Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Any Witch Would Know
A friend's friend has been having trouble with her cat. She'll be petting him, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, he lunges and bites her viciously.
“She's been trying pheromone therapy,” my friend tells me, rolling her eyes. “I keep telling her that some cats just don't want to be petted, that some cats can only put up with handling for so long; but she just doesn't want to hear it.”
“People,” I commiserate. “An animal is a partnership. It isn't a thing, subject to your wants and whims: it's a living being, with a life and a mind of its own.”
She sighs and shakes her head. What I've just said is so obvious that it shouldn't even need to be put into words. There's a pause as we both consider the implications of this.
Then I state, rather than ask: “Your friend's not a witch, is she?”
Taking my meaning, my friend smiles sadly and shakes her head again: Of course not.
Oh, the things we take for granted.
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