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📓 Wednesday, February 25, 2026 — 10:01 p.m.
Failure has haunted me.
It’s been the answer to a question I never asked.
Today I took my cat to the veterinarian.
He has dealt with feline herpes, and I made the decision to take him off his medication. He seemed fine to me, so I made what I thought was a harmless decision.
He threw up five times. First his last meal, then four more times — bile.
I left him overnight at the vet.
No, he isn’t dying.
But he needed fluids, antibiotics, and monitoring.
It was costly.
“I should’ve been more responsible.”
“I didn’t think he would get sick.”
I remember when I misread his feeding instructions. I was supposed to give him half a cup for the entire day. I was giving him four to five cups. I corrected that. I bought a feeder. I learned.
“You are responsible for him. But life happens. Don’t beat yourself up.”
Now I’m sitting in my garage, typing in the quiet.
There is silence, broken only by keystrokes.
I feel him — but he’s not here.
Last night he laid on my lap.
Tonight he’s at a clinic with an IV.
To say I miss him feels small.
To say I value him feels more accurate.
We all need something to center us.
I never realized how much the small things meant — the petting, the meowing, him laying on my lap.
He made me feel like I mattered to someone.
He would curl up next to me without judgment.
I would sit there and judge myself.
Reader question: What small presence in your life has reminded you that you matter?
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