Checking in on Covid cats

be that he simply denies it exists. Sometimes I’ll come home and find the TV turned to “Fox & Friends” with no one around, not even a white male, and Lincoln will be just sitting there, staring vacantly—i mean, more vacantly than normal—smelling vaguely of bleach. Sometimes he stretches out in the sun, like he’s trying to get the light inside his body—probably through his vacant skull, so he might just succeed! The other day, I leaned in close, and I swear I heard him whisper, “5G…” Or possibly “More cheese…”

Chandler is the most skittish of all the cats and in this way is probably the most typical of how most of us are spending our time during the pandemic: over-eating, spending too much time on Twitter and hiding under the bed.

Polly certainly has the largest personality among the cats, and by that I mean she is the largest. With that big, can-claw attitude, she’s been spending the time during lockdown reaching out to the other cats in the neighbourhood, making sure they’re well stocked in litter. She’s been participating in all the video challenges—the Push-up Challenge, the Handstand Challenge, the Hairball Challenge—making little cat-sized face masks to distribute and finally getting around to destroying that chair she’s been putting off destroying (because she’s been so busy, you see, with her full-time job destroying all the other chairs). When life gives Polly lemons, Polly makes lemons fall right off the table with a flick of her paw. Yes, of all the Covid cats, she is definitely the most insufferable. So don’t worry about Polly during the pandemic, because she’s no shrinking violet and is definitely not shrinking. Follow her on Instagram! @pollypawprincessfuntimemeow. #tuna

Ollie is Polly’s sister and always in her shadow—again, because Polly is massive. Consequently, Ollie tends to be more contemplative and has been spending the lockdown in more artistic pursuits, like pooping in the litter box. Anyone can poop in a litter box, you say. My five-year-old could poop in the litter box. Yes, but it’s how she poops in the litter box! There, there and, in counterpoint, there! It’s exquisite. Very textural. Very Francis Bacon. Very Fancy Feast. Ollie has also been working on her poetry, mostly love sonnets to me:

Shall I compare thee to a half-chewed mouse?

Thou art heads above all others by compare—

For the mouse head is hidden in the house,

The gut parts plopped by the wicker chair.

Six feet I cannot stay away from thee, Nor metres two if metric be your pleasure.

About your face I rub the face of me, And pray thy beard host crumbs—my treasure.

I shed for thee and shed some more, Upon thy pillow with drool still drying,

Thou lets me in by opening thy door And out again upon my mewlish crying.

Thou feedst me food, and this I’ve ne’er forgot.

Still, I can visit anyone; you, hombre, cannot.