Anger is hearing your cat meowling like there’s nothing else left on this earth for her except you when you come home.

Anger is realizing, finally, that she never used to meowl like that until the night when you came home and found out you were evicted from your apartment. Except for the fact that they were…kind enough…to leave your cat in there. With a note on the door saying “please knock on <landlady’s name> door in the morning and collect ‘the Animal’.”

She had nothing else except her litter box (which they took), a toy or two, (which they kept) and her food and water dish (also, kept).

Anger is sitting on that stoop. Trying to calm your cat down as she sat in the screened window wondering what the fuck was going on, and why the fuck mommy wasn’t with her.

Anger is also wanting to punch the author of the note in the throat until you can hear the wheezing as they try to breathe through a crushed larynx because they called your cat “The Animal”. Double plus points for realizing four hours later that they’d taken your very roomy, spacious, expensive cat carrier and replaced it with their piece of shit one.

Anger is realizing you can’t do anything about it.

Anger is realizing you fucked up. Yet again. And yet another living being was affected by it.

Anger is me. I am Anger. I have always been Anger. I would like to stop being Anger, because Anger makes me impotent. Anger stops my feeble forward progress in life.

But I can’t stop. Anger fuels me, Anger gets me to work so I can fuck up more, and not be able to say “has anybody thought that maybe it’s not just me?”

Because it’s me. It’s always me. Anger and I are old, old friends.

And so…I listen for my cat now…because I’ve made her just as Angry as I am.

Some say the cycle will stop when you will it to.

Then point me to a different fuel. Because this cycle has gone on for at least two generations before me. I just don’t take it out on a kid.

I love you Mugu. You give me a reason to come home at night, Even with your very justified Anger.