I’ll try to tie this into writing as much as I can, but mostly it’s just to make me feel better…if possible.

I often hear about writers who have cats who “help” them write. Mine aren’t that interested in writing, but I have put all three of them into the book I’m working on now, just for fun, and because I needed some cats in it (in case my agent is reading this, don’t worry, they don’t talk or anything).

Four years ago, when I moved down south from “way out west” (as my husband calls it), I took my cat, Coiffure (aka Mr. Fatboy, which is a reference to “the fatman” or Buddha, not a derogatory name because of his size). He was eleven years old at the time and had never been outside (except when he escaped a few times). He was very upset about having to fly and when I took him to the airport, I promised him that I would never move him again. I didn’t “tell” him, or “say” we’d never move…I promised him. I believed that one hundred percent at the time.

When I was in my twenties, I used to say things like, “Yeah, I promise I’ll do the dishes before bed.” and then not do them and a friend told me that when I said things like that, used “promise” lightly, it made it less valuable of a statement when I wanted to make a real promise. I realized the truth in that and since then I have tried very hard to only make promises I can keep. If I’m not sure, I say, “I promise to try and ….”. However, the promise I made to Mr. Fatboy was an out and out promise.

Mr. Fatboy LOVED Chez Gatos (our name for our house). He basked in the sun, stalked a squirrel once or twice, tried to get friendly with the goslings (before the mama goose chased him off), had a new brother cat and sister cat, and sat at my husband’s feet for hours and hours while Victor played the guitar (or banjo, or uke, or mandolin…even the fiddle). He was a happy kitty.

Well, as you readers know, we are in the process of moving…in fact, we’re back on the west coast after five days on the road. Two days before we were supposed to move, I noticed Mr. Fatboy was breathing heavily and rapidly. One day before the move, I took him to the vet, just to ease my mind and convince myself it was just anxiety about the move. He’d always been a bit anxious about change…well, you can probably see where this is going. Our lovely, fifteen year old, Mr. Fatboy was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. There was only one kindness I could give him and so I did even though it made our hearts ache with sadness. I had made a promise and he was holding me to it. He was not going to move.

In regards to writing…I think that maybe promises will be a theme someday in something I write.

Rest easy, Mr. Fatboy…you are still at Chez Gatos, a fat cat, baking in the sun, way down south, where you love to be.