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I usually block off a section of the house for Whiskey to roam once I wake up and get myself together. It’s our routine. Controlled chaos. A small kingdom where she can patrol, pounce, and judge me silently. This morning, as I handed her to my mom, we could practically hear her tiny internal monologue coming out as loud, indignant meows: Dan was mean to me. He didn’t feed me on time. So I bit him up. Case closed. 🐾⚖️She had clearly prepared her testimony. Then, moments later, mom sneezed. Not a polite little sniffle. A full-blown sneeze that sent...

At approximately 10 a.m., Whiskey Kitty declared war on my wrists. Sharp tiny teeth. Pounce mode fully activated. Wrists shredded like deli meat. The lesson was immediate and painful: forget to feed the cat and she transforms from angelic furball into a feral biting monster with a personal vendetta. So I did my duty. Bowls filled. Peace restored. Then I did the other thing. I went straight for the cigars and tea at 7-Eleven. Yesterday I had already blogged and texted about my relapse, feeling like I’d let everyone down. The responses were kind, supportive, forgiving. And yet, there I...

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,...

I woke up in the best possible way. Purring. Ear licking. Air kisses. The full feline gratitude ceremony. The kind that says, without words, thank you for being my human. There are worse ways to start a morning than being chosen by a small creature with whiskers and opinions. Mom is out with my brother at their weekly brunch, so the house is quiet. The calm kind of quiet, not the heavy kind. Yesterday was a little rougher. I got told off at the coffee shop for butting into a conversation that wasn’t mine. Fair enough. Social instincts don’t always...

This morning, Whiskey Kitty chose violence. Not the dramatic kind, just the relentless, pointy-toothed, pounce-and-bite variety that says, wake up, human, the bowl is empty and I am offended. I wanted to sleep in. That was adorable of me to think. Instead, I now have kitty bite marks decorating my wrists like some sort of very small, very judgmental tattoo artist went to town. I dragged myself out of bed earlier than usual and handled the crisis: food, water, peace restored. Or so I thought. Later, while I was cleaning out her litter box, Whiskey decided to crawl right in...