I got canned. My last, big design project; the one I was counting on is over. I failed. I can’t remember the last time I failed at a job. They’re going elsewhere. They just didn’t like what I was doing. I feel like such a loser. I’ve hardly worked all year and now this. There goes any self esteem I might have had.
Then I look at Joey.
I’m in the guest room with him and he’s purring loudly and investigating my computer keyboard. I can barely type. He keeps jumping all over the keys, rubbing his face on the edges of the screen. He wants to play. I should give in, but I’m angry and think I should try to write, first. It’s a losing battle. I’ll have to stop, but not without this thought-for all the fear and worry and disappointment in my life, I see this little kitten without a care in the world. He’ll have his leg amputated!…amputated in six more days. These are the last few days of his life, as he knows it. He doesn’t know he’ll be leaving here and going to stay in a cage for a few days, undergoing scary treatments from strangers. He’s scooping up huge mouthfuls of canned food right now. Soon, he’ll be bouncing off the mattress, trying to grab onto one of his toys that I’ll wave teasingly over his head. He runs and jumps, completely without regard to the weakened, crooked limb that he must drag around…but I digress. He’s staring at me. I think we should have some play time now. Excuse me.