I woke up the good way today. The kind of morning that starts softly and insists gently. Purrs first. Then ear licking. Then air kisses. A feline greeting card written in whiskers. That sweetness didn’t last long. It evolved, as it always does, into playful pouncing and light biting. Whiskey Kitty has range.
Mom screamed for me to wake up, which snapped me fully into the day. I rolled out of bed, half-human, half-zombie, and fed the cat. Crisis averted. For now.
Yesterday was tough.
I went to the coffeehouse planning to work, to settle in and do my thing, but a book club had taken over every seat. No room at the inn. The irony is that they had already ended up reading one of my books in their last session. Even better, they promoted me. So the universe gave me a win and a block at the same time. That seems to be its favorite move.
With nowhere to land, I wandered around downtown. And that’s when the cravings took over. I found myself scanning sidewalks and doorways, looking for someone smoking a cigarette, wondering if I could buy one. Just one. That voice again. The negotiator. The liar dressed as reason.
To my surprise, I couldn’t find anyone smoking. Not one person. It felt cosmic. Like the city itself had decided to stop me.
I ended up in a cigar shop. I stood there for a moment, wrestling with myself, and decided not to. Or at least, not right then. Later this afternoon, I caved and had a couple cigars. I won’t sugarcoat it. It happened.
I should have listened to my case manager about getting another smoking cessation medication when the Chantix ran out. The cravings didn’t politely fade. They came back loud and physical and relentless. What was I supposed to do? That question is dangerous because it sounds helpless, but it always sneaks in before a slip.
And then came the unexpected dilemma.
Whiskey Kitty to the rescue.
I wanted to play with her, but I felt guilty. Like I’d let her down. And there was something else. If I start going in and out of the house to buy tobacco products, I could accidentally let her slip out. She’s curious, fast, and fearless. She could get lost. She could get hurt.
There was another realization, heavier and harder to ignore. If I smoke a lot and then pet her, the poisons on my hands can transfer to her fur. She cleans herself. That stuff could make kitty sick.
And just like that, the frame shifted.
In a strange, almost theatrical moment, it hit me that my smoking doesn’t only hurt me. It affects the ones around me. Even the small, four-legged one who depends on me completely.
So now I’m waiting patiently while mom finishes her Caring Companions group for her elder friends. Whiskey is roaming freely around the house, safe and curious, while I stay put and deal with the mess I got myself into. No running out. No spiraling. Just sitting with it.
A big part of this fight is responsibility. Not guilt. Responsibility.
I’m responsible for her.
Whiskey Kitty, I got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
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