Tag Archives: writing

I Just Wanted a Burger, Not a Lecture

26 Monday Jan 2026

Posted by in Life, Uncategorized

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Photo by Towfiqu barbhuiya on Pexels.com

I’ve been debating on posting this for a long time, and honestly, I really didn’t have a reason to—until just recently.

I was at a drive-through the other day, placing an order like I’ve done a thousand times before. When I pulled up to the window, I addressed the person there as “ma’am.” Simple. Automatic. The way I was raised.

And that’s when the wheels came off the wagon.

I had made the mistake of identifying the person at the window as the wrong gender. My mistake. I went purely by appearance. I’m one of those people who tends to call it like I see it. If it quacks like a duck, it must be a duck…right?

Apparently not.

The person at the window immediately began to chastise me for not reading their mind.

Now, let me stop right here and say this: I wasn’t trying to insult, provoke, belittle, or make a statement. I wasn’t being sarcastic. I wasn’t trying to be clever. I was just ordering food. Hungry, slightly impatient, and completely unprepared for a pop quiz on modern social navigation.

I also want to be clear about something else. I don’t do political posts. I avoid them on purpose. If someone wants to label this as political, then congratulations—this will officially be my first and last one.

Here’s where I stand, plain and simple. If you’re a man and want to be a woman, so be it. If you’re a woman and want to be a man, so be it. If you identify as non-binary, or something else entirely, that’s your life and your choice. It’s not my job to run it, and it’s not my place to stop you.

But I also don’t believe it’s reasonable to expect strangers to instantly know what’s in your head.

Somewhere along the line, something that used to be automatic—sir, ma’am, he, she—has become a minefield. And the expectation, at least in that moment, was that I should somehow know the correct answer before the question was ever asked.

That’s the part that stuck with me.

We live in a time when communication is supposedly easier than ever. We’ve got phones, apps, and watches that tell us to stand up and breathe. And yet, basic human interaction feels more complicated than ever. Instead of conversation, correction. Instead of grace, assumption.

Here’s the honest truth: I’m going to get things wrong sometimes. Not out of hate. Not out of stubbornness. Not out of disrespect. But because I’m human, I’m older than Google, and I grew up in a world where appearances usually matched labels.

And maybe the better answer—for all of us—is a little more patience.

If I misidentify you, tell me. I’ll listen. I’ll adjust. I’m not above learning. But I don’t believe shame, scolding, or public correction at a fast-food window is how understanding is built. Respect shouldn’t be a weapon; it should be a bridge.

Life’s already heavy enough. We’re all carrying something. A bad day. A loss. A diagnosis. A bill we don’t know how to pay. The last thing we need is to turn a cheeseburger exchange into a courtroom drama.

So this isn’t a rant. And it’s not a political crusade. It’s one simple request from one imperfect human to another:

If I get it wrong, tell me. Don’t try to teach a lesson. Don’t draw a line in the sand. Just tell me.

Because I’m not your enemy. I’m just a guy in a drive-through trying to buy lunch.

And if we’ve reached a point in life where a stranger deserves a public scolding instead of a quiet correction, then maybe the real thing we’ve lost isn’t proper labels.

Maybe it’s grace.

Missing Clyde on His 21st Birthday

25 Sunday Jan 2026

Posted by in Family, Pets

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Today’s been a tough day.

As much as I tried to keep my mind occupied, there was no escaping the fact that today would have been Clyde’s 21st birthday. And yes — Clyde was a cat — but anyone who’s ever loved an animal knows they aren’t “just pets.” They’re routine. They’re comfort. Their presence. They’re family.

The fact that today was cold, rainy, and just flat-out miserable didn’t make it any easier. It felt like the kind of weather made for staying inside, listening to the quiet… and noticing who’s missing.

He’s been gone a little over two months now. And there are days I think things are getting a little easier. Then a memory pops into my head out of nowhere — the sound of him moving across the floor, the way he looked at me, the little habits he had — and it nearly drops me to my knees. Today was a good example of that.

Grief with a pet is strange. They’re woven into the smallest parts of your life. Feeding times. Favorite spots. Empty corners. You don’t realize how many pieces of your day belonged to them until they’re suddenly not there.

I used to think time was supposed to make this hurt less. I’m learning instead that time just teaches you how to carry it. Some days it’s light. Some days it’s heavy. And some days — like today — it feels like the full weight of 21 years.

So tonight, I’m letting myself miss him. I’m letting it be a tough day. Because Clyde wasn’t “just a cat.” He was a constant. A companion. A small life that left a huge space behind.

