I’m extremely proud of this photo of my cat Wrigley and I. We were up at Logan Pass in Glacier National Park, fall of 2019. Wrigley later died on December, 27th from an intestinal tumor. He was fine one day, then a week later, gone.
Wrigley was there at my feet for all my writing, all my novels, all my crazy schemes and ideas. He was everything to me.
Well old friend, it’s been eight months since you died on my lap.
Honestly, I haven’t been able to sit still since. I’ve been all over the country, unable to stay within four walls for long, or a single place. The longest stay was in Chicago and Denver, a month at most.
I’ve dove into my career, dated, hiked, explored, visited numerous great national parks and even caught a beer buzz with a rock star.
But nothing has worked. Nothing has dulled the pain of losing the critter I rescued thirteen years ago, back when he was a sick kitten at the Chicago pound.
The other day I came out of my gym. A silver Subaru Crosstrek was parked next to my car, and it even had a Thule rooftop carrier. I paused for a moment as the sense of loss hit me yet again.
You were an original, old friend.
I’ll keep moving, keeping going until it feels right to settle down. But I don’t see it happening anytime soon.
