This morning I woke up to the softest alarm clock in the world.
Whiskey Kitty was resting against my cheek, delivering air kisses, purring like a tiny motor of devotion, licking my ear as if to say, Rise and serve your feline kingdom. She had plenty of food and water, but love, apparently, is a renewable resource and must be delivered hourly.
Then Mom’s voice came up the stairwell like a human foghorn:
“Don’t sleep in!”
And just like that, the day officially began.
Today was supposed to be another quit date.
I lasted about fifteen minutes.
Fifteen heroic, smoke-free minutes before I found myself walking toward the store, negotiating with myself like a lawyer who already knew the verdict. Tea. Cigarettes. The cheaper ones from the smoke shop near 7-Eleven.
I even told the guy behind the counter, “I’m trying to quit, but I’m having no luck.”
He nodded and said he’s been trying for a long time too.
Running a smoke shop may not be the ideal recovery environment.
Yesterday I smoked all day. Between cigarettes, I spent time with Whiskey Kitty. By evening she seemed tired… a little sickly… not quite herself.
And that hit me harder than any craving ever has.
If I hurt Whiskey Kitty, I don’t know what I’d do.
She’s been everything to me these past couple months. My comfort. My routine. My reason to get up. My tiny, whiskered accountability partner.
I smoke outside. She’s an indoor cat. But I keep thinking… what if the nicotine was on my hands? What if I transferred it when I pet her?
Whether that’s exactly what happened or not, the feeling is the same.
Responsibility.
And guilt.
And a very clear message from the universe, delivered by a small tuxedo kitten:
This isn’t just about me anymore.
I’m working with a free cessation program over the phone, and they’ve given me some solid strategies. I’m expecting another call today. It helps knowing there’s a plan, a voice, and a system on my side.
There’s also something else on the line.
One of my followers made me a promise: if I make it to six months smoke-free, she’ll take me to dinner anywhere I want.
That’s motivation.
Maybe I won’t get there today.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But six months from now?
That’s a horizon I can walk toward.
Right now, I’m not celebrating victory.
I’m on the battlefront.
Cravings are the enemy. Habits are the trenches. Every decision is a small skirmish. Some days I win ground. Some days I lose it.
But the war isn’t decided by one cigarette.
It’s decided by showing up again tomorrow.
And tomorrow morning, I know exactly who will be there waiting for me…
A little kitty.
A warm purr.
And another chance to fight. 🐾🔥
by Dan and Bonkers
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muu6ww