a tale of two dollys

We named our cat Dolly Parton, which turned out to be rude because, unlike human Dolly Parton, an actual angel, Dolly Parton the cat was among the most diabolical beings ever to walk this earth.

Far from the bedazzled singer/songwriter/humanist/philanthropist, who, by all accounts, treated all in her orbit (and far outside her orbit) with the highest dignity and respect, DP the cat terrorized everyone she met — party guests, handymen, cleaners, and cat sitters — to a legendary degree. She hated most mammals except me and, after passing through whatever the equivalent of menopause/midlife is for felines, she wasn’t much a fan of mine either.

Her myriad off-putting habits are actually too numerous to name, but chief among them was how she’d sneak out at the least convenient times (like while you were on an important work Zoom), wrestle a giant rat to its almost-death, carry the squirming/last-breaths beast inside and drop it under a table to shriek and die.

A week before she left us in 2024, Dolly the cat seemed robust as ever, scratching at anyone who crossed her path, hissing and howling around the house at all hours, murdering and dropping bloody rats in the space where we dined. We somehow believed, and often joked, that she’d live to torment us forever. Of course we were wrong.

Turns out, Dolly Parton the cat and Dolly Parton the human have exactly one thing in common: the stabbing shock I felt when each passed and the profound and unexpected grief I couldn’t seem to shake over the loss.

How can a spirit with such force disappear from this world?

I heard Tressie McMillan Cottom say that one of the reasons losing Dolly Parton is hitting collectively so hard, why so many of us feel broken up over the death of a stranger, is because we don’t seem to be producing stars, let alone people, like her anymore. We no longer have the social and societal infrastructure for a Dolly Parton — or a Prince or David Bowie, or I might even add a Jane Goodall — to rise up in the same way, break through the cracks in our toxic chaos, and shine.

McMillan Cottom’s written a few of my favorite pieces about Dolly the human, all of which are worth checking out, including this just-released tribute in the Times and this 2021 essay on how Parton managed to pull off her highly specific trick of success.

From Cottom’s essay:

Dolly Parton is one of very few living texts that could survive projections of America’s soul without buckling beneath its contradictions. It is treasonous to do so but if one strips away all the adulation, they are left with an odd totem for our socio-political times. Dolly is a white Southern multi-millionaire boomer who produces self-consciously white music while wearing a stylized drag of a fallen Southern belle. Only a society that willfully believes itself “post-racist” could produce such a queen. Post-racist does not mean there is no more racism. It means that we believe there is an us after we rid ourselves of our errant racist bones, which we are certain will come to pass. We craft Dolly into an unproblematic fave because the most problematic part of The Dolly Parton Moment is us.

I also enjoyed Shima Oliaee’s Dolly obituary in Time magazine. Oliaee was the lead reporter on the excellent podcast, Dolly Parton’s America (the show’s host wrote his own remembrance, “What Dolly Told Me,” which is worth checking out).

Oliaee writes:

Her story is a testament to how a person of humble origins can accomplish extraordinary feats, when they pray for, write with compassion about, and take action for others. And she did this without taking higher status: She remained the butt of the joke, the girl in the wig with a bosom, doing what she believed was right, even while making mistakes. She just tried to do better the next time. In the fax she sent me after the first of what would become 11 interviews, after I came to her with four hours of intrusive questions about some of the hardest moments in her life, she ended her note with: “I had a nice time with you. Hope you got everything that you wanted. I look forward to hearing from you or seeing you again somewhere down the road. Love, Dolly.”

What a teacher. I hope we get the lesson.

In other news, I don’t know if it’s the fact that it’s 106º in Los Angeles or that all the cool + good people are dying or perhaps the brain scramble of the Pisces-grief-rebirth-full-moon-eclipse every astrologer is ranting about, but this week feels…off?

I’m trying not to escape too much into my head, which is not always the safest place to be. Still, I’ve been fantasizing about a different life than that which I am presently living, one in which it’s cool and crisp, and I’m wearing jeans with a leather belt, a slinky top and a perfect pair of suede ankle boots, walking with purpose in one of the towns I understand well where I don’t need a car, knowing in these decades-old bones that where I am is where I’m supposed to be.

In reality, I’m hiding in our spotty AC, watching the millionaires next door dig and pave a pool, buying soft-cotton bras that won’t irritate my skin when I sweat, lifting more weight than I’ve ever lifted before, reorganizing the kitchen and stocking the pantry, missing both Dollys, saying goodbye to the past, subconsciously training and prepping for whatever comes next.

I hope Rebecca Solnit and the astrologers are right, and it’s good — we could all use a fresh and hopeful beginning after all these ends.

Hang in there, friends.

xo