Two loves I have, of comfort and despair

Indeed I have more loves, of course, but I think of two interchangeable ones when it comes to comfort and despair: My Cat and my writing.

Most days I have only to look at the grey furs and soft, padded paws of my cat to feel a wealth of happiness that I have him in my life. Stretched outside, sun in his eyes, belly bulging out, he is the epitome of comfort, both in himself and that which he imparts. In those moments I want to forget about my writing schedule and I simply wish to hang out with him and scratch his back. He is very particular about where I am allowed to scratch him; the stomach is verboten and he does NOT appreciate the song "Put another nipple in, in that Nippleodeon."

But then he goes off in the evening and doesn't return to the sound of my calling voice and I despair that something has happened to him. I spend all night checking the back door and one time, by chance, went to the front door, and there he was, sitting on the Welcome mat, waiting to be let into the house where he jumped onto a comfortable bed -- my son's, not mine, because he loves 'his brother' more than he does me.

My writing comforts me in a different way. I need to write because I am always writing in my head, because when I don't, I feel something is missing. On a good writing day I can set down 2000 words and at the end feel both happy and accomplished. But on a bad day, I am full of despair and wonder why on earth did I choose this career?

I think it is this yin-yang that makes life interesting. If I did not despair over the cat, I would not know how very much I love him. If I did not despair over my writing, I would not realize how very much I need it in my life.