Bedlam Farm Blog Journal by Jon Katz

In school, long before Dyslexia was even known and I misspelled words, my teachers thought I was stupid and lazy and told me so. My father thought I had character flaws. School was a nightmare, and so was life.

I got so upset that I used to wet myself in class and at night and hide in the locker room and cry, giving all the hollow men and women something to jeer eat.

These days, I feel as if I’m back in school.  When I said “Bud” instead of “Zip,” all Hell broke loose. One man said I was a threat to language and character; a woman said I probably had Dementia and should rush to a doctor, and others were shocked and outraged. The ghost of my teacher lives online.

It brought back a lot of memories. I did better than every one of those bullies and learned how to live with cruelty; it turned out to be a good thing; I learned a lot about empathy.

This is new, a social media thing; I like social media and use it, but sometimes I think it’s just become a playground for mannerless assholes with empty lives, precisely like the ones who came after me those years ago.

Rude, hollow, and humorless keep coming to mind. When I misspell a word, it’s almost a criminal offense.

Do they have anything better to do all day than correct my spelling? I guess the answer is no, I guess. For someone who suffered a severe concussion a few months ago, my doctors say I’m doing great.

I can’t even imagine taking time to presume to diagnose strangers I don’t know and criticize them for something I don’t understand. But it is a part of life; I have learned to live with it and accept it. Lately, I’ve learned to laugh at it.

But my life is no longer a nightmare; it is better and fuller than I ever expected.

I’m sure I am much happier than hardly any of those pompous and unempathetic jerks; you have to be a little miserable to do that. The good news is that I am used to it; it’s the dark side of being human for many people.

The old cliche is true: what doesn’t kill you strengthens you. And Thoreau was right; the idea of minding one’s own business is getting lost, even more than a hundred years ago. He wouldn’t believe it today.

Zip is a joy and an inspiration for me. Now that it’s warm, we have a new meeting place, the blue chair outside where he waits for me. Wherever he is, he comes running.

I sit down, and he climbs on my shoulder and purrs while I scratch his ears. I didn’t know this was what it is like to have a cat, although I’m sure Zip is unusual. Zinnia comes too, happy to lie on the ground and take the sun.

Life is good. Zip thinks I’m just swell, which, oddly, means a lot to me.

I never knew where Zip was, but he always knew where I was and showed up. Cats have magical powers.

We provide Zip with fresh water daily; he prefers to drink with the animals and use the heated water tub.

I love how cats find high ground to look at the world; I know it’s bad news for mice. Zip is a great blessing, even as I work to understand our friendship.