Tag Archives: Family

The Uninvited Tenant in the Wall

04 Wednesday Feb 2026

Posted by in Family, Life, Nature, Uncategorized

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About two weeks ago, one of my daughters called and told me she was hearing something in their walls. Not normal apartment noise. Not pipes. Not neighbors.

Scratching.

The kind of scratching that makes you immediately start wondering if renters insurance covers emotional trauma.

She wanted me to tell her what it was. Now, I had a pretty good idea, but knowing that even saying the words rat or mouse would send both of them into Olympic-level panic, I had to choose my words carefully… like I was negotiating with hostage takers.

Now hear me out — this gets a little technical.

If I’m not wrong, most walls are built eight feet tall using 2x4s spaced 16 inches on center. That means the inside cavity space is about 14½ inches by 3½ inches. That’s not exactly a penthouse suite. That’s more like “micro-living for something small, furry, and highly motivated.”

And if you’re hearing scratching in a space like that, chances are something is using its teeth to dig into the gypsum wallboard to gain access to either your apartment… or your neighbor’s.

And of course — and this is no coincidence — this was the closet where they store their food and snacks.

Because if you’re a wall creature, you don’t break into the linen closet. You go straight for the Doritos.

I told them to email the apartment office and create a maintenance ticket. The problem was, this was late on a Friday night. And everybody knows maintenance emails sent after 5 PM on Friday go straight into what I call the “See You Monday” folder.

Unless you call the emergency number.

Now, being two women who are convinced anything smaller than a deck of cards is capable of crawling into their apartment, creating chaos, and starring in a true crime documentary about them… they called the emergency number.

Voicemail.

They left a message… and then sat there waiting for a reply like they were waiting on lab results.

At this point, every sound in that apartment was suspicious.
Refrigerator kicked on? Suspicious.
AC made a noise? Definitely suspicious.
Ice maker dropped ice? Obviously the wall creature testing structural weaknesses.

Sometime Saturday, management finally called — only to say pest control would come Monday. After what I can only imagine was a spirited discussion, management agreed to call the maintenance man.

Moments later, their phone rang. It was the maintenance man. He had gotten the message but couldn’t help — he had been in a bad accident and was currently in the hospital.

But — and this is dedication — he said he’d call one of his buddies to check out the situation. That is the most “maintenance guy” thing I’ve ever heard. Man is in a hospital bed like, “I can’t walk, but I know a guy.”

Several days later — and after multiple calls to the apartment office — pest control finally showed up along with the maintenance buddy. Apparently coordinating schedules while my daughters believed they were under siege from a wall monster took a little time.

Now, working in maintenance for years, I learned something:
Problems disappear when maintenance shows up.

You can have water pouring from the ceiling.
You arrive.
Bone dry.
Like the house is gaslighting you.

That’s exactly what happened here.

They checked the apartment while my daughters were at work.
Heard nothing.
Saw nothing.
Probably left thinking, “These girls need hobbies.”

Then my daughters got home.

And… scratching.

One of my daughters did the smartest thing possible — she recorded the sound and emailed it to management. Nothing says “I am not imagining this” like audio of something trying to chew through Sheetrock like it’s a Nature Valley bar.

The next day, the manager, the maintenance buddy, and pest control all came back — this time with purpose. They had seen the video. They had heard the scratching. They knew something was living rent-free in that wall.

First, they drilled a small hole and inserted a camera. They saw insulation disturbed.

Then they decided to cut a hole in the wall.

And there she was.

A squirrel.

Just sitting there.

Not running.
Not panicking.
Not even mildly concerned.

Just sitting there like, “Oh good, maintenance is here. My sink has been dripping.”

Pest control removed the squirrel and released it outside where it belonged. The A-Team then spent the next several hours trying to figure out where she got in.

Whether they found the entry point or not, they did tape up the hole in the apartment. Which is good… but also feels like putting a Band-Aid on a submarine.

I’m hoping they permanently fix it soon. Preferably before the squirrel comes back with a lease agreement and three cousins.

Last night was the first night in a while that my daughters didn’t go to sleep listening to something chew in their walls.

What happened to the squirrel after that? Nobody knows.

Will she return? Hard to say.
It was her home for a little while.

But hopefully she decided apartment living is too expensive… and moved somewhere with trees, acorns, and zero humans.

