For those that celebrate Thanksgiving, I’d like to wish everyone a joyous day filled with family and close friends.
My day started early—early enough that even the sun asked for five more minutes—running last minute errands so I could make my famous banana pudding. Famous, at least, in my kitchen. Made from scratch, layered with love, patience, and just the right amount of “don’t look at it too long or it won’t set.” It’s a simple recipe really, but it’s oh-so good… if you like banana pudding, that is. If you don’t, we can still be friends, but I might silently judge your dessert choices.
Today, my family is gathering at my brother’s new home to celebrate with my other siblings, my parents, and enough side dishes to feed a small frontier town. And by the way—if you’ve been keeping up with the family chronicles—Mom is back home and doing much better. The prayers, check-ins, and coordinated sibling scheduling actually worked. Thanksgiving miracle? I’d like to think so.
I also want to say I’ve been overwhelmed—in the best possible way—by the comments made these past few days about my beloved Clyde. Losing him has been tough, heavier than expected, and quieter than our home has felt in years. The love you’ve all shown has lifted that a little. Thank you for taking the time out of your busy days to read about Clyde and send your condolences. It means more than you know. The internet can be a strange place sometimes, but every now and then it shows up with a casserole of comfort and a hug in comment form.
Clyde left a legacy of routine faucet drinks, shower supervision, quiet companionship, and unconditional loyalty. And while today is about gratitude, family, and pudding prestige—I’d be lying if I didn’t admit part of my thankful list is that I got to love a buddy like him for as long as I did.
So from our family to yours: May your turkey be tender, your pudding be perfectly layered, and your moments together be long-lasting. And if you happen to be eating banana pudding today—well then, you’re clearly doing it right.
Happy Thanksgiving, friends. I truly appreciate you all.
It’s been a little over a week since my wife and I said goodbye to our little buddy Clyde — and even now, it still doesn’t feel real. The house is quieter. Our routines feel incomplete. And the space he once filled in our daily lives has become an unmistakable emptiness we carry with us everywhere we go.
Losing a pet isn’t just losing an animal. It’s losing a tiny familiar heartbeat that anchored your mornings, evenings, and even the simplest moments in between. Clyde didn’t just live with us — he lived in us. And that is why the silence left behind is so loud.
The Questions That Follow Loss
Grief invites doubt to the table whether you want it or not. In the days since losing Clyde, I’ve replayed memories and asked myself the kind of questions only guilt-ridden love can produce.
Did I fail him by not rushing him to the vet that morning when I knew he felt off? Could a vet have even helped him, or was his final moment simply his time, no matter where we stood when it came?
And then, unfairly, I asked myself even bigger questions.
Did we deprive him by loving him indoors his entire life? Should we have forced adventure on a cat who once sprinted away from his own reflection? Did we rob him of butterfly chases and bird pursuits, even though the world outside the glass clearly felt too vast for his brave-but-tiny soul?
The hardest twist of all is this:
Now that he’s gone, Clyde rests outside in the very outdoors he avoided his whole life. His body lies in the earth, a couple of feet underground, beneath open sky he never trusted long enough to explore. And somehow, that irony stung deeper than the loss itself.
But grief has a way of writing stories backward. We judge ourselves not on what a life asked for, but on what it might have wanted if it had been someone else’s.
The Challenge We Loved Through
The older Clyde got, the more life asked of him — and of us.
He developed heart problems and thyroid issues that, if left untreated, triggered seizures. He depended on daily medication. Three pills a day, one so bitter it had to be hidden in a capsule like contraband medicine you smuggle past a taste border.
My wife, endlessly patient and unshakably devoted, became his pharmacist, caretaker, and protector. She never missed a dose. Not once.
As arthritis stole his ability to handle stairs, we improvised with litter boxes everywhere upstairs… which Clyde promptly judged as unacceptable. His counter-proposal? Our bed. Repeatedly. His negotiations included tarp treaties, blanket peace accords, and enough towels to open a small linen kiosk.
Deep sleep brought bladder leaks. Mobility struggles required strategic towel placement. Planning ahead became second nature. Laundry day became every day. And love translated into accommodation after accommodation.
Yes, Clyde was a challenge. But challenges don’t leave holes this big — connection without conditions does.
We didn’t put up with him. We adapted for him. Because loving him was never the question. Protecting his comfort was the answer.
The One Time He Went “Outside”
One memory has surfaced more than any other this week.
Years ago, my wife and I sat on the front porch enjoying the evening when I noticed Clyde inside, parked at the glass door like a museum curator observing a world exhibit titled “Nope.”
I opened the door, fully expecting him to reconsider.
He stepped onto the porch as if crossing an international border without a passport. Cautious. Curious. Politely concerned. He sniffed around like an overworked detective suspecting a plot but gradually accepting the peace of the moment.
And then — overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of everything existing simultaneously — he retreated indoors at high speed.
Because that was Clyde.
Brave in pixels. Overstimulated in 3D.
He didn’t want the outdoors. He wanted the safety of observation. The comfort of closeness. The reassurance of familiar floors, predictable humans, and climate-controlled affection.
And we gave him exactly that.
The Truth Beneath the Guilt
Here is what I finally realized once the guilt’s microphone ran out of batteries:
Clyde wasn’t an adventure cat. He was a heart cat. A soulmate with paws. A small emotional support mammal who didn’t read self-help books, but did master deep listening through silence and presence.
We didn’t confine him. We protected his peace.
And maybe the real guilt isn’t about the outdoors he missed.
Maybe it’s about the world not getting more time with the little cat who quietly made ours better.
We miss you, buddy. More than you ever would have understood. And exactly as much as you deserved.
On September 24th I weighed 206.6 lbs, down 54 lbs since April and down 75 lbs since January. Things are still progressing, slow, but still progressing. I’m averaging about 10 lbs a month. It’s been five months since I’ve had any sugary drinks or sweets. I do, however, drink what I call yellow-capped Milo’s tea. It’s sweetened with Splenda I think. The money I’ve saved just by not buying the soft drinks, Little Debby cakes has helped. Also, not having to take all the extra meds has reduced my pharmacy bill greatly.
Since my surgery, my breathing has improved 100 percent. I guess my lungs were being compressed by my stomach and since the repair, I can tell the difference. I’ve been trying to walk about an hour each day. This boot does make it more difficult though. I had to make an appointment with my orthopedic doctor the other day because my left foot’s ankle had swollen. I immediately contacted my doctor and made an appointment. I was so worried that I was about to go through the same thing with my left foot that I went through on my right. It was just an aggravated tendon, and he made some adjustments to my shoe insert.
I had lunch with some of the guys that I used to work with before I retired the other day. It was good to see them. When I was signed in one of my co-workers asked what I did with the rest of my body? None of them had seen me in over two years or before COVID-19 hit.
I’d like to thank everyone who took the time to vote for the picture of my cat Clyde. He made it to the semi-finals and didn’t make the cut. Clyde has been sort of puny as of late. He spent four days at the vet trying to get rid of a UTI. We hated to have to leave him because he does not do well being boarded. We did go and visit with him every day just so that he wouldn’t think that we had abandoned him. It was really tough seeing him on that last day because all he wanted to do was find an escape route. I’m glad to have him home again with us. I know he’s nearly 20 years old and I know he won’t be with us too much longer. Every day with him is a blessing. It will be hard when he does cross that rainbow bridge.
Living with a nineteen-year-old cat is like something I’ve never experienced before. Every day there’s something new with him. He’s part of the family so we feel that we have to deal with all of his issues, and I do mean issues.
Clyde has health issues. He has an enlarged heart; thyroid problems and he has high blood pressure. He’s on three different types of meds three times a day. Recently, he’s developed a weak bladder. When he goes into a deep sleep his bladder leaks wherever he’s lying. He has taken over our bed and we have to keep the bed covered with a tarp during the day to keep us from having to change the sheets. He sleeps 98% of the time. The only time he gets up is to go to the kitchen to eat. He’ll go to the bathroom and sit on the floor until someone walks in there and helps him on the counter so that he can drink from the faucet.
He is very vocal. He lets us know when his towel is wet so we can go change it. He has a routine, and he knows when it’s time for his meds because right after his meds he gets a hand-full of treats. He loves his treats. Taking the meds, not so much. In the above picture, he had just had his meds along with a hand-full of treats. He’s thinking that he didn’t have enough treats and wants more.
I’ve heard cats living up to 21 years. Knowing him, he’ll live long past that. He’s an ornery, old, grumpy cat.
First time in months since I’ve felt like picking up my camera. I walk into my bedroom and I see one of my four legged kids next to my bed. I go get my camera and he gives me this look. I wonder what he’s thinking?
Ever had one of those days? I’ve been restricted from work until next Wednesday due to my eye surgery. Got to catch up on my TV watching if that’s anything to brag about. Going out tomorrow to do some running around with my daughters tomorrow so I’ll at least get out of the house for a while.
This is my cat Sophie. She’s doing what she does best, washing her face. She likes to stay clean, nap, eat, poop and clean again.
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