Whiskey Kitty bit me hard this morning. Not a love nibble. Not a playful warning. A full-on, you-slept-too-long-and-I-am-starving bite. Message received. I have to wake up earlier. This cat runs on a strict internal clock, and it does not observe snooze buttons.
After feeding her, I did the thing I already knew I was going to do. I went and bought another pack of cigarettes, fully aware of the decision while I was making it. No fog. No mystery. Just me, the counter, and a quiet nod to a habit that still knows my name.
My caseworker texted me a handful of links to smoking cessation programs. Instead of letting them sit there like unopened mail, I called one right away. Kick It California. It used to be called 1-800-NO-BUTTS, which is still one of the better phone numbers ever assigned to public health. We talked for about thirty minutes. No shaming. No scare tactics. Just facts, options, and timing. We agreed on a quit date: tomorrow.
Since I haven’t been smoking very long this time around, there’s no medical reason to wait. Tomorrow works. In fact, it feels cleaner to not go to the smoke shop in the morning than to dramatically throw away a half pack like I’m in an after-school special. Is it a half measure? Probably. But it’s an honest one, and honest beats theatrical right now.
My brother came by to visit Mom, and we ended up talking politics. This time it was ICE. We didn’t agree. I tried something different and mostly listened. He can help me in ways that have nothing to do with voting, and that matters more. He doesn’t believe in major news sources, which leaves me wondering where his facts and statistics come from. I don’t necessarily doubt him. I just don’t know what anyone trusts anymore. Information itself feels like it’s been chain-smoking for years.
He’s not a cat person, but Whiskey Kitty absolutely loved him. She followed him around like a tiny black shadow with whiskers. It was genuinely adorable, the kind of thing that sneaks past your defenses. Animals have a way of doing that.
The truth is, I’m having a hard time writing this blog this week. The results haven’t been great, and it makes me sad. Depressed, even. I think pets can tell when something’s wrong. Whiskey Kitty watched me smoking through the window and gave me those sad eyes. Not judgmental. Just disappointed in a quiet, feline way that somehow lands harder.
So that’s where I’m at. My quit date is tomorrow. No speeches. No promises carved in stone. Just tomorrow, waiting patiently like a cat at breakfast time.
Tomorrow will tell.
by Dan and Bonkers
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