Our cat often informs us of her hunger much, much prior to her scheduled dinner time. Her scheduled dinner time is 10 p.m., on the dot, but it is not uncommon for her to remind us that feeding time is nigh at around 8 p.m. And then consistently, at 15 minute intervals, she'll repeatedly tell us, "Hey, it's almost my dinner time." She does this dramatically, pleading with her own adorable language, and then flopping onto the ground as if death was upon her. She has burned through her very last calorie, and if we don't refill her bowl RIGHT NOW, then she just might not make it.
We'll say, "Chloe girl, you have twenty minutes, okay? Don't worry, you'll be okay."
And lately, I've imagined her thinking, "Yea, but come on, bro, that's the rule that you made up. You literally made it up, and you could feed me right now and save me from my suffering if you wanted to."
So sometimes, I will feed her early. Because she's famished, and I have the power to use my opposable thumbs to open her food jar and dispense her crunchies into her bowl. And because I love her. She's super cute.
This made-up rule system reminded me of a thought process I had when I was a Christian. This ludicrous idea that god sent his son to the world to die to so that we don't have to go to hell. Why does hell exist? Why does anyone have to go there? Why does someone have to die so that we don't go there? Why does it have to be your own son who is also yourself? Like, dude, are you on drugs or what?
God could save us from our suffering with a snap of his fingers, but he won't, because RULES. I don't have to take an ice cream sandwich from the freezer and melt it in the sink and then take the gooey ice cream and smear it on my face in order to feed her early, because I didn't make up any such rule.
We are all pitiful creatures, suffering on the daily. Alexa, play Sarah McLachlan's "In The Arms Of An Angel."