It may sound dorky, but I used to take my indoor cats out for walks.  On a leash.  Well, technically, Frankie was so big (not fat, per se, but thick), I had to buy him a medium-sized dog harness.

Anyway, it was almost futile—trying to take them out for walks.  We tried to take them out for walks in the middle of the night, when no one was around.  Most of the time, they would only go ten steps in either direction outside our front door, with their tails tucked behind their legs, slowing and lowly crawling inch by inch.  Sometimes, they would climb the stairs, sometimes not.

One time, my ex-boyfriend carried Frankie down to the parking lot of the condo complex to take him on a walk.  Once, a car was coming and instead of running or freaking out, Frankie just plopped down.  Yes, right there, in the middle of the parking lot aisle, he laid himself down, as the car approached.

It was really hysterically sad to me when my ex first told me about it.  I could just picture Frankie doing that.

Anyway, for the last week or so, I’ve been feeling so physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted, that I thought about and felt like Frankie there in the parking lot.

As the headlights of the Car of Life approached, all I wanted to do was just lay down.  (And no, that’s not meant to sound like and I certainly am not suicidal)

Now that it’s the weekend, though, I feel a lot better.  Not just because I’m getting a nice surprise visit from a special someone.  I just feel like it’s a nice break.