I first met “Taffy” in the spring of 2001. She was Aunt Peg’s new cat, and the first cat after the death of Max, a sleek black cat who had taken great pleasure in breaking everything he could get his long tail around. Taffy was a tiny little creature, a cat who could curl up in the open palm of my hand and purr with contentment that all was right with the world.

Now, Peg has a way with animals. They all become absolutely devoted to her. Some, like Tiffany, her tiny little “pillow dog” (who died two months ago) are also friendly to others in the family. Most often, they just hide when “new” people wander into the house in Scranton. The two cats she had when I was born, Gypsy and Bandit, were that way. When family came to visit, those cats lived in the spacious closets of Peg’s bedroom, hiding among the shoeboxes and assorted stores.

I met Taffy for a second time in the early summer of ‘02. She’d grown considerably. I drove from Towson to Scranton, and arrived while everyone was gone. My grandmother, who lives with Peg, was at church. Peg, a nurse, was at the hospital. The back door was unlocked, and I made myself at home, watching some TV, and then I heard some scratching. Taffy was in the bathroom, scratching at the door. Foolishly, as I would learn, I opened the door.

Taffy had grown - she was already bigger than Guy, my (at the time) five year old cat - I mean, this cat got HUGE really quickly. Anyway, she takes one look at me, her ears fold back, and she starts growling. And I don’t mean like a “Hey, you’re in my sun, move on” growl, I mean a “I don’t know who you are but I’m going to fuck you up.” She took up a perch on the stairs, refusing to allow me to pass, and taking rather vicious swipes at me with her paw.

Anyway, the point is, I stopped by Peg’s place on my way home from Connecticut. Peg greeted me with a hug, but who was above the cabinets in the kitchen? Taffy. And what did she do upon seeing me? You guessed it! She started growling.

Oy.

The damn spammers strike again. Same guy, actually. I asked Tim to look into a way to hold comments for approval, since, clearly, these scum-sucking mother fuckers aren’t content simply calling during dinner and overloading an e-mail box anymore.

From the beginning, I didn’t support the Iraq War. I didn’t think Iraq had any connections to Al Queda or the September 11th attacks, and I felt that Bush’s motivations for invasion had less to do with protecting America and more to do with showing up his father. But I also never fell into that trap that the Right likes to spring, you know the one: if you don’t support the war, you aren’t supporting the troops. I don’t buy into that logic one damn bit.

A college professor of mine opposed the war - she and her friends stood at the corner of Charles Street near Loyola college several days a week with anti-war signs. But she’s hardly a leftist - she voted for Bush in 2000, and she voted for him again this year. Although, admittedly, she hates John Kerry (during the Vietnam War, she served in a “bouncing betty” ward and never forgave Kerry for his anti-Vietnam rhetoric which she saw as insulting to the limbless men she tended too), and that might’ve influenced her vote. But to say that because she doesn’t support the war, she must not support the troops? No, this is a woman who supported the troops, but not the war. This is a woman who had both her sons serve in the military.

I don’t know why I’m writing about this, I just - oh! - felt frustrated by the right, and their oversimplification of stuff. “Gosh, how do we countermand the leftists anti-war rhetoric? Oh, I know, let’s call them anti-troop.” I mean, yeah, the left does the same stuff too, so it’s not like we’re on the moral high ground on the tactic, but when it comes to the issue — the ill planned, ill thought-through, ill-executed invasion of Iraq, we do have the moral high ground.

Yes, we do.