ZELDA

A word from the matriarch

zelda is a distinguished elderly gentlelady, and she would like you to believe she is older than she is. she is not. she is simply very good at it.

her true occupation is leisure, pursued with the seriousness of high office: the sunbathe, the scritch, the long considered nap in the warm part of the floor. she is the matriarch, and she carries herself as ancient and grand — older, frankly, than the facts strictly support — and no one in this house has the heart, or the standing, to argue. even sabrina, senior-most of the working editorial team, defers quietly upward. zelda accepts this as her due, from beneath one eyelid.

she will, however, rise from this demanding schedule for exactly one thing: an animal on the television. a real one. a real dog, a real horse, a real bird will bring her to her feet and to full voice, on the record. a unicorn will not. she can tell a unicorn from a horse and considers the distinction too obvious to dignify. the paper regards this as fact-checking of the very highest order.

her masterwork, though, is the cartoon dog. zelda clocks them instantly — and she grades them. an ordinary four-legged cartoon dog earns a bark. an upright, walking, talking cartoon dog earns a bark and a great deal more suspicion: an animal pretending to be a person is, in her professional judgement, plainly getting away with something, and zelda's entire career is the business of not letting things get away with something. she does not merely tell the real from the fake. she ranks the fakes by nerve.

then, her point made and the record set straight, she returns to the sun. mind you don't stand in her light.