“I have never killed a man, but I have read many obituaries with great pleasure.”- Clarence Darrow

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“There’s something cathartic about reading the obits.” John says, and I don’t know why he says it, because he’s not actually reading the obituaries right now. It’s the middle of the after noon and John only reads the paper at breakfast, but he says it anyways and a nervous niggling part of me urges me to give an answer even though John isn’t expecting one.

“S’at so?” It’s noon and I’m supposed to be napping, but a part of me, and not just the nervous part, is wondering where this grim side comes from. John, after all is not normally grim. Not that I don’t understand, I do, I myself am fond of killing mice for absolutely no reason.

“Well you see,” John reaches out and picks me up and I give him an irritated look, because as mildly interested as I am, and that is to say mildly, I had been comfortable and John never scratches behind my ears. So as I’m sat in his lap I give a long suffering shake of my shoulders and make myself comfortable.

John sighs and rubs his forehead, “It’s just people are- well, they deserve what they get, and that answered my lingering question about why John wouldn’t go and get himself a woman to scratch me properly, I’d have settled for a roommate, but it didn’t look like I’d be getting one of those either.

“I just can’t stand them sometimes, you know,” John would continue like this for rather a long time, I know, so I take pleasure in the occasional pats John is accenting his rant with and I take my nape.

I’m a house cat; I don’t have to care about obituaries.