Short Non-Fiction - Writing Exercises

Seven or eight years ago, it's hard to say now, my grandmother took in my aunt&uncle's cat who didn't like other cats. Phoebe was only supposed to stay with her temporarily, but it turns out that my grandmother never found a place to send her-or maybe she just never had the heart to let go of the kitty.

For the last eight months or so, I've been living with my grandmother, which, of course, means living with Phoebe. Phoebe was a beautiful cat, black and brown with a little bit of white. She was old, she was overweight and when she was left alone too long she would get angry and poop in the doorway, we loved her just the same.

About three weeks ago, Phoebe stopped eating. My grandmother tried all sorts of things to get her to eat, but nothing worked.

Yesterday my grandmother woke me up to tell me to say goodbye to Phoebe, that soon enough she would be leaving to be put down. She was crying. I couldn't cry, so I went to Phoebe and I gave her a few final minutes of attention. Our eyes met and I told her that I loved her. I said goodbye.

I went back to sleep.

When I woke up, my grandmother told me that the deed had been done.

Now I'm sitting at home on the computer, and Phoebe is nowhere to be found. She isn't sitting by me on the couch. She isn't meowing for attention.

The house is empty.

I am alone.

Phoebe was pretty much the most demanding cat I've ever met. She loved people. She loved attention. She didn't like to be alone, and I liked her company. Now I am alone, and with any luck she's sitting on Daddy's lap eating cat treats.

I knew when I saw her yesterday that she was ready to go. She was holding on for a while, saying her goodbyes. They have been said. She looked me in the eyes and she said goodbye to me in her own way. She started to meow, to cry.

My grandmother said she wondered if Phoebe knew. I think Phoebe did know. I think she was meowing her last goodbyes, asking for one last hug before she went.

What does this have to do with writing?

Writing is a very solitary profession. Other people tend to be very distracting when we are trying to write, so we lock our doors and turn off our phones. Many writers have pets, and develop strong relationships with these animals. We talk to them about our characters and they give us funny looks. We pet them absentmindedly when we've hit a block. We look at their cute faces and we see bundles of joy, of love.

I think every writer should have an animal, one that can be close to them without distracting them from their work too much. One that they can talk to and cuddle and love when they can't deal with other humans. It's kind of like a witch's familiar.

Phoebe was not my animal, but I loved her all the same, and I will miss her quiet, attention-seeking presence sitting next to me on the couch as I write my stories.

Phoebe is gone.

I am alone here.

The apartment is quiet.

Phoebe has finally left like she was supposed to... just not quite in the way she was supposed to.

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