Well, she’s walking through the clouds
with a circus mind that’s running ’round
Butterflies and zebras, fairy tales,
That’s all she ever thinks about.
— james marshall hendrix
— 

The cat is on the phone with Mayo.

I’ve been worried that the next round of chemo hasn’t shown up on my schedule yet. The cat apparently is taking care of it.

This strikes me as slightly odd, given that I had no idea she knew my passcode, or how to use the phone, or talk, or endure the light-jazz Christmas music they make you listen to while you’re on hold at this time of year.

At first they are reluctant, but she points out to them that she still has her rear claws, isn’t afraid to use them, and is a master of pooping in inappropriate places should it become necessary. Clearly, it will not.

They work out a deal. I will have the next round scheduled on time, but I must listen to Hendrix’s “Little Wing” on repeat during the entire six-hour session. This is fine by me, because I love that song. Unless there’s a light-jazz “Little Wing” version I’m not aware of.

The cat hangs up. I thank her profusely.

Whatever, she says. Give me some ice cream.

And then I wake up.

The cat is yowling at a Hendrix-like level in the living room.

Um, I was trying to sleep, I point out.

Whatever, she says. Give me some ice cream.

We share a bowl of vanilla bean gelato. Because a deal is a deal.

The cat immediately falls asleep. Mo, whom the cat also woke up, eats a cookie and joins her in slumber. I am up for the duration.

I pull on the headphones and crank up  Hendrix’s “Little Wing.” And then Stevie Ray’s version. And then Jeff Beck’s. And the Turtle Island String Quartet’s cello solo. And then Hendrix’s version live at Royal Albert Hall. And live at Winterland. And then “Purple Haze,” since I’m in the neighborhood. ‘Scuse me, while I kiss this guy.

I check my Mayo schedule, just in case. Oh, well.

All is calm, all is quiet. The tree glows in the background. Best Christmas ever.