When DIY Repairs Fight Back

31 Saturday Jan 2026

Posted by in Family, Life, Uncategorized

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As a child, I would always watch my dad as he repaired different things around the house. In my childlike mind, he could fix anything. I remember coming home from elementary school one day and finding our television torn apart, parts scattered all over the den floor. While other kids’ dads were watching TV, mine had it in surgery.

To me, he was the ultimate jack of all trades.

Later in life, we helped him build the house we lived in—and the one my parents still live in today. I remember telling him I wanted to grow up just like him. Apparently, I took that statement way too seriously.

I did grow up, and I’m not exactly like him… but I’m close enough to make the family nervous when something breaks.

I can fix just about anything I put my mind to. I went to school for HVAC, got a state license, and still take 4 CEUs every year to keep it current. Learning that trade gave me insight into how most things work. I repair most of my own appliances, and I’ve only had to call in a professional a couple of times—and that was when my foot was in a cast and gravity was no longer my friend.

I keep my license active mainly for my parents and my kids. Recently, I replaced my dad’s heat pump after it developed a refrigerant leak. Unfortunately, thanks to government regulations, the refrigerant it needed is now apparently classified as “ancient artifact.” I’ve also worked on my daughter’s clothes dryer when it stopped heating—a simple fix that just required replacing the heating element. In most cases, troubleshooting comes naturally.

Then my son called me this past Tuesday.

He said there was water under his washing machine after he did a load of laundry. He sent me the model and serial numbers so I could start troubleshooting before we met. After some research, I narrowed it down to a few possibilities: water inlet valves, drain pump, drain hoses, or the dreaded tub seal/bearing—the washing machine equivalent of “it’s totaled.”

I found parts for everything except the tub seal/bearing. It wasn’t listed anywhere. Not even on the manufacturer’s website. I emailed the manufacturer and got their incredibly helpful response: “Call a professional service technician.”

In other words, “Good luck, buddy.”

That was not happening.

We met today to work on the washer. I stopped at a hardware store and bought some cinder blocks so we could raise the machine, and I could crawl underneath it like a mechanic working on a car with no jack. The wash cycle took fifty-six minutes, which meant I spent forty-four of those minutes lying on a cold garage floor underneath a running washing machine, questioning my life choices.

Nothing leaked.

The hoses were dry. The pump was dry. No water around the tub seal or bearing. Everything looked perfect. This was confusing, suspicious, and mildly insulting to my troubleshooting skills.

Just as I was starting to think maybe the washer was mocking me, water suddenly began pouring directly onto my face. I was instantly soaked—like someone had turned on a shower labeled “Idiot Under Washer.” Before my son could shut the machine off, I was already rethinking every decision that led me to that moment.

The water wasn’t coming from anywhere I expected.

It was coming from the top of the washer—from the spray nozzle.

My son has very hard water in his area. He’s constantly using CLR on showerheads and faucets to fight calcium buildup. Turns out, that same calcium had slowly clogged the washer’s nozzle until, when it finally activated, it shot water clear past the tub and straight down the side—right onto me.

The fix?

A small cup of CLR mixed with water, an old toothbrush, and a pocketknife.

Five minutes. No parts. No service call. No $120-per-hour technician.

And best of all, we got some quality father-and-son time out of it—although next time, I might bring a poncho.

I’d say we came out ahead.

Welcome to Wal-Mart: Please Scan Your Items… Or Don’t, Apparently

23 Friday Jan 2026

Posted by in Amateur Radio, Retirement

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Winter Field Day kicks off tomorrow and runs through Sunday. For those who aren’t familiar, Winter Field Day is a Ham radio competition where operators try to make as many contacts as possible within a set time. Some of those contacts can be from all over the world — which means a few of us will be huddled around radios, headphones on, pretending we’re way more important than we actually are.

I volunteered to bring a dessert. Since there will only be four of us, I decided not to go all out. If this were a bigger crowd, I’d be firing up one of my Dutch ovens and whipping up something impressive like a cobbler or an upside-down cake. But for a small group? Cookies it is.

Simple. Easy. No problem… until I realized I didn’t have all the ingredients.

So, against my better judgment, I made a trip to Wal-Mart — the one place I did not want to be, on any day of the week, much less on a Friday afternoon.

For those unfamiliar with Wal-Mart (and bless you if you are), it’s basically a small country. Groceries on one side. Clothes, housewares, sporting goods, electronics, car batteries, fishing worms, and possibly a space shuttle on the other. If humanity has ever needed it, Wal-Mart probably has it… somewhere… in aisle 947.

I grab my few missing items and head to the self-checkout. Of course, there’s a line. I remember when self-checkout first came out, and the rule was “10 items or less.” When did that become “one fully stocked fallout shelter per customer”? People in front of me had carts piled so high I half expected a sherpa to come help guide them through.

As I’m standing there, practicing my patience breathing, I start noticing something a little… off.

One lady with a cart loaded down with groceries was pulling items out, dropping them into bags… and never scanning them. Not “oops, missed one.” I mean, confidently bagging groceries like she was playing a game of competitive grocery Jenga.

What made it worse? The Wal-Mart attendant was standing right there watching her… and doing absolutely nothing.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who noticed. People ahead of me were quietly making comments to the attendant. Still nothing. The lady continued her little “Scan-less and the Furious” routine like it was perfectly normal. At that point, I’m thinking either this is the boldest shoplifting operation I’ve ever seen… or I accidentally wandered into some kind of undercover training exercise.

Ordinarily, I probably would have said something. But then I hesitated.

Maybe she’s fallen on hard times and genuinely needs the food. Maybe this is one of those situations where you mind your business and let the universe sort it out. After all, an employee was standing there whose job — supposedly — was to prevent exactly this kind of thing.

On the other hand… karma has a funny way of circling back around and biting you right on the rear end when you least expect it.

So I paid for my legally acquired cookie ingredients, headed for the door, and left Wal-Mart exactly the way I found it — confused, slightly concerned, and in need of a shower and a prayer.

If nothing else, the cookies better be good. I risked emotional damage for them.

Cold Enough to Make a Southerner Pray

22 Thursday Jan 2026

Posted by in Life, Nature

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I don’t know who offended Mother Nature, but at this point, I’m convinced somebody cut her off in traffic, stole her parking spot, and ate the last donut. Whatever it was, we are all paying for it.

She is currently having a full-blown emotional breakdown in the atmosphere.

Seven days ago, we were told a freeze watch might be issued. Then some warm Gulf air came rolling in and bullied the Arctic air back north like, “Ma’am, this is the South. You’re lost.” For a hot minute, it looked like we’d escaped.

But no. Of course not.

Now, the forecast says temperatures were supposed to start dropping Saturday night and continue their descent into single digits by Tuesday morning. Single digits. That’s not “a little chilly.” That’s “why do I live where the air hurts my face?”

But don’t put away your shorts yet, because Mother Nature is also predicting mid-40s next week. Awesome. A whole three days of false hope.

And now… now they’re saying snow is possible next weekend.

So let me get this straight. We’re doing spring, winter, fake spring, and winter: the sequel all in the same ten-day period?

Mother Nature is not controlling the climate — she’s playing roulette with it.

She really needs to get her act together and make up her mind. People in the South are not equipped for this kind of psychological warfare. We own exactly one coat. It’s decorative. It comes out for Christmas photos and emergency runs to Walmart when the bread aisle looks like it’s been looted.

Down here, extended cold doesn’t just affect the weather — it affects our entire economy. Milk and bread disappear. Churches cancel. Schools close if a snowflake thinks about falling. We start with dripping faucets, opening cabinets, wrapping pipes, and saying things like, “I’m just gonna let it run all night,” as if we’re on some kind of plumbing life support system.

So to whoever angered Mother Nature: own it. Apologize. Send her a fruit basket. Light a candle. Do something. Because the rest of us are out here wearing three layers, questioning our life choices, and checking the forecast like it owes us money.

Mother Nature, if you’re listening — pick a personality and stick with it.

Can You Hear Me Now?

15 Thursday Jan 2026

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For many Americans today, the answer was a resounding “No!” Verizon Wireless went down, and just like that, millions of us were spiritually transported back to 1983. Society wobbled. Productivity plummeted. Somewhere, a teenager had to actually talk to someone.

With our phones suddenly reduced to very expensive paperweights, many of us were forced to resort to smoke signals, carrier pigeons, and aggressively refreshing the screen like that was going to fix anything.

I was sitting in a doctor’s waiting room when it happened, and it was better than cable. People kept picking up their phones… staring at them… turning them sideways… tapping them harder… then setting them back down. Five seconds later? Same ritual. Over and over. It looked like a support group for the technologically dependent.
Full disclosure: I was absolutely one of them.

