There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed — Ernest Hemingway

Tiger Thomas

I met Tiger Thomas when

I met the love of my life. She opened the door; my heart skipped. I melted.

We locked eyes, smiled, and suddenly, there was a flash of fur. My love said look out for the cat. It was Tiger Thomas. For him, my first visit was an opportunity to race out the open door for some hunting time. He was two then. Now he’s twelve.  They’ve been my family ever since.

He’s a big, very male kitty. He was rescued from a box full of free kittens at a flea market. There was a period a few years ago I fell into a low period of depression. My dream job vanished, and sudden change and loss — job, property, and a place I loved living — filled my plate. I was lost. My loving woman was at work each day, and I was alone, at home, away from friends. Somehow, Tiger Kat understood my loss. He followed me around as a dog would — room to room, no matter my task at hand. He’d follow me to the kitchen and watch me clean and do dishes. I’d sit at the computer job hunting, and there was Tiger Kat. He became my best buddy. He kept me company and watched over me when I was home alone. He’ll always be my best buddy.

Tiger Kat received his favorite post when he was a kitten. Back then, he curled up as a small handful on the big post. We’ve bought him many posts since, but he prefers the old one, though he fills the space, and then some. It’s his safe place. He’s older and slower today, but then again, so am I. We often compare notes on growing old, with grace.

Tiger Thomas

Tiger Thomas

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