Happy 21st birthday, Clyde. You are still loved. And you are still missed.

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.

Confessions of a Closet Radio Nerd

16 Friday Jan 2026

Posted by in Amateur Radio

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In a group discussion today, I was asked to tell something about myself that no one else knew. I had to think for a few minutes because I’m basically an open book. There’s not much left to reveal unless we start talking about my snack habits. After a minute or two, I finally said, “HAM radio.”

Instantly, I was rewarded with the same looks people give when you say words like “cryptocurrency” or “CrossFit.” Blank. Confused. Slight concern. Not surprisingly, several people in the room had no idea what HAM radio was, which was perfect because it gave me a chance to climb onto my invisible soapbox and explain.

For those who are unfamiliar, amateur radio operators utilize radios and antennas to communicate with individuals locally, across the country, and occasionally around the world—without relying on cell towers, Wi-Fi, or satellites. Just radios, airwaves, and a little bit of nerdy wizardry. You can talk to someone down the street, or someone on the other side of the planet, assuming the atmosphere is in a good mood that day.

Some people collect stamps. Some people golf. Some people run marathons. Apparently, I sit in my house and talk to strangers through invisible waves in the sky. We all need hobbies.

What originally pulled me into HAM radio was the emergency side of it. When storms hit, and the power goes out, phones stop working, and the internet disappears, amateur radio is often still standing. Hams pass emergency traffic, help with search and rescue, and provide communication when nothing else will. It’s fun and practical. Like a Swiss Army knife… that talks.

And honestly, with the Verizon cell phone outage the other day, it kind of proved that point. We like to think our phones are indestructible… right up until we’re standing in the kitchen holding a useless glowing rectangle, whispering, “Why have you forsaken me?” That’s when old-school radio suddenly doesn’t seem so old.

I also told them about something I do pretty much daily called Parks on the Air. It’s an activity where people with portable HAM radio stations go out to qualified parks and try to “activate” the park by making contacts with “hunters” like me.

Let me be clear: they pack up radios, antennas, batteries, tables, chairs, snacks, and probably a small generator. They drive to a park, hike to a spot, and set up in the elements.

I sit in the comfort of my home, coffee in hand, climate control working beautifully, talking to them while they’re sitting in weather conditions not suitable for man, beast, or common sense. They’re battling wind, heat, cold, bugs, and curious squirrels. I’m battling whether my coffee needs more cream. It’s a dangerous hobby, but I manage.

Of course, there’s also something kind of amazing about bouncing your voice off the atmosphere and having it land in someone else’s living room hundreds or thousands of miles away. No apps. No passwords. No updates. No, “your call cannot be completed as dialed.” Just you, a radio, and a whole lot of invisible stuff you barely passed in science class.

As I was explaining all this, I realized how funny it is that in an age of FaceTime, group texts, and social media, the most surprising thing about me involves equipment that looks like it should be mounted in a WWII submarine. But honestly, that’s part of the charm. Something is refreshing about a form of communication that doesn’t require a monthly bill, a software update, or your first pet’s name.

If I sparked your interest and you want to learn more about HAM radio, I’d genuinely love to talk to you about it and try to answer any questions you may have. Fair warning: this offer may come with diagrams.

So yes… apparently I’m a closet radio nerd. And I’m okay with that.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go see if anyone in Antarctica wants to hear about the weather in my backyard.

Can You Hear Me Now?

15 Thursday Jan 2026

Posted by in Family, Life

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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.

Please Hold…My Brain is Loading

11 Sunday Jan 2026

Posted by in bariatric-surgery, Cancer, Family, Leukemia, Weight Loss

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When I started this blog some years ago, it was mainly meant to be a diary of sorts — a place to vent and to voice my opinions. Gaining an audience was never part of the plan. This was more “Dear Diary” than “Dear Internet.” It wasn’t until I was diagnosed with CML that I decided to use this platform to write about my experiences with cancer and maybe, just maybe, help some other poor soul going through the same thing.

As with most things in life, plans change. Sometimes gently. Sometimes with a two-by-four.

Not only was I dealing with CML, but I also decided to write about my experiences with gastric bypass surgery. When I was doing my research, I noticed there really wasn’t much content out there. And what I did find often ended shortly after surgery, for whatever reason — almost like everyone vanished once the anesthesia wore off and nobody ever came back to update the internet.

