And every time I look in the closet (half the time just to see her and give her a pat), she does it.
I've been looking at, and thinking about, this closet quite a bit over the past week. No renovation is planned, and there nothing worth considering about the closet. No funky smell, no guilt-inducing clutter, no childhood "monster in the closet" memories. I don't scare easily in my own flat. There was a time when my wife and I heard someone or something scratching at the wall in the apartment next door. It made the hair stand up on the back of my neck, literally. Goose flesh. But the closet is just the place to hang my shirts, store a chair, and pat Impy.
I keep thinking about that damn closet because it makes me think of suicide. Of hanging myself, like two people I once knew who did that very thing. There may as well be an "Exit" sign over it. Green or red, your choice. I'll never give in to suicide. I've made promises to all the right people that I'd never try that again. Still, it's difficult to stop thinking about. It is, after all, a solution.
Another solution to racing, negative thoughts that scream and whisper in the night, throughout the day, and particularly in the early morning is to take Annie for a walk. A lovely distraction. Or kiss my wife, whom I love more than any other.
That fucking closet. What a great cat that Impy is, always guarding the exit and ready to screech at me in case I decide to give in and do the dangle.