My Sunday As An Addict

Since I lost my cat last June, I often have cat withdrawal and start jonesin’ big time for some cat petting and general must-pamper-kitty urges.

Get another cat, you say? Well, maybe, right before my long Summer vacation, perhaps. But part of me also enjoys not having the responsibility of taking care of the cat, having to be back home for wet food feeding at certain times, or a repeat of taking care of a sick cat, constantly. It was a lot of stress.

So, instead of remarrying, I found a local brothel.

A nearby pet supply place, where I used to buy cat litter, has a big fluffy black cat living in the store. You can usually find him sleeping on various cat trees, or just wandering around.

A branch of my bank and a Goodwill occupy other spots in the same shopping center, so whenever I have the slightest reason to go there, I make a point of going into the pet supply place and spending some quality time petting the black cat.

Today he was sleeping. Woke up for a second, I petted him, and he just went back to sleep. I never want to disturb a cat’s sleep, so I wandered around the store to see if he’d wake up in a few, but no dice.

Sigh. I left.

Then since it finally stopped raining, I went for a nice long walk to think about/work out some ideas kicking around in my head & notebooks for Wagstaff 3. I get my best ideas on these multi-mile walks through the neighborhood, and it’s a no-shit-sherlock that the exercise is good for me. Get them triglycerides down AND figure out how to make my usual layer upon layer of idiotic pop culture plot actually turn out to make sense.

And as I walked by a house, I saw a little brown tiger cat!

Perhaps this was my KARMIC MAKEUP for not being able to pet the black one.

After all, I usually never see cats outside in my neighborhood. I actually don’t WANT to, since I live in an area where coyotes freely roam after-hours, and any cat left outdoors most often winds up listed as missing on Nextdoor or on posted flyers, and it’s more than obvious that Wile E. Cat-eating-fucker had a big dinner.

I called to the brown tiger cat. He took notice, but was skittish.

I knelt down to make myself less threatening, and called him over.

He trotted right over to me. Started to lean forward to smell my hand, and then suddenly changed his mind. Ran back towards the SUV in the driveway, then turned back to check on me.

I called him over again and made purring sounds.

He thought about it a moment, and then trotted back to his original spot, watching me.

Calling him over again didn’t work. He got bored and went into his backyard.

Nobody loves me.

I think I’ll jot down some after-walk notes about the book and drown my sorrows in some pasta & wine for dinner.

Pasta ALWAYS loves me.


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