Wendy spoke to her cat as she weeded the garden.
 
“Worry is terrible, Sniffles. It’s hard to imagine a day without it. I worry when I have nothing to worry about, and I worry more when I do.”
 
The cat stretched out a lazy paw, yawning as it rolled onto its back, with his large, white tummy facing the sun. Wendy shook her head.
 
“Look at you—not a worry in the world. You think every day is purr-fect, and that I’ll always be here to pander to your whims. You have no bills to pay, no clothes to launder—you’re worry free.”
 
Sniffles winked while he caressed his right ear with a cupped paw.
 
Wendy frowned. “It’s too perfect today—something will go wrong.”
 
Sniffles, a pedigree Australian-bred Persian, made a rapid change of position as he sat upright and licked his crotch, as if to say, “Balls, mate.”
 
Wendy smiled. If only she could be carefree, not that she wished to preen in the same manner, but the aging Sniffles’ agility and body-confidence were admirable for a fat slob.
 
“Oh, bother, I must hose the mud off the patio before I go,” Wendy thought with irritation. “My work never ends.” She flicked the valve on full-throttle with an impatient nudge from her gumboot.
 
“Whoa!” Wendy shrieked. She clutched her buttocks with wide-eyed shock. Sniffles darted to a safer place. “Darn! I forgot the hosepipe was right behind me. I didn’t expect a fountain of cold water up my dress.” She giggled. “I’ll have to change my clothes before I drive to town.”
 
Wendy was running late. She scrambled into dry clothes, and then rummaged in the bottom of her dark cupboard in search of shoes. Found, she yanked them on, grabbed her handbag, locked the door and fled from the house, hoping to reach the doctor’s room in time.
 
Twenty minutes later, she hobbled into Dr Jenkins’ consulting room, where she realised she had different shoes on—no wonder she hobbled—they were unequal heights. 
 
Dr Jenkins peered over his spectacles and asked, “Why are you limping, Mrs Smith?”
 
Wendy chuckled. “I’m not in pain—I mistakenly put odd shoes on.”
 
“How extraordinary!”
 
“Yes indeed.” Wendy agreed as she groped inside her handbag. “I also forgot to bring my purse …”
 
“It sounds like you’re having a dodgy day.” Dr Jenkins smiled.
 
Wendy grimaced. “Things were going too well, so I knew something would go wrong, and now it has—I feel better.” Her brow knotted. “Is there any more bad news, Dr?”
 
Dr Jenkins leaned forward. “Do you enjoy worrying, Mrs Smith?”
 
“No! Of course not. It’s a bad habit.”
 
The doctor nodded before speaking. “Today I have news for you.”
 
Wendy sat bolt upright like a startled rabbit framed in car headlights, her head nodded, indicating Dr Jenkins to continue.
 
“Your cancer results are negative—the lump was benign.”
 
Relief coursed through Wendy’s veins. A smile curved her lips as she let out a long sigh. “Thank you, doctor. Oh, my goodness—how am I going to pay? I’ve left my purse at home.”
 
“Don’t worry, Mrs Smith. Our receptionist can post the bill.” Dr Jenkins wagged his finger. “Remember to take time to smell the roses—and wear matching shoes.”
 
As Wendy hobbled out the doctor’s room with a spring in her gait, there was a new concern … “Darn—I hope I put enough money in the parking meter …”
 
Wendy thought, ‘There’s comfort to be found in day-to-day worries. It means I’m alive and things are normal.’ A grateful feeling welled up inside her as she hummed Bobby McFerrin’s one-hit-wonder, ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy!’