Yesterday I lived like a cat

I woke up knowing something was different.

I sat on the edge of my bed, stretched, really stretched, the kind that takes its time, and smiled. Yesterday had been a cat day. Not planned. Not scheduled. Just lived.

Tux was already meowing at my door. Before I could finish opening the door, he was already rubbing against the cabinet that holds the wet food, because he knew. He always knows. Tux is a tuxedo cat, black and white with a dapper white chest and two white shapes flanking his nose that look exactly like a mustache. My son Zach named him, and the name fits like a tailored suit.

I pulled the can, filled the bowl and on my way to my cozy morning spot, I grabbed the cream from the fridge for my waiting cup. The whole routine unfolded like it does every morning, except yesterday, I had been the one living it.

No scratching at my own door. No managing the day from the outside. Just being in it.

My social feeds are basically a cat channel at this point and I read something recently that stayed with me. We can show cats love through routine. Keeping their schedule is their love language. And they grade you on it. Tux cuddles when I get it right. Cali just stares at me. I have learned to read the difference.

Yesterday, I got it right. For myself.

It started slowly, the way good days do. After coffee on the balcony, my Feng Shui sanctuary facing south over the pond, sun warming my face, Cali tucked beside me and Tux surveying his kingdom from the cat tower. Cali is a tabby, all S’mores colors from nose to tail, named by my daughter Lexi. Cali and Tux are brother and sister, littermates who turned 11 in May and have never spent a day apart.

Sitting in the moment, I felt something loosen. The rain had come through the night before, leaving the wicker cushion damp enough to need a blanket. It was a cool, 64 degree Florida morning in June. A gift.

From that stillness I moved, not because I had to, but because I was ready to start the day. Across the hall is what I call Narnia 2.0, a storage room I recently rented to hold life’s treasures, overflow from cleaning out my parents’ home. I swept it out and got it ready. Then I turned to Narnia 1.0, the spare bedroom, where the real excavation began. Boxes that needed to go to the dumpster. That old black two-drawer filing cabinet I’ve kept life documents in for more years than I can count, dragged out with the intention of going through it all, shredding what is past, making room for what is new.

And then I found the dishes.

Tubs of dishware in a pattern I chose because that’s what you did back then; registered for china before the wedding. My mother followed every rule to the letter and an engaged couple was supposed to pick a pattern. It is all really pretty. Boxed for more than 25 years. I used to display everything in a china cabinet in our dining room because my mother said that’s what you do. I am pretty sure I only used the entire set one year that I hosted Thanksgiving. When the marriage fell apart and we moved from our family home, I never unboxed it again. I brought it through every move. Every season. Every version of myself, all the way to Florida.

It doesn’t sound logical, holding onto something like that. But some things have to travel with you until you’re ready to set them down. Yesterday I was ready. The tubs are sitting out in the kitchen, headed to our local Goodwill, the huge flea market-style one. Somebody out there is probably hunting for that exact pattern right now. The dishes get a new story. I release the guilt that came with them.

I didn’t plan any of it. I just moved the way Tux moves toward his food bowl, instinctively, unhurried, trusting the routine to hold me.

After a few hours of newspaper work, I took a late lunch break. And somewhere in that break I stretched out on the couch, found a new series, looked around at my peaceful life and my furry pals settled in beside me and just… stayed there.

No guilt. No negotiating with myself. No scratching at my own door.

Tux was curled up on one side. Cali on the other. The three of us, horizontal, unbothered, exactly where we were supposed to be.

I don’t know when I learned that rest had to be earned, that stillness needed a justification, that a do-nothing day was something to apologize for. But I’m unlearning it. One cat day at a time.