I love when it thunderstorms in the morning. I mean, I love all thunderstorms but I especially love morning thunderstorms. The calm, purple fury reminds me of my old cat, Brett Favre. My family didn't name him Brett Favre, that's just what was shaved into his side when we adopted him from the shelter. He wasn't the friendliest, or the smartest, or the best-looking cat. But he was the most Brett-Favre-shaved cat in the whole county.
Looking back on his life, Brett Favre was never particularly happy living in our home. He never showed any signs of appreciation or affection. Even when we fed him he put on an air of indignation. Several times he tried to jump into the oven, or the microwave, or the garbage disposal. After a few weeks of concern and close-calls, we went to a pet psychologist who declared in trembling tones that Brett Favre was "adamantly suicidal" and prescribed him some pink pills to be taken with every meal. We were never sure if Brett Favre was allergic to the pills but he did find the most inopportune places to regurgitate them, possibly in a display of non-violent protest. Perfectly good toothbrushes, loaves of bread, and handmade afghans, were thrown out and never spoken of again.
That's not to say that Brett Favre strictly practiced non-violence. The reason morning thunderstorms remind me of Brett Favre is because of the unmitigated rage he could unleash upon a peaceful, sleeping face. My dreams of winning a race or travelling down an ancient river would shatter from the berserk swipes of Brett Favre.
Was Brett Favre a terrorist in cat form? Yes. He was a destructive force of nature like a tornado or a sinkhole trapped in a 5 pound body with razor sharp claws. But I would be lying if I said that waking up to that cat trying to claw out my eyes wasn't the most exhilarating experience of my life. The shot of pure, white hot adrenaline that coursed through my system as I flung him against the whole was intoxicating beyond all description. And every time he was slammed against the wall, he would fall to the floor with a thud, mildly convulse for several seconds, then slowly get up and slink away.
I would sit straight up in bed for several minutes, breathing heavily and feeling the blood run down my face. I knew that Brett Favre would strike the next morning. And I knew Brett Favre knew he would strike the next morning. And Brett Favre knew I knew Brett Favre knew he would strike the next morning. And this game of cat-and-bloodied-face went on for several months until Brett Favre crawled into a trash bag one Thursday morning and was carried away in the trash truck, never to be seen again.
Do I still hate Brett Favre? Yes. He was the single worst living creature I'd ever encountered. But I miss him. Especially when I think about morning thunderstorms. How the madness of the clouds spills over even into the new day. And you wake up with a fear the breaks the monotony and makes you feel alive, makes you feel part of something terrible and powerful.
Somewhere in this world is a sore, raw pit of hatred and disdain that breeds morning thunderstorms and Brett Favre, and as its spawn flow out from its center and cross our paths, we can take a little bit of masochistic satisfaction in knowing that everything doesn't have to be so freakin' sweet and inspirational to be fulfilling.
