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.
If you’ve known me for more than five minutes, you know I live by my calendar. It’s not just a planner — it’s my Bible, my life map, and my emotional support spreadsheet. I color-code, I plan ahead, and if something’s not on the schedule, it’s basically not real.
So imagine my stress level when my mom landed in the hospital and my siblings decided we all need to “take turns sitting with her.”
Now, before anyone clutches their pearls — she’s fine. She’s getting great care from an entire team of professionals who actually know what they’re doing. The woman is being treated better than most people at a five-star resort.
Meanwhile, my siblings and I are out here acting like we need to take shifts in case she suddenly decides to join the Hospital Olympics. Spoiler alert: she’s not going anywhere.
The thing is, I’ve got a craft fair coming up next weekend, and that means I need to be creating — not sitting in a hospital room pretending to enjoy watching nine hours of nonstop news coverage. Nine. Hours. I don’t even like watching nine minutes of the news. I can only listen to so many “breaking” stories about things that broke three days ago before I start questioning my life choices.
But there I sit, smiling, nodding, pretending I’m not slowly dying inside while she argues with the TV. I could be home making candles, painting signs, or doing literally anything that doesn’t involve election updates.
And when I say, “Hey, my schedule’s packed,” my siblings look at me like I just said I’m skipping Christmas. Listen, I love Mom. I’ll visit. I’ll call. I’ll even bring snacks. But she’s being well cared for — by actual trained professionals — while I’m over here trying to figure out if I can make fifty more gnomes before Friday.
So no, I’m not heartless. I’m just scheduled. And if loving my mom and respecting my calendar at the same time is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.
The older I get, the more I realize that time doesn’t stand still. It seems like almost every week I hear about someone I used to go to school with or work with who has passed away. Just the thought of it can be depressing.
This past Saturday, I did a craft fair and happened to run into one of my high school classmates and her sister. We had a chance to catch up for a bit, and somehow the conversation turned to the classmates we’ve already lost. Sadly, cancer seems to have claimed most of them.
I’m 62 now — older than many of my classmates since I was held back a year — and although my health hasn’t always been the best, I count myself lucky to still be here.
Most of my classmates already have great-grandkids. Me? None of my three kids are married yet, so I’m not even a grandparent. Only one of the three is dating anyone right now, and I’m not sure when or if the other two will. That’s okay, though. I don’t ever want them to feel pressured. Still, before I go, I’d love to see all my kids married and maybe even get the chance to hold a grandbaby or two.
My parents, who are both in their mid to upper eighties, would love to see great-grandkids too. I have to remind my mom not to put pressure on my kids — she has a way of speaking her mind about things like that.
As I’ve mentioned before, I have a form of leukemia called CML. Right now, it’s under control. Sometimes one of the markers the doctors watch goes a little wild and sends everyone into a panic, but eventually, the numbers settle back down, and all is well again. I’ve come to accept that nothing I do can change the fact that I have CML. All I can do is take my daily pill, stay consistent, and be thankful that the medicine is working. Worrying won’t change the outcome.
Are you the worrying type? What’s the main thing that weighs on your mind — your kids, your health, your future, or something else? I get my worrying honestly; my grandmother on my mom’s side was a worrier, and my mom’s the same way. I guess it just runs in the family.
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.
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