I Was There

When I was a young boy,

my father took me into the city,
to see a marching band

This last Saturday, I attended a concert. If you're reading this, you probably already know this. And I had an experience that I will remember for my entire life. From the second I stepped out of the car until I collapsed into bed in the wee hours of the morning, I was on one hell of a ride. And honestly, I'm still kind of hyped from the energy of the entire thing. And the sensation that blows my mind can be summed up in three simple words: I was there.

As I get older and have more experiences, I have slowly collected "I was there" experiences. Some I knew were going to be big going in, and some I didn't even realize were significant until later. This thing, this event that lives in the minds of a lot of people lives in my mind differently because I was there. And maybe it's my FOMO talking, or maybe it's because I was born in 1994 and had lived through several history-book-worthy moments before my 30th birthday, but there is something cool about being able to say you were there. I'm sure I'll get tired of it someday, but today is not that day.

When I was growing up, like everyone else, I heard adults talk about interesting things from world events to cultural shifts and just cool performances. Being at something like Burning Man or remembering the Kennedy assassination was something interesting to me. I had my first "I was there" in 2001 when the twin towers collapsed, a day with ripple effects that have affected billions of lives. Everyone remembered that day when I was in school, and now? No one was there except the staff. Those kids, what's their "I was there?" Is it the COVID19 lockdown? The January 6th riots? Positive or negative, those cultural shifts immediately register (at least to me) as "This is something big, and I am here living in it." When I cleaned out my glove box, I found a letter from the company I worked for in 2020, stating that I was an essential  worker and was allowed to be out and about during the height of lockdown. I kept it. Why? I was there. It's a physical reminder that I was there.

An "I was there" doesn't have to be a big cultural shift, either. It can be something that, while not necessarily vital to world politics, means a lot to your subculture or fandom. One of my "I was there" moments was opening night of Avengers: Infinity War. I saw it when there were no spoilers to be had, in a packed theater. When the credits rolled, I have never heard that big of a reaction in a movie theater. People were cheering and pulling out phones to tell others that they needed to see this. I was born too late for the original Star Wars premiers, so I can only guess that this excitement and need to share the moment was similar for the growing geek subculture of the 70s.

And here we have, on August second, 2025, another "I was there." I attended My Chemical Romance's "Long Live the Black Parade" tour along with my best friend, Rachael. I was most certainly not the only one there. Globe life field was sold out with somewhere around 40,000 people and enough black eyeliner to supply the entire Broadway cast of "Sweeney Todd." Most of my fellow attendees had similar stories to me and my best friend, belting out the album when our parents weren't around and the songs were brand new. We remember when the band broke up, and when they got back together. And now, we are here to belt out these songs one more time, together, with the band playing live. How could I not be totally stoked?

If you've been to any big concerts, you know that the energy is something that you can't get anywhere else. The crowd's excitement all feeds into this intense atmosphere, and when the band is feeling it too, it feels like every nerve is on end, taking in every iota of every moment, and you cant help but sing, scream, raise your hands, and bounce with the music. From the first snare drums of the intro to the second the house lights came up, Rachael and I were on our feet, totally surrounded by and inhabiting this concert.

Photographic evidence of this incredible concert

I was there, but I was far from the only one. When I posted about the concert on my social media, several of my friends and acquaintances replied to say that they had been there, too. We had all existed in the same moment and hadn't even known it, and now we share that experience of being there.

I looked up a video of the concert that had been posted to YouTube because I was curious as to whether the wall of sound I felt was just because I was within it. Sure enough, almost as loud as Gerard Way at times, tens of thousands of humans from all walks of life, with one voice, singing clearly enough to make out the lyrics of "Welcome to the Black Parade." I have been in choirs since I was a kid, and I have heard groups of 200 that can't be that focused. And best of all, somewhere in that sound, about three-quarters of the way back, on the left, is me. You can't make it out, but like a snowflake in a blizzard, my voice is part of this incredible spectacle. I was there.

If that kind of borderline-overload intensity isn't for you, I get it. If huge crowds and loud noises make you want to curl up in a ball and die, that's fine. I call myself a sensation junkie because I love this kind of thing. But you don't have to be a sensation junkie to appreciate being "there." It's kind of hard to hide from living though something significant if you live long enough. Good or bad, there is something interesting about just being...there.

I guess this post is mostly a recognition of my "I was there" moments, and if you're reading this, I hope you think back on some of yours. I also hope you have some that you remember fondly, like an unforgettable show or cultural milestone. I know one note that will forever remind me that I was there.

*Piano plays a G*

The Best Part of My Job

I am a clinical lab tech at a fertility clinic. If you ask me about my job, I am more than happy to talk about it. To anyone. Ad nauseum. I have talked about my job at family functions, parties, pretty much anywhere you would ask someone about what they do for a living. When Alex and I were buying our house, I found out that our realtor had been through IVF and talked about my job with her. I love my job. But there is a small part of my job that is really special to me, and it’s not really something that comes up in conversation often. It kind of fits the Easter season, so I think it’s a good time to share it.

