There’s a lot going on in this house right now. The small one—the 12-year-old—is in pain after something called “wisdom teeth removal.” I don’t know who thought taking out someone’s wisdom was a good idea, but clearly, no one asked me. She’s quiet, pale, and smells faintly of strawberries and regret. I’ve taken it upon myself to curl up next to her as often as possible. Healing purrs on full blast.

Then there’s the man. He’s lost in thought, walking around with a furrowed brow and too much weight on his shoulders. He tries to hide it, but I see him. I see all. He needs comfort too, and I’ve made sure to sit on his chest at least once today, which I think helped. I didn’t get shoved off immediately, so we’ll call that progress.

And then there’s Leigh. My main human. My Writer. She’s… spiraling. But in a controlled, organized, “let me take care of everyone so I don’t fall apart” kind of way. She barely sits down. I wait, watching from my perch like the furry stalker I am, hoping for a rare opportunity to pounce—er, cuddle—when she finally collapses onto the couch or her chair. It’s not often, but when it happens, I’m there.

This week, she’s been moving all her writing over to something called Dabble. I must say, I approve. The interface is neat, the chaos is finally contained, and her stories are starting to look a little less like a tangled ball of yarn and more like something truly purrrfect. She’s made some bold changes too—ones I think she’s been scared to make. But watching her lean into her creativity again? It’s kind of beautiful.

Even though things are hard right now, I know she’s still in there. Under the stress. Under the pain. Under the worry for everyone else. She’s still writing. Still building worlds. Still holding it all together.

And this Writer Cat? I’m not going anywhere.

Whether it’s warm laps, quiet purrs, or the occasional dramatic flop across her keyboard—I’ll keep showing up.

Because even heroes need their familiars.

— Writer Cat