Postcard of the Day

 

Maybe my reserves are low. That'd make sense. Still.

This morning when I'd just gotten the kitten in the carrier to take her to the vet, I turned to open the door and she and the crate fell off the couch arm onto the floor, like, 3 feet below.  The crate landed on its side.  I got her out and she seemed okay, if stressed, and we went through with her appt, but I wasn't confident until tonight that she was at least pretty much alright.  I still haven't seen her walk but once, and she was holding one leg a litle funny, but she sure seemed happy to have me petting her this evening.  Didn't seem to have pain.

The other trauma of the day was one I should have gotten myself away from.  I was only sorta trapped, for the several many minutes that seemed like they'd never end.  Afterwards, when I snapped out of the shockfog enough, I took the first step toward better self-care on that front, and it didn't exactly go over well, but it went over well enough.  Shook me, though.  The whole thing.  I hate that vulnerability.

So I'm trying to exhale in the relief of the cat purring and rolling on her back for me, flopping around and being happy in her body, and in the relief of being home, for now, from a hostile world.  Maybe it's not bad to think of this place as my refuge.  I've feared that embracing that idea might lead to an exasperation of my isolationism.  But there are up sides to isolation.  And my isolation has TV, and cats.

And, hey, I don't drink.  Which is good, cuz if I did, boy would I drink tonight.