After an embryo transfer, patients wait ten days before coming in for a blood pregnancy test. For those ten days, we have no idea whether or not the transfer worked. That blood test is a huge moment for both the patient and the treatment team. We get excited when we see a first post-transfer HCG (the pregnancy hormone) on the schedule and we love to see the positive numbers on the analyzer.

Last year, sometime near Easter, I got one of those magic tests from one of my favorite patients. This husband and wife were always very kind to our staff and really gave the impression that they would be good parents. They had infertility factors that made pregnancy the old-fashioned way nearly impossible, but with a little help from modern technology, we were trying to make a pregnancy happen for them. I remember doing the sperm preparation on the day of the egg retrieval. I had seen the blood tests leading up to the embryo transfer, and I remember the sinking in my chest when the test came back negative. This was the first test after the second embryo transfer. My coworker had gone to lunch, so I was alone in the lab. I smiled as I put the blood on the analyzer, saying “come on, big numbers” under my breath. The machine hummed and clicked, and I went about my usual daily tasks. When I went back later, the result was ready. It was positive, and the number was high!

This is the moment I want to share. I saw the result on the machine. The result hasn’t been sent to the nurses, it’s not in the patient’s chart, no one else knows. For just a few seconds, I am the only person in the world who knows for sure that something wonderful has taken place. This reminded me of something. In John 20, on Resurrection morning, Jesus appears to Mary Magdalene. She is the first person to know that the tomb is empty not because someone has stolen the body, but because Jesus is alive. For just a moment, she is the only person in the entire world to know. My excitement over blood test results pales in comparison to Jesus’ resurrection, but I knew exactly what I had to do once that number popped up on the screen. I sent the result to the chart for the nurses, and got on a chat to send a message to the embryologists. I told every coworker I saw, and in no time at all, the whole clinic knew.

How much faster must Mary have hurried to tell her friends? She probably couldn’t keep from telling anyone and everyone who would listen. How can you keep such good news to yourself? This is the joy that infuses Easter celebration. The joy of the resurrection that is the center of all Christianity, the resurrection without which my faith would be in vain.

I will never tire of seeing those positive blood test results, and I hope that I never tire of the joy of Christ’s resurrection. And in case you were wondering, that pregnancy that prompted this post? It turned out to be twins. They arrived healthy and adorable a few months ago. I love my job. 

Happy Easter, I wish you all the joy of Mary Magdalene on Resurrection morning.

The Strangest Heirloom

 My grandmother Dolores Friesen passed away over a year ago now. Her estate has been divided between my mom, my aunt, and my uncle. But from this, I received an unusual heirloom, and the story, though not particularly interesting, is kind of worth sharing.

I was getting ready to visit my family over Christmas, and in one of my conversations with my mother, I mentioned that I was thinking of getting a kindle to take advantage of some of the really cheap books that were available. She mentioned that she still had Grandma’s kindle and that it hadn’t been used in a year, but if it still worked, I could have it. It hadn’t been touched because my mom had her own Kindle, so it made sense for me to take it.

My grandma Dolores loved to read. She always had a book going, and when she got older the Kindle was a great option because she could increase the print size as needed. She used the Kindle so much that she got a second one so that one would always be charged. So, when I left Nebraska after my visit, I brought a gently used, purple-cased 8th generation Kindle Fire.

Some kids inherit photo albums and china, I get an e-reader. To be fair, I do also have some more traditional things from my grandma, like my silverware (which I love). But this strangest of all heirlooms is just as special to me. I remember seeing it plugged in and laying on the arm of her chair, as much a part of the furniture as the TV stand or the side table.

When I got to my house in Texas, I plugged in the long-dead tablet before going to bed. The next day, I opened the front of the purple case and hit the power button. The device came to life like it always had. I tapped the “Kindle Books” icon and for a moment, I froze. 

There it was, the last book that my grandmother had read on this Kindle over a year ago. The print was comically large and the screen too bright, but there it was. It was a book called Knife Edge, a crime thriller, nothing earth-shattering. But at that moment, I thought about how this Kindle came to me. I know that at some point, my grandmother was reading this book, and at this point, she put it down. And never picked it up again. This book will remain unfinished forever, the last book she read. She couldn’t have known, and she definitely never thought that her granddaughter would be the next to open the book. 

I wouldn’t have just opened the book she was reading when she was alive, but here I am. It feels intimate, like I got some special insight into her last days on this side of Heaven. And this isn’t even any particularly special book. It wasn’t a favorite book, it wasn’t anything she wanted to pass along. It’s like seeing the last grocery list a person made, it’s just what was there. There’s something surreal about it.

And I’m here having this experience over a tablet, of all things. A piece of technology that will outdate and break entirely too soon, something that no one expects to pass on. My grandmother’s Kindle? Really? That just sounds weird to say. But it’s not the circuits and diodes, the battery and processor that make this kindle special to me. It’s the hours that my grandmother spent reading and playing games on it. And knowing my Grandma Dolores, she would want me to use it.

I logged out from the long-unused Amazon account and logged in to mine. I turned down the brightness and reduced the print size, