My wife and I have a mixed marriage.

But we were older when we got married. We weren’t planning to have children, so we didn’t think it would make a difference. Love, after all, is love.

You see, my wife is a cat person. And I am a dog guy.

You might well ask: How do we make it work? Well, it helps that we maintain two households. In New Jersey, where Rosie the Australian Cobberdog rules the roost, we are a dog family. And in Brazil, where, until recently, Romeow was emperor of the domain, we are cat people. I am not going to get into the difference between cat love and dog love. If you know, you know. And if you don’t know, it doesn’t matter. But love is love wherever it comes from.

Which is why the loss of Romeow in August was such a bitter blow. He was beloved, and his absence made our home feel hollow and empty. This was particularly tough on Elaine. Since I disappear from our home in Brazil for weeks at a time, the absence of a cat accentuated not only the home’s emptiness but also her mourning for our beloved Siamese king.

That is why we planned to strike back against the emptiness of our home when I returned to Brazil by adopting not one but two kittens. Two, not only because what is cuter than one kitten? Two. But also because, when Elaine is in the United States, they would have each other for company. Our first attempt at finding a cat through shelters failed. It seems pet adoption in Brazil has been taken over by Petinistas. (Think PETA, but with a Brazilian accent.) Despite the fact that we live in a comfortably sized home, surrounded by a decent amount of property and a twelve-foot-high wall, they required us to put netting over all balconies, walls, and windows so the cats would not leap to their deaths. No exceptions. Mandated house inspections.

Using the Brazilian equivalent of ‘fuck them and the horse they rode in on,’ Elaine put out the word to the BCAU (Brazilian Cat Adoption Underground), and we were quickly rewarded with two exceptional choices.

Jenny is a mostly cream-and-pale-gray tabby with soft orange patches and a white chest and belly. We were smitten. After a moderately expensive trip to Cobasi (PetSmart with a Brazilian accent), she joined our family and quickly became Daddy’s little girl, rolling over for a belly rub whenever I entered the room and using my keyboard as an observation post.

Our next choice was more difficult. Ursula, our contact in the BCAU, let us know about a litter of Siamese-adjacent kittens that were available on the outskirts of Rio. We could pick any of them. Therein lay the problem. All three were cute enough to make the cover of Kitten Quarterly magazine, so how do you make the decision? Elaine decided that we needed another female to ensure domestic tranquility, and the decision to adopt Sasha was made.

A room was prepared for her. More equipment was purchased, and we made the twenty-mile trip to pick her up. All the way back home, she complained bitterly about her separation from her siblings and mother. It was pitiful. It was heartbreaking. And we broke down. Within hours, Ursula appeared at our door with Sushi. (Name of the cat, not a dinner order.)

It has been a very long time since I have had kittens. Richard Nixon might have been president. I am a dog guy, remember. I had forgotten how absolutely adorable, blood-pressure-reducing, serotonin inducing, amusing, and delightful kittens can be. Much better for you than a vaporous martini and an easier way to reach that calm place than all the body-twisting in yoga.

I carried that sense of peace and joy with me as I traveled back to New Jersey. Well, as far as Miami. And if I am being completely honest, it was not just the kittens making me feel karmic. I had been out of the news cycle for the past three weeks. Nothing is more calming than not having to engage with whatever effluence the effluencer-in-chief is secreting that day.

What killed the kitten karma for me was the passenger boarding the plane just in front of me. He was a white man of a certain age, proudly wearing a red baseball cap with that phrase on it and a black T-shirt with an American flag topped by a rendition of Mount Rushmore, with the great deceiver’s visage included.

My first, and you might even say best, instinct was to grab him by the shoulders and shake him while yelling, ‘Are you fucking stupid?’

‘This guy promised you no more foreign wars, and then he starts a war with Venezuela that produced nothing, changed nothing, and one with Iran over an issue that had been settled. That has now made us strategically more vulnerable and costs us $2 billion a day in a war that can never be won?’

‘He promised you that he would make America more affordable again. Yet the consumer price index is up 5.5% since his inauguration. And are you enjoying paying 50% more for gasoline? And don’t say it. It is not a little price to pay for freedom, because freedom from nukes was never what this was about. Remember, he settled that problem months before.’

‘Speaking of wars, didn’t he promise to end the war in Ukraine before he even stepped back into the Oval Office? How is that going? And didn’t he say the same thing about Gaza? Are you sensing a pattern here? No? Let me help.’

‘Didn’t he say he would tariff the world so we would finally have fair trade, and that you wouldn’t pay for it because the tariffed countries would? Turns out, surprise, surprise, the tariffs were illegal, and now the U.S. government has to pay back $165 billion, which effectively means you paid for the tariffs twice: once through increased prices on goods you bought, and now when the Treasury has to pay back the money it illegally collected.’

‘And I probably should mention that we have turned the nicest neighbor a country has ever had, Canada, against us. The vindictive and ignorant tariffs the orange genius imposed have made Canada apply to the EU for associate membership. That means, in case you are wondering, less trade for the U.S., fewer jobs for American workers, and a trading bloc that can exert more power over us, all because the pouter-in-chief had his feelings hurt. He is literally the snowflake-in-chief.’

‘You probably don’t care that Trump and his family have increased their net worth by $6 billion since January 2025, but I do. I have the wild idea that a president should be working for the good of the people, not the bottom line of his net worth.’

‘Perhaps you think it is a good idea to have a Secretary of Defense who thinks competence comes with the color of your skin and gender, as opposed to merit and skill. I don’t. I want people manning the watchtower who know what they’re doing, as opposed to toeing a political agenda and ideology. Oh, and I want a person in charge of our defense who makes decisions based on facts, not gut instincts, and has the skill set to think before he acts.’

My mind was roaring.

I could have gone on. And perhaps I was on the verge of saying something, except being on the no-fly list is not conducive to a bicontinental marriage. But luckily, the line moved, and before I knew it, I was safely ensconced in seat 17D.

But I was steamed. Forty-eight days to the election. How am I going to be able to maintain equilibrium when roughly one in three citizens still approve of his performance in office?

Then it struck me. I opened my phone to pictures of Jenny, Sasha, and Sushi. Deep breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Kitten karma.

I am not sure it will get me to Election Day, but it got me home.