Editor’s Note: We want to thank our writers for contributing unique, moving, and personal stories related to the new reality of a world besieged by the virulent coronavirus. We will be sharing those stories with you, along with our usual articles. We hope they bring you comfort, camaraderie, and company during difficult times.

By Nancy King

When the pandemic began, it was no longer possible to travel, and people with whom I hiked regularly were no longer willing to commit to regular hikes. The only option, if I wanted to keep hiking, was to hike by myself. I decided to hike every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, no matter what, no matter how I felt. At first, I was discomforted by hiking alone on the little used trail. Phone coverage is spotty. If I fell or hurt myself there would likely be no one to help, and yet, trepidation quickly turned to gratitude. Hiking alone reduces the threat of the virus. It allows me to walk in a silent, meditative state, aware of the sounds of birds, leaves swooshing in the breeze, the soft earth beneath my feet, the comfort of trees reaching toward the almost always blue sky. In all the years I’ve been hiking alone I’ve had only one potentially dangerous moment. Recently I came upon two bears gamboling on the trail. I froze, then screamed louder than I ever thought possible; The bears, probably as surprised as I was by my commanding voice, turned and cavorted off down the hillside away from me. It took a few minutes before I was sure they were gone and I felt reasonably safe to continue hiking.

I hike the steep up and down trail to try to relieve my stress about the political situation, the virus, my cat who is dying. 

 About the political situation—I send money, sign emails, write letters. Not much, but it’s what I can do.

About the virus—I wear a mask, keep social distance, socially isolate, wash my hands. Not much, but it’s what I can do.

About Mia, my cat—I try to find food she will nibble. I stroke and palpate her body to make sure she isn’t in pain. I clean up her messes. I rub her belly. Not much, but it’s all I can do.

Mia is wasting away from lymphoma and a tumor in her abdomen. Given that she’s lost more bodyweight than seems possible, it’s amazing she’s still able to jump up onto my high bed. Her life force is as strong as ever. But I know she is declining rapidly and we both need comforting. I’ve coined a word: purrdle. I cuddle her, she purrs. I wake up each morning with her emaciated body scrunched against my face. We purrdle, with me knowing each time could be the last.

Fifteen years ago, when I was out of remission from a rare form of leukemia, I was told I needed a reason to get out of bed. A friend insisted I get a cat. We went to a cat adoption event at a mall, where fostered cats housed in various-sized carry cases and cages meowed, yowled, hissed, slept, were picked up, inspected, put back down. Too much chaos and confusion for me. I was ready to leave when I saw a sad-looking woman coming toward me carrying a case with a kitten with two bright eyes that stared at me. The woman, who’d been fostering her, told me how much she loved the orphan kitten who was found in a flower garden with no mamacat. For four months the woman had steadfastly bottle-fed the black, brown, and orange ball of fur, keeping her alive, barely. I picked up the kitten who weighed about a pound. She cuddled against me, oblivious to the sights, smells, and sounds surrounding us. She was mine and I was hers. I brought her home. When I took her to a vet for shots, as my kitten and I cuddled, the vet sternly warned me to be prepared. “Mia has severe digestive issues. Even though she seems healthy, she’s not likely to live long given how tiny she is.” Since I too have had digestive issues for most of my life I didn’t pay much attention to the vet’s dire diagnosis. Mia gained nine pounds within a year.

 For more than 15 years I have cleaned up Mia’s smelly digestive messes that often left me gagging. I have scoured the pet food store to find food she might like to eat and usually end up throwing most or all of the contents on a compost pile. A few years ago I ran out of worry about her not eating. I told Mia, “Cat, it’s now on you. Eat or not.” I still searched the pet food store’s supply of cat food in hopes of finding food she would eat, but with more resignation than hope. Through it all, appetite or no appetite, we both needed the comfort of cuddling.

 Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I hike up and down the steep mountain trail looking for a bit of comfort from the soft earth, and the sounds and smells of the forest. When I come home I take a deep breath. I look for Mia. She’s alive. We can still purrdle. 

Santa Fe-based Nancy King’s new memoir, Breaking the Silence, (Terra Nova Press) is available online at bookshop.org and amazon.com Please visit www.nancykingstories.com where you order her books, read excerpts of her memoir and novels, learn about her nonfiction dealing with the power of stories, imagination, and creativity, as well as information about Nancy’s workshops. You can also order books from Nancy by contacting her at nanking1224@earthlink.net