So, no, I didn’t get the cat. When we arrived in Jefferson Parish, I went up to one of the guys in uniform guarding I-10 (it’s completely blocked to non-military/emergency traffic), and I batted my eyes and went through the whole Scarlett O’Hara/damsel-in-distress routine, but no dice. Apparently, I’d stumbled upon the last surviving heterosexual state trooper in Louisiana. He was from somewhere up near Shreveport. Maybe that explains it.
All isn’t lost, though. While rescuing a buddy from St. Francisville yesterday (he was staying at a friend’s plantation, which was beautiful, but the owners weren’t so happy with his three dachsunds), I ran into an acquaintance from my neighborhood. He’s a old-line New Orleanian, and through his numerous family connections, he’s going to try to return to the city in the next few days to check on his business. Since his shop and warehouses are just a few blocks from my house, I’ve given him a key so he can at least let Lola out.
I feel guilty spending so much time and energy on a cat when I know others have lost homes and jobs and loved ones–not to mention photo albums, wedding rings, and refrigerators covered in children’s artwork. Hell, I feel guilty for being able to sit here with a hot cup of Community Coffee and piddle on my laptop. I wish I could be happy with everything I still have, but I’m not.
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