We’ve grown so accustomed to grabbing our phones to check Facebook, watch a YouTube video, text a friend or spouse, or occasionally even make an actual phone call. When that little pocket computer doesn’t work, it feels like someone unplugged part of our brain. I half expected a nurse to walk in and say, “Sir, you seem confused… do you know what year it is?”

We’ve lost the art of voice communication. Kids will sit around the breakfast table and text their friends instead of talking to the rest of the family. You can have four people in the same room, all on their phones, silently sharing videos with people who aren’t there. These little glowing rectangles have become idols that we worship. We can’t seem to live without them — not even for a couple of hours. If the Wi-Fi hiccups, we act like we’re auditioning for a survival show.

I’m old enough to remember the dark ages — before pocket computers ruled our lives. Back when a “dead zone” meant the phone cord wouldn’t reach the couch. If you were bored in a waiting room, you didn’t scroll… you committed. You read a six-year-old magazine about kitchen remodeling. You memorized a poster about heartburn. You judged people quietly.
And somehow… we lived to tell the tale.

Granted, there was a moment today when I really wished I could call or text my wife to let her know I’d be making a few stops on the way home. Instead, I found myself longing for the return of phone booths — the kind where you could pull over, squeeze inside, dig a quarter out of the cup holder, and make an honest-to-goodness phone call.

No apps.
No passwords.
No updates.
No, “your call is very important to us.”

Just a dial tone, the smell of warm plastic, and the unsettling feeling that the last person in there may have been a superhero… or a criminal.

Maybe today’s outage was a good reminder that the world won’t end if our phones stop working. Conversations still exist. Eye contact is still legal. And boredom, while uncomfortable, won’t actually kill us — though judging by that waiting room, several people were close.

So if you need me, I’ll be over here practicing my smoke signals, teaching kids how to communicate using actual words, and checking my cup holder… just in case phone booths ever make a comeback.

No Joy for Christmas

28 Sunday Dec 2025

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I want to start by apologizing for this rant. My poor wife has listened to me wrestle with this for the past week, and I still don’t feel settled. I’m honestly at the point where I’m ready to say I’m done celebrating Christmas—and maybe even Thanksgiving—with my parents and siblings altogether.

At the center of it all are my parents, my mom and dad. They’re both in their eighties now and won’t be with us forever. That fact matters, and it weighs on me more than I probably let on. Then there’s my wife and I, and our three kids—all grown, all adults, all working and living their own lives. That still feels strange to say sometimes.

I have two brothers and a sister. One brother is married with kids, two of whom are now adults with their own jobs. Watching the next generation step into adulthood really drives home how quickly time passes. My youngest brother is also married, but his family is in a completely different season—three young kids, full of noise, energy, and chaos. I recognize that life because I’ve lived it.

Then there’s my baby sister. She’s married and has a son in his twenties who is autistic. While his age says “adult,” his needs and world often look more like those of a teenager. He’s special—everyone knows it, including him—and I think he’s figured out just how wrapped around his finger the family really is.

The real issue, though, isn’t any one person. It’s the expectation that everyone must be present at every family function. My mom believes that if something is planned, everyone has to be there—no exceptions. For years, Christmas has been pure hell because of this mindset.

If someone couldn’t make it, she would get upset and cry. As the oldest, I’ve tried to talk to her calmly, suggesting she pick a date and let people work around it. But there are two things she refuses to accept. First, our family has grown, and people now have other obligations—spouses, in-laws, jobs, kids, and schedules that don’t revolve around one household. Second, if Christmas falls on a weekend, many people still have to return to work on Monday. She cannot understand why they can’t “just ask off.”

Here’s the part that still stings the most. I’ve been married since 1991, and from day one, my wife and I always gone to my parents’ house for Christmas lunch. Always. My wife’s parents also had lunch every year, but we never went there first. We would eat at my parents’ house, open gifts, then rush out and head to either her parents’ house or her brother’s—arriving late every single time. They would be waiting on us.

Year after year, this happened. And not once did my wife complain, because she understood exactly how my mom would react if she didn’t get her way.

Now things have changed. My wife’s parents have both passed away, and her family now gathers at her sister’s house. That house is in the opposite direction from where my family meets. Trying to fit both sides of the family into one day is no longer just stressful—it’s impractical. What used to be exhausting is now simply unreasonable.

