Butterscotch

A little sweet, a little salty

A couple quick things.

First of all, Lauren Hough — whose book Leaving Isn’t the Hardest Thing partly populates my mental map of DC — started a Substack thread to call out small Substacks.

Wait, let me go back to that book. When I think of Dupont Circle, her Dupont Circle appears, along with the drum circle and Kramerbooks and that one time I lost my wallet at the fountain and it was still there when I came back hours later. 

When I visit the Lincoln monument, I also visit my memories of reading about Lauren Hough’s encounter with a homeless man and his dog. When I see DC’s tent cities that’s who I see, the guy handing Lauren back her $1 bill and telling her to be careful not to slip down to his level, she’ll never get out.

That’s the kind of writer she is. I read her book in the middle of the pandemic and a part of me is still living in that moment, on the couch that still houses my pandemic ass print, having not spoken to another living human in days and cackling too loudly.

So Lauren started a Substack thread or notes or whatever to call out small Substacks and through it I’ve found some stellar new reads, many of them on nature. Thanks, Lauren! Looking forward to getting to know Trackless Wild, Future Natures, and the Book of Hours Project, among others.

Lauren listed Tom Pluck’s Substack as one of her picks (as regular readers know, I’m also a fan of Tom’s), and Tom listed WanderFinder. Thanks, Tom! And now Lauren’s a subscriber, which is one of those “reminding myself not to lick her” fan girl moments. Hi Lauren!

I would be even more excited about this except for the awful news that I have to give up my recently adopted cat, Butterscotch. Without going into too many details, Butterscotch — who I thought I was just adopting like normal from a shelter — actually comes from Kuwait (because everything in DC is 50% closer to a parody of itself than it should be) and has health troubles that are incompatible with my own health troubles.

I have to give him back to the importing-Kuwaiti-kitties organization. They’ll send him for treatment to a vet, and then look for a new owner who doesn’t have a suppressed immune system.

I am feeling every bad feeling right now that I think it might be possible to feel. I’m playing Pokemon Go with bad feelings, I’m collecting them all. There’s guilt, there’s anger, there’s fury — different, more explosive than slow-burn anger — there’s depression, there’s fear for Butterscotch, there’s immense frustration.

I’m writing these terse emails to the importing-Kuwaiti-kitties organization. “I will send his records to you via post.” I want to scream. I think I might want to yodel.

Take what I say at the moment with a grain of salt is what I’m trying to say. I’m eating ice cream instead of dinner and I don’t even like ice cream that much. (I know, I know. I’m sorry.) I’m biking for hours on Capital BikeShare e-bikes. I’m looking for endorphins everywhere I can find them.

If you see an endorphin out there in the wild, collect it for me would you? Once I’ve collected all the bad feelings I’m hoping eventually I can pick up a good feeling or two like in a bonus round, or like the cherry on top of this dripping, sticky ice cream that I never wanted anyway.

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I am most of the way through a post about getting grounded by literally touching dirt — hopefully I’ll be able to post it this week.

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Let me know in the comments if you have any favorite small Substacks of your own, or any pet-related thoughts you’d like to share.