I did. I meant to write last night. I had the time set aside, the lab top charged, and the topic picked out. I was ready, salivating to explode onto the page, until….
Itty Bitty, my shelter kitty (try saying that five times fast) plopped down on me, the way only cats can do, with complete and utter disregard for any personal space, promptly falling asleep, his little fluff of life, vibrating in pure ecstasy against my chest.
It was as if he could sense that the next day he would be a bit more itty, his tiny blossoming manhood removed for the betterment of all cat kind.
He cuddled up to me, trying to suck all sympathy he could.
I held strong.
No I would write. I would.
Then Iddy screamed, writhing from a bad dream, his eyes flying open with fear, glancing up at me, instantly purring as his head floated down in a peaceful slumber. I knew my night was ruined.
Well, perhaps not ruined, but any writing for the night flew out the window. And as he settled in for a nap, I turned on Netflix, comforted that I was in good company, as many a writer has a feline companion.