That bit about the lion lying down with the lamb isn’t actually in the Bible, not exactly, but never mind. It’s such an evocative image, and we all know what it means — peace, radical peace, serene and idyllic, right up there with beating swords into plowshares (which is in the Bible, twice for good measure). Right now, it’s peace on my old office futon.
It’s a cold and rainy March afternoon, so I’ve brought the Sunday Times, my local newspaper, and the new Atlantic up here, to this little room and the futon that faces out — out my barred window, past the rusting exhaust pipe, and onto my wee backyard greening by the minute in the straight-down droplets of rain. This futon is the only piece of furniture on which the dog is allowed, and normally he’s the only one on it. But today, I want to read there, too. What’s more, the little cat has followed me, looking for a warm lap, no doubt, since her first-choice afternoon activity of lying in the sun in a little tamped-down spot under the jasmine has been thwarted by the cold rain (plus, sad to say, I think the jasmine’s dead). She and I settle in.
When the dog finally lumbers up and heaves his great white hulk next to us, I brace for a spat. I know a lot of people have dogs and cats that adore each other. Mine do not. Both cast-offs, who scrounged for themselves before finding the sucker that is me, they’re ill-disposed toward the enemy kind. The dog scrupulously ignores the cat, never exactly looking at her. He disregards her presence so completely that he’ll walk smack into her rather than skirting her spit and claws. After all, she holds her ground against him, not seeking but daring a confrontation.
Today, though, I hold the newspaper between them just so, so that they can’t see each other’s faces, two inches apart, and it works. The dog finally turns around and lies down, and the cat stretches into that Gumby bliss that only cats can do. I rest the paper, turn its pages, and drop the sections as I finish them. Slowly the sleeping cat’s hind foot and calico tail slip off my lap to rest on the dog’s haunch. He slumbers on.
The world is shaken and tumbling. Today’s news alone confirms it. My finances, like those of so many, are in questionable condition. It seems that despite GW’s protestations, terrorists were indeed tortured in US custody, sending the hope for real justice scurrying off like a startled rabbit. Iran may be going nuclear, women are systematically raped in African conflicts, and whether we’re in or out of Iraq, there’s trouble trouble trouble. But right here now, in the few square inches of my ratty old futon, all is well. There is peace.
