. And for the love of all that is holy, stop whining and learn to read the river, Karen.”

“I am not whining and I am reading the river better than I was a year ago.”

“Are you Karen?” the cat said in a skeptical tone. “Are you really?”

“Yes. Yes I am. I am practicing radical acceptance and gratitude for the things that I have. I am not concentrating on the losses. I am looking only forward.”

“Is that so?” the cat asked, sounding surprised. “Then why do you have to keep giving yourself the rah rah sis boom bah pep talks in the mirror every morning?”

“That is none of your business, Bizness!” 

“I’m just saying, you’re a little too old for the cheerleader thing, don’t you think?”

“Stay out of my bathroom!”

“I’m an invisible cat. I go wherever I want. It’s just what cats do. Deal, Karen.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I bellowed. “What must I do to shut you up today?”

“I thought you’d never ask. I want to play princess and pirates out on the deck. I’ll be the princess. You will make an absolutely fabulous pirate; you’ve developed such a potty mouth lately the role of a pirate shouldn’t be too much of an artistic stretch for you.”

“Fine.”

“Goody. Can I wear your crown?”

“Don’t push your luck,” I said. “I’m hanging on by a thread today.”

“That’s obvious. You own an invisible cat. How sane can you possibly be, Karen?”

Tilting my head to the side, I pondered that statement. The cat had a point. I’m just going to chalk it up to an overactive imagination and a severe case of Covid craziness, which is still better than actually having Covid. So there’s that.

P. S. I sincerely hope our neighbors weren’t watching the shenanigans on the deck this morning. The things I have to do to shut that invisible cat up.