There’s something else that’s been going on for quite some time, and I’ve finally decided to put it down on paper. I’ve been experiencing brain fog for several years, and over time, it has gotten worse. “Brain fog” is a term used to describe symptoms such as difficulty concentrating, memory problems, mental cloudiness, confusion, and trouble finding words — essentially, feeling like your brain is running Windows 95 in a world that expects fiber internet.

I notice it most when I’m trying to carry on a conversation and, right in the middle of it, my mind just… leaves. Names vanish. Phone numbers disappear. Sometimes I forget what I was saying while I’m still saying it. Short-term or long-term, it doesn’t matter. It’s there… then it’s not, kind of like my car keys.

What makes this so difficult isn’t just the symptoms themselves, but how they sneak into everyday life. I’ll walk into a room and forget why I’m there. I’ll open my phone to look something up and immediately forget what I was looking for. I’ll stand in the kitchen staring into the fridge like it’s going to explain my life choices to me.

Conversations that should be easy sometimes turn into mental obstacle courses as I search for words I’ve used my entire life. It affects my confidence more than I care to admit. When you can’t trust your own memory, you start second-guessing yourself. You hesitate before speaking. You rely more on notes, reminders, and the people around you. I’m grateful for their patience, but it’s a strange feeling when your own brain doesn’t always show up prepared.

Some days are better than others. There are moments when everything feels clear and normal, and I start to think maybe I’ve turned a corner. Then there are days when my thoughts feel like they’re moving through mud, and even simple tasks take extra effort. Those are the days that wear on you — not with fireworks, but with a steady drip of “Seriously? Again?”

If you Google the term “brain fog,” you’ll find a long list of possible causes: lack of sleep, medications, chemotherapy, B12 deficiency, and even anemia. I’ve spoken to my doctor about it, and while some over-the-counter options might help, with my anemia and the chemotherapy drugs I’m on, they may not make much difference. In other words, this may just be part of my user agreement for now.

I don’t share any of this for sympathy. I share it because this blog has always been about honesty — the good, the bad, and the occasionally forget-why-I-walked-in-here. Brain fog may be part of my story right now, but it’s not the whole story. I still laugh, I still enjoy life, and I still manage to function… even if I need a few more sticky notes than the average person.

I’ve learned to adapt. I write more things down. I set reminders. I give myself a little more grace than I used to. And when I lose my train of thought mid-sentence, I’ve decided it’s perfectly acceptable to blame the fog, shrug, and move on. If nothing else, it gives the people around me a chuckle — and honestly, some days I’m laughing right along with them.

And if you ever see me standing in a room staring off into space like I’m waiting on divine revelation, don’t worry. I’m probably just buffering.

Unwelcomed Alarm

10 Saturday Jan 2026

Posted by in Weather

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I wrote in my last post about how crazy our weather has been. Apparently, the weather department took that as a challenge.

Last night, it decided to toss in another curveball — a cold front pushing through, dragging thunderstorms along with it. We spent most of the day and evening under a tornado watch. By bedtime, we had already picked up nearly three inches of rain, and the storms were still rolling in. The thunder wasn’t rumbling anymore; it was auditioning for a demolition crew.

Before going to sleep, I set my phone alarm for 5:30 a.m. so I could get up and get ready for men’s Bible study at 8. Responsible. Mature. Clearly overconfident.

Sometime later, I heard an alarm and woke up. I didn’t question it. I just accepted my fate. I took a long, hot shower, shaved, got dressed, and headed to the kitchen. I started the coffee and even remember thinking, “Tracy should be getting up soon. It’s got to be around six.”

The first pod finished, and I glanced at the stove clock.

4:10 a.m.

I stared at it, waiting for it to blink and say “Just kidding.”

It didn’t.

I checked my watch. Same time. That’s when it hit me — I hadn’t been woken up by my phone alarm. I’d been summoned by the weather radio.

I sat down in my recliner with my coffee and pulled up the radar. Sure enough, the National Weather Service had issued a flash flood warning at 3:45 a.m. That alert was the “alarm” that launched me into full morning-person cosplay.

So there I was — clean, dressed, caffeinated, and absolutely betrayed — living in a time slot meant only for bakers, farmers, and people who lost a bet.

There was no going back to bed. And even if I tried, I’d probably sleep right through the real 5:30 alarm just to complete the joke.

Moral of the story: I don’t need an alarm clock. I need a personal meteorologist who knows when to mind his business.

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.

A Week Without Clyde

26 Wednesday Nov 2025

Posted by in Photography

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Clyde January 25th, 2015 - November 15th, 2025

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.

Until we meet again. 🌈🕊️🐾

Clyde January 25th, 2015 - November 15th, 2025