About five years ago, something finally changed for the better. My mom told me she and my sister had talked and decided that the Saturday after Christmas would be our official family Christmas. It felt like a miracle. Everyone could make it. No tears. No drama. No guilt. It worked.

Until yesterday.

My youngest brother’s wife, who works as a prenatal nurse, had to work late. My mom went hysterical. Suddenly, Saturday “won’t work anymore.” According to her, the solution is that we’ll all meet the day after Christmas because she’s convinced a future executive order will make it a federal holiday.

I tried explaining—calmly—that even if something like that ever happened, it wouldn’t affect healthcare workers, and many employers wouldn’t observe it anyway. Changes like that take years, if they happen at all. None of that mattered.

And just like that, we’re back to square one.

What makes this so hard is knowing that my parents are aging. Time is limited. I don’t want resentment to be what I remember. I don’t want the holidays to feel like obligations instead of moments. Honoring our parents shouldn’t require everyone else to bend themselves into knots, sacrificing peace and fairness to avoid tears.

Wanting boundaries doesn’t mean I love them any less. It means I’m trying to protect my wife, my kids, and myself from decades of emotional strain that always seems to fall on the same shoulders.

I don’t have all the answers yet. I just know I’m exhausted. And for the first time, I’m seriously questioning whether continuing these holiday traditions—exactly as they’ve always been—is worth the emotional cost.

With time being what it is, I want whatever holidays we have left to be filled with meaning, not tension. Maybe stepping back isn’t giving up at all. Maybe it’s the only way to find peace while there’s still time to appreciate one another.

Holiday Doldrums

17 Wednesday Dec 2025

Posted by in Depression, Family, Pets

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Christmas is a little over a week away and as usual I’m struggling to get everything bought. This year I’ve decided to make several of my gives to my friends and family. I may end up being that person that no one wants a gift from next year but it is what it is. I made my wife and kids Christmas ornaments honoring my cat that just recently passed. I’m really hoping that everyone likes them.

My wife and I are still dealing with the loss. We’ve also noticed that our other cat, Sophie, has started acting differently. I think it’s her way of dealing with his absence and the solitude she experiences when we’re not here. We’ve talked and I’d like to go ahead and get another little kitten but we’re not sure how Sophie will respond. She “tolerated” Clyde and was not really the best of friends but they got along for the most part. I think my wife will eventually agree but it will take some time for her to come around.

This will be Clyde’s marker for his resting place. I’ve been real busy and haven’t took the time time to get the marker done. If the truth is known, every time I sat down to work on it I got upset and couldn’t bare to think about it. There is currently a little wooden cross that my wife placed there until I could get this made. Once I have the marker in place I think this will be the closure that I will need. I will place the marker tomorrow after I get home from my oncologist appointment tomorrow afternoon. Maybe the rains will have moved out by then.

I’m sure I’ll post again but in case I don’t, I hope everyone has a happy holiday and a Merry Christmas.

Family, Chaos, and Gratitude: Reflections After Thanksgiving

28 Friday Nov 2025

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Opening Thoughts

Thanksgiving has a way of making you pause and take stock of what really matters. For my family, it’s more than just turkey and pumpkin pie—it’s about showing up, keeping traditions alive, and sometimes surviving the chaos that comes with it. Yesterday was no exception. Between navigating crowded tables, debates over who’s bringing what, and the inevitable “pass the mashed potatoes” shuffle, I found myself thinking about why we bother with all of it. And the answer, as always, came back to one simple thing: family.

Why I Write

It’s been a while since I’ve written this much on the blog. Lately, sitting down and putting my thoughts and feelings into words has been surprisingly therapeutic. I’ve always said that this space isn’t really for anyone else—it’s my diary, my outlet. If I gain followers, that’s great. If I lose them, that’s fine too. This is for me, and that’s enough.

Family Gatherings: Love and Logistics

For my family, Thanksgiving is one of those holidays where we make an effort to come together around the table. Mostly, we do it for my mom. Honestly, if she weren’t around, I doubt very seriously that these gatherings would still happen. It’s funny how one person can be the glue that keeps everyone connected, isn’t it?

We also try to celebrate birthdays together. Usually, a date during the month is picked for a small get-together. But, for some reason, we never seem to meet in August for my birthday. I’ve never quite figured out why, but I’ve stopped letting it bother me.

