The last couple of nights have been a little different around here. Normally Whiskey Kitty wakes me up by gently licking my ear, which is strange enough as alarm clocks go. Lately, however, she has upgraded her routine. Now she kneads and claws into my neck while I’m sleeping like a tiny furry baker working a stubborn piece of dough.
Naturally, I try to move her paws away, but Whiskey interprets that as a complete rejection of her existence. In cat language, apparently, please don’t stab my neck with your claws translates to get out of my life forever. So the negotiations fail.
This morning I woke up late and noticed something strange. Whiskey wasn’t on the bed. She wasn’t pacing the room. She wasn’t demanding breakfast with her usual tiny tyrant routine. I fed her and gave her water, but she still didn’t show up.
Then I spotted her.
About two feet from the bed, curled up in a tight little ball on the floor, sulking like a Victorian heroine who had been emotionally wounded. Apparently she had decided I was being mean to her. The whole performance had a very theatrical quality to it. If cats had violins, there would have been a sad solo playing.
I would have given her more attention, but I had somewhere to be. Mom and I had to get to my therapist appointment.
On the way, we stopped at 7-Eleven where I stocked up on tea. These days tea has become one of my secret weapons against cigarettes. It gives me something to do with my hands and keeps the cravings distracted.
Then we headed to the clinic.
My therapist has a rather unusual style. He asks questions, I answer them, and he types everything into the computer. That’s basically the entire session. No advice. No suggestions. No grand psychological insights. Just typing.
Sometimes I feel like I’m participating in a very polite interrogation.
Thirty minutes later we were finished, and Mom and I headed to Walgreens so she could pick up a few things.
That’s when temptation made its appearance.
While standing in the store I had the thought that I could quietly buy a cigar and sneak it later without anyone noticing. The idea seemed clever for about ten seconds.
Then my phone rang.
It was the cessation program calling to check in.
Busted.
It was as if they had psychic surveillance on me in the tobacco aisle. The timing was perfect. Just hearing from them snapped me right out of it and the plan evaporated instantly. Crisis averted.
After that we went to Best Buy because Mom needs a chip installed in her computer. The technician explained that the installation itself has to be done at home.
Which means the job is mine.
Mom assumes I know everything about computers, which is only half true. I understand software pretty well, but hardware is another universe entirely. Opening up a computer and installing a chip feels a bit like performing surgery with a butter knife.
If I do it wrong, I could mess the whole thing up.
But this falls under the old-fashioned household agreement. Mom cooks and handles the dishes, and I deal with the “technical stuff.” So it looks like I’ll be heading into unknown territory soon with a screwdriver and a prayer.
When we got home I found Whiskey Kitty still sitting in her little corner, clearly continuing her dramatic protest.
I sat on the bed and motioned for her to come join me.
She didn’t move.
She just looked at me with that expression cats have perfected over thousands of years, the one that says, You know what you did.
There’s still art to work on tonight and a lot of things to prepare for the shows coming up, but these simple, strategic days are doing their job. They keep my mind busy, keep the cigarettes away, and keep life moving forward.
And even if Whiskey Kitty is currently holding a grudge, she’ll probably forgive me by bedtime.
Once again, I got this. 🐈⬛☕🎨
by Dan and Bonkers
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