Writing as Therapy

I've not posted anything in awhile. This coincided with the diagnosis of a pet's terminal illness. He may be a cat, but he has been a part of my family for nearly 15 years. When he dies, it will hurt and I'll always miss him. Writing about what ails me sometimes helps.

After nightfall in October of 1997, a little girl knocked on the door of the newspaper where I worked, and a photographer unlocked it.

"My grandma says she's going to throw this kitten into the woods, if somebody doesn't take it," the child said.

Newspaper people are notoriously sentimental suckers. The photographer took the box with the kitten in it. Knowing I was new in town and that I had expressed an interest in getting a cat, she called me at home.

I went back into the office, opened the box and saw a tiny gray kitten with black stripes. "Your name is Smokey," I said, picking up the tiny tiger, who fit in my palm.

Nearly 15 years later, that kitten is still my little buddy. And, even when he's gone, he still will be.

There, that felt better.