"CAT, I OWE YOU MY LIFE" (PROSE)
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Cat, I owe you my life.

You see, I was feeling pretty bad.  This morning, I was so depressed, I wanted to die.  I was thinking of killing myself.  It's not that I want to die, I just don't want to go on living.  Not without Sammy...

I haven't had a cat in years.  Not since Phoo-phoo...

I was walking...walking...trying to decide how to end it all.  Guns were too loud, too messy.  What if I missed or hit someone else?  Jumping?  I'm afraid of heights, even more terrified at the thought of being aware when I hit.  Walking into traffic?  Slitting my wrists?  I can't stand the sight of blood.  Pills?  I'd probably just get sick or somehow survive, just to live on as a vegetable.

Phoo-phoo was my baby when I was twelve.  I'd found him...a little black and white fur ball...you look a lot like him, did you know that?  I convinced Mama to let me keep him.  Phoo-phoo and I did everything together...until that day he ran away.  I looked and looked and looked for him, but I never saw Phoo-phoo again.  I grew up and got married, but could never bring myself to get another cat.  I loved Phoo-phoo and he ran away...not long after, Mama died.  The cancer.  I was on my own...

I couldn't get my mind to focus, so I walked back to the apartments, sat on the stoop, and here you came, strolling up like you knew me or something.  A tiny ball of black and white fluff.  Big green eyes.  You crawled in my lap.  You mewed a question.  Tears came to my eyes; I started to pet you and you started purring.

Cat, I owe you my life.

Are you sure you want to be around me?  I've done some things...I'm not proud of.  I was married once, Cat.  My husband and I were so in love.  We were on top of the world.  I got pregnant, but the baby was stillborn.  A little boy.  I descended into hell and began drinking.  Lost my job; not long after, my husband had had enough and he left, too.  The home was repossessed when I couldn't make payments and I was out on the streets.  I had to survive, so I began prostituting.  I wound up getting raped.  Beaten.  Was in and out of jail.  Some life, eh, Cat?

A kind policeman directed me to a rehab center.  After much struggle, I stopped drinking.  Been sober two years.  Kinda proud of that...got a job and earned enough to move here.  Not the best job, not the best apartments around, but I'm working and have a roof over my head.  I'm grateful to be off the streets.

What are you looking at?  What?  Why was I so depressed, is that what you're asking?

I have no family left.  No one speaks to me very much at work.  Forget my ex.  He's been out of the picture for a very long time.  Don't even know if he's alive any more...today is the anniversary date of my little boy's death...

Cat, I owe you my life.  What say we go inside where it's warm and I'll scrounge us up some tuna?

(C) Copy written, November 2, 2004, by Karla Dorman.