The house has turned into a slow-cooking oven, the kind where even the walls seem to sigh, and somewhere within this warm little universe… Whiskey Kitty has vanished. Not gone, not escaped, not plotting a hostile takeover of the neighborhood squirrel population… just missing in action. Until, of course, I find her.
Under the bed.
Compressed like a furry accordion.
Eyes half open, body tucked in, looking like she’s trying to become one with the shadows.
Now the question that creeps in, like a detective in a wrinkled trench coat: Is she hiding from the heat… or from me?
Let’s start with the obvious suspect. The heat wave. Cats are tiny thermodynamic geniuses. They don’t sweat like we do, they don’t complain like we do, and they definitely don’t crank the AC bill. Instead, they seek out cool, low-light, low-traffic zones. Under the bed is basically Whiskey’s version of a VIP lounge. It’s shaded, it’s quiet, and most importantly, it’s undisturbed. A cat in summer becomes less of a performer and more of a minimalist sculpture.
So yes, the heat is a big part of it.
But then there’s… me.
Now don’t take this as an accusation. Think of it more like a plot twist I wrote myself into.
I’ve got a certain style. Whiskey launches herself like a tiny acrobat with fur, and I intercept her midair like I’m auditioning for Olympic cat-catching, then go straight for the belly rub. To me, it’s affection. To her, it’s like someone edited her movie without permission.
She had a plan.
Leap. Land. Victory.
And I turned it into:
Leap. Capture. Confusion. Existential crisis.
Cats like control the way artists like composition. There’s timing, rhythm, intention. You don’t just splash paint across the canvas and call it a masterpiece. Well… sometimes you do, but even chaos has structure. Whiskey’s play has structure. And when I interrupt that structure, I introduce something she doesn’t love: unpredictability.
Add to that the occasional “management relocation,” where I scoop her up and move her like she’s a tiny piece of furniture with whiskers, and now I’ve become not just her companion, but also an unpredictable force of nature.
Not dangerous.
Not mean.
Just… disruptive.
So what does she do?
She disappears.
Not out of fear, but out of wisdom.
Under the bed becomes less of a hiding place and more of a sanctuary. A place where no one edits her choreography, no one interrupts her naps, and no one turns her ninja performance into a cuddle ambush.
It’s her studio.
Her meditation room.
Her “Do Not Disturb Unless You Have Tuna” zone.
So is she hiding from me?
Not exactly.
She’s balancing me.
She’s saying, in her quiet, dignified, slightly judgmental way:
“I like you. I even love you. But you, sir… are a bit much sometimes.”
And honestly?
Fair.
Now somewhere between the cool shadows under that bed and the warm chaos of my own habits, there’s another story unfolding.
Because while Whiskey Kitty is managing her environment like a seasoned Zen master, I’m managing something a little louder. The cravings. The urges. The old rhythm of smoking that tries to sneak back in like a rerun I didn’t ask for.
And today?
I didn’t pick it up.
I chewed the gum.
I grabbed the iced coffee.
I redirected the impulse like a street magician making a bad habit disappear without anyone noticing the trick.
That’s not accidental. That’s not luck wandering in off the street. That’s intention. That’s practice. That’s me, slowly but surely, rewriting my own choreography.
Because addiction, much like my cat’s play routine, has a sequence.
Trigger. Craving. Action. Reward.
And today I broke the sequence.
I took the script, crossed out a few lines, and said, “No, we’re not doing that scene anymore.”
Replacement therapy isn’t about fooling myself. It’s about giving my mind something else to hold onto while the old wiring loosens its grip. The only danger is swapping one loop for another, but right now, I’m aware. I’m watching it. I’m not asleep at the wheel.
I’m driving.
And here’s the strange, almost poetic symmetry of it all:
Whiskey Kitty goes under the bed to cool down, to regulate, to find stillness.
I reach for gum, for iced coffee, for distraction, for focus… to do the same thing.
Two different species.
Same strategy.
Find the cool spot. Stay there until the storm passes.
Maybe that’s the lesson, tucked under the bed with her.
Not everything is meant to be chased.
Not every impulse needs to be caught midair.
Sometimes you let things land on their own.
Sometimes you let the moment pass without grabbing it, reshaping it, controlling it.
You just let it be.
As for Whiskey, I’m learning. Let her jump. Let her land. Let her decide when the scene shifts from action to affection. And when she comes out from under that bed, it won’t be because I pulled her out of hiding.
It’ll be because she chose to return.
And that choice?
That’s where the real connection lives.
As for me…
I didn’t smoke today.
In the middle of heat, habit, temptation, and everything else trying to pull me back into old patterns, I held steady.
That’s not just progress.
That’s power.
With WonderCon around the corner, the booth, the books, the people, the energy… this isn’t just about showing up anymore. This is about showing up clear, present, and ready.
More time at the booth.
More conversations.
More sales.
More life.
Whiskey Kitty will emerge when the temperature drops and the world feels right again.
And me?
I’m already stepping out.
Not hiding.
Not retreating.
Just moving forward, one cool decision at a time.
I got this. 🐈☀️☕
by Dan and Bonkers
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