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.
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.
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.
I know—it’s been a minute since I’ve posted anything. Honestly, I don’t even remember what I wrote about last time, so forgive me if I repeat myself a bit.
My weight loss journey has finally leveled out—or at least I think it has. My original goal was 190 pounds, but I’ve actually surpassed that by almost 20. I weighed in this morning at 174 pounds and have been hovering there for several weeks now. That’s over a hundred pounds lost in total, which is still hard for me to wrap my head around sometimes. I’m pretty happy with where I’m at.
I don’t regret having the surgery one bit—if anything, I just wish I’d been able to do it sooner. That said, there are a few side effects I could do without. I get these hunger pains unlike anything I’ve ever felt before—sharp, deep aches around my stomach area that only fade after I eat. And since they removed my inflamed gallbladder during surgery, well, let’s just say I have to stay close to a restroom after meals. What goes in tends to come out quickly, and sometimes with little to no warning. Sometimes it’s 30 minutes, sometimes hours later—but when the tummy starts to rumble, it’s a do-or-die situation. I’ll let your imagination fill in the rest.
On a more personal note, my old buddy Clyde is still hanging in there. He’ll be 21 in January if he makes it that long. About a month ago, we found out he has a tumor on his liver. We don’t know if it’s cancerous, but because of his age, surgery isn’t an option. All we can do now is keep him comfortable and make sure his final days are filled with love. The vet couldn’t give us a timeframe, so we’re just taking things day by day. It’s tough to think about, and we’re trying to prepare ourselves mentally—but that’s easier said than done.
I’m still getting out on the river for some kayak fishing about once a week. I love it, but those 4 a.m. wake-up calls are brutal. I usually try to be on the water by sunrise to make the most of the day, and I’m typically done around 2 p.m. That’s a long stretch to be sitting in a kayak, but it’s peaceful out there.
As the temperatures drop, though, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to keep it up. I’m chronically anemic and stay cold most of the time. Anything below 76 degrees is jacket weather for me. In fact, my thermostat is set at 76, and I still wear a jacket indoors most days. I have a trip planned for this Thursday, but the forecast says 43 degrees in the morning. I can bundle up, but once it warms up, I’ll have to stash my jacket somewhere—and space is limited in a kayak. The front compartment is out of reach when I’m seated, so it’s always a bit of a puzzle.
But hey, that’s life. I’ll enjoy it while I can—cold mornings, creaky joints, and all.
I’m also going to try to stay more active on here, share a bit more often, and hopefully regain some of my old followers—and maybe even find a few new ones along the way.
Feel free to ask me anything about my gastric bypass journey, my buddy Clyde, or my fishing trips. I’d love to share what I’ve learned and experienced. And if you’ve gone through weight loss surgery, have a special pet, or just want to chat about your own hobbies, I’d really enjoy hearing about them too.
Hello, my name is Clyde. I’m a thirteen-year-old gray tabby. I weigh approx. thirteen pounds and I stay grumpy most, if not all of the time. I have a five-year-old step-sister whom I despise and do not get along with. I had a natural born sister but she died when I was about six years old. I didn’t like her much either because she never let me do what I wanted to do. She never let me talk and therefore made me depressed and I never purred.
I have two well-behaved humans. The female human is my go-to human. She is the one I get up in the mornings when I want to eat. I’m very dominate when it comes to food and therefore there is no sleep in days. She thinks that I don’t know when she’s awake and I get very pissed when she doesn’t get up right away. Sometimes so, that I pee on her special places. I believe she calls this “gifting”.
The male human is more accommodating. When he gets up and goes to the bathroom, I go in with him just to stand guard. You never know when the female human will come in and cause problems. He likes to pet me more than the female human. I sometimes like to get in a good petting but he needs to learn when enough is enough. I claw at him and sometimes I draw blood but he never learns
I do not, under any circumstances, like to be picked up, sit in anybody’s lap, strangers, loud noises or called fat. I’m big boned, not fat. I also do not like to take trips in the car, especially to the vet. This is when I “gift” more. I surprise myself as to the amount of pee I have in my bladder. I pee on the nurse, the vet, my female human, and the human’s bed when I return home. You’d think they’d learn not to take me to the vet but they haven’t yet.
I am Alpha. There is no one better or more important than me. If you don’t believe me, just ask me. There is nothing that goes on in my domicile that I don’t know about. Most importantly, if you piss me off, I will gift on something of yours. You may not know about it for weeks and when you do find out, the smell will be most alarming.
It takes a special human to put up with my personality.
As I write this, we are experiencing a severe thunderstorm. This system has caused several tornado’s in the state of Mississippi but has weakened during its path over to our neck of the woods, in which I’m very thankful for. Looks like it may be a wet Saturday for us.
My cat, Clyde, hates thunderstorms and is sitting next to me on the floor looking for protection. He’s not a lap cat and hates to be picked up and will not sit with you or me or anyone else as far as that goes. But during storms, he seeks my protection and my protection only. He just heard a loud clap of thunder and off he goes behind my bed. He will not return until all is quiet again. Funny, cowardly cat.
Not much reaction to my video that I posted the other day. I guess that might my last one. I don’t know, I may try one more to see how it goes. I’ll give it some time though.
After I made the video, I went back to youtube and watched some video’s from the Leukemia Society. They had posted several videos of patients with CML as they described their weeks up to being diagnosed. They included bruising, Feeling tired all the time, headaches and wanting to sleep all the time. I never experienced any of that. On one video, the guy was saying that when he was diagnosed back in 2014, his white blood count was over 260. Mine was caught before it got that high. At the time of diagnoses, mine had gotten as high as 138. Maybe that’s the reason I didn’t experience any of the side effects; my numbers just wasn’t as high as his. I also read that one lady, who also was diagnosed in 2014, got her numbers down and was taken off all of her meds. She still get’s tested every six months but she no longer takes meds for her CML. That’s encouraging.
I hope everyone has a chance to get out and enjoys the weekend.
I’m getting board stuck in this house. I’ve got a brand new camera and I’ll I’ve got to take pictures of are my cats. Let’s just say my wife and daughter are camera shy.
I’ve got two cat’s. I spotlighted Clyde the other day and this is Sophie. She was hiding under a pillow on our bed. She does this sometimes but I was ready for her when she did this today.
Eighty percent chance of rain tomorrow so it looks like I’ll be stuck in the house again tomorrow. Doctor appointment on Tuesday and I might get to go back to work on Wednesday. Not really looking forward to that but at least it’s something to do.
Today’s photo is of one of our cats, Clyde. Clyde is a nine year old male and weighs about fourteen pounds. He is the master of our household, or at least he thinks he is. He will not let my wife sleep in. He will get on top of her and yell until she gets up to feed him. This usually starts around 6 am in the morning. If she stays in bed too long he will eventually leave a gift of pee somewhere in the house other than his litter box.
Clyde is one of two cats that live with us. His sister, Bonnie, died a few years back with a heart attack, or so the vet says. About a year later we acquired another female cat named Sophie, a cat with a completely different demeanor.
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