There’s a peculiar kind of planning that happens when life starts shifting under your feet. Not the dramatic movie kind with violins and slow-motion exits, but the quieter version… the kind where you look at your cat and think, what if I can’t bring you with me?
That possibility has been sitting in the corner of the room like an uninvited guest. Not loud, not demanding attention… just there. And if that’s the way things go, Whiskey Kitty will stay with mom. Which means something very important has to happen first.
Mom needs training.
Now, most people think cats come pre-installed with “cuddle mode.” You scoop them up, they purr, everyone wins. Whiskey Kitty did not read that manual. She’s operating on a different operating system entirely. You try to hug her and she reacts like you just proposed a surprise wrestling match. Lap sitting? That’s a hard no. She’s not a decorative pillow. She’s a kinetic sculpture.
But what she lacks in traditional affection, she makes up for in pure, electric play.
So I’ve been coaching mom like a sideline strategist in the Super Bowl of Cat Entertainment.
“Don’t grab her… engage her.”
“Don’t hold her… chase her.”
“Become the prey.”
Because Whiskey’s love language isn’t stillness… it’s movement.
Tag becomes a high-speed hallway chase where she darts like a tuxedo comet from one room to another. Hide and seek turns into a psychological thriller where she disappears behind furniture, only to ambush ankles with surgical precision. “Catch me if you can” is less a game and more a humbling experience for any human with aging knees. And then there’s her masterpiece… Pounce. The Olympic event of kittenhood. The full-body wiggle, the locked-in stare, the tiny calculation of distance… and then—launch.
That’s how she says, I love you.
Not with cuddles. With chaos.
And it’s funny, because in the middle of all this practical preparation, my mind tries to run ahead of me like a dog off a leash. It starts building worst-case scenarios, stacking them up like dominoes. What if I have to leave? What if things don’t work out? What if—
That right there… that’s the old trick. Catastrophizing.
It’s a mental habit, not a prophecy. A cognitive distortion, not a destiny. The brain trying to write a horror novel when all we have is a rough draft.
The truth is much simpler, even if it’s less dramatic. The future hasn’t happened yet.
The public defender, the district attorney, the judge… they’re all doing their jobs. No villains, no grand conspiracy, just a system moving through its gears. Which means my job is clear. Stay steady. Stay sober. Stay in treatment. Show up like a man who deserves the next chapter, not one who’s already written his own defeat.
And on that front, there’s something worth holding onto.
Over three weeks smoke free.
That’s not theory. That’s not a possibility. That’s reality. The cessation program even checked in, like a pit crew making sure the engine’s still running smooth. They told me to call anytime—if things get shaky, or even just to say the words out loud: I’m still doing this.
And I am.
Meanwhile, Whiskey Kitty is downstairs, probably plotting her next ambush, completely unconcerned with court dates, housing uncertainty, or human overthinking. She lives in a world of sunbeams, footsteps, and opportunity. If there’s motion, there’s meaning. If there’s a shadow, there’s a game.
Maybe that’s the lesson she’s been trying to teach all along.
You don’t solve the future. You play the moment.
So I’ll keep coaching mom. I’ll keep preparing for whatever comes. I’ll keep doing my part, one decision at a time.
And whether I’m the one she’s chasing… or the one she leaves behind for a while… she’ll still be out there, pouncing on life like it owes her something.
Once again, I got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
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