I don’t mind the big holiday gatherings like Thanksgiving or Christmas, but birthday get-togethers can start to feel like a logistical challenge—expensive, time-consuming, and sometimes exhausting. Sometimes it feels like we’re traveling every few weeks, and, of course, the house we end up meeting at is always the farthest from mine. I swear, it’s like my GPS secretly enjoys making me drive in circles.

The Chaos Is Worth It

Despite the chaos—the crowded tables, the debates over who’s bringing what dish, and the inevitable “pass the mashed potatoes” race—there’s something special about these gatherings. Being around family, even if just for a few hours, reminds me of what really matters.

The laughter, the shared memories, the small moments of connection—they’re worth every mile traveled and every effort spent. Even when someone accidentally drops the cranberry sauce on the floor, or Uncle Joe tells the same story for the hundredth time, it all adds to the experience.

Reflections on Gratitude

The best part is that no matter how hectic it gets, or how many extra servings of pie I have to endure, we’re all still together. These little imperfect traditions are what anchor us. They remind us that family isn’t about perfection—it’s about showing up, supporting each other, and sometimes laughing at ourselves along the way.

So, as I sit here reflecting after Thanksgiving, I feel grateful. Grateful for my family, for my mom, for the chance to keep these little rituals alive, and for this blog that allows me to put my thoughts into words. Sometimes, writing is the best way to understand what really matters—and right now, family, chaos and all, is at the top of that list.

Thankful for Family, Pudding, and the Pawprints on My Heart

27 Thursday Nov 2025

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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.

A final goodbye to my buddy Clyde

16 Sunday Nov 2025

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This has got to be one of the hardest posts I’ve ever had to write. Around 3:30 p.m. today, my buddy Clyde crossed the rainbow bridge.

The day began with the first sign that something wasn’t right. Every morning for as long as I can remember, Clyde would wait for me to get out of the shower. That was his way of letting me know he wanted to be picked up and placed on the bathroom sink so he could drink from the faucet—his little daily ritual. But this morning, he didn’t come.

Instead, I found him lying on the kitchen floor next to the air vent, his head down. When I reached down to rub his head, he didn’t give his usual loud purr. That told me more than anything that he just wasn’t feeling good. My wife mentioned that he’d eaten a little, but nowhere near his usual amount.

I had a craft fair to prepare for and some coasters I needed to get printed. Between the power going out mid-print and the rush to get everything finished, I didn’t get the chance to check on Clyde again before leaving. But once I arrived at the fair, I called home. My wife told me he had eaten a bit more and was lying at the end of our bed, where he always slept. Still, something in the back of my mind whispered that we might be nearing the end. I told my wife she should let our daughters know so they could come spend some time with him.

They did. And after helping me load up my things when the fair ended around 2 p.m., they headed home but didn’t stay long.

Around 3 p.m., my wife was watching the Alabama game from our bedroom. Clyde was asleep at the foot of the bed. He woke up, stood, and looked like he wanted to go somewhere but wasn’t quite sure how. He took a couple of steps toward the edge of the bed—and then fell over.

My wife picked him up and placed him gently on the floor, but by then, he was already gone. It happened so quickly. She ran to get me, but the moment I saw him, I knew his precious spirit had already left.

We called the kids and, while they drove back, I went to the backyard to prepare his resting place. When the girls arrived, they spent nearly an hour with him—crying, talking to him, soaking up one last moment with their lifelong friend. Then we placed him in a box with his favorite towel, his favorite toy, and one of his favorite snacks (that one was my daughter’s idea).

Clyde now rests behind the shed, and we plan to place a marker after we get home from church tomorrow.

If he had made it to January, he would have been 21 years old. These last few years were challenging for him—and for us. He was on medication twice a day and had completely lost control of his bowel movements. Our bed was lined with tarps and towels so he could sleep comfortably during the day, and we had to rearrange everything at night so the wife and I could still sleep without worrying. He loved sleeping between us, so we created a little system of towels to protect him—and us—from the inevitable accidents.

It wasn’t easy. But we did it for him. He depended on us, and we loved him.

Because of his declining health, my wife and I haven’t taken a vacation in more than five years. It didn’t feel right to ask anyone else to manage his care. Boarding him was completely out of the question. With his heart condition, the stress alone would have been too much.

Now, with his passing, a huge hole has been created in our lives. The routines, the sounds, the small rituals—all suddenly gone. It’s going to take time to heal, but we’ll get there.

What I know for sure is this: Clyde was loved deeply. And he gave us more love in return than we could ever measure.

He will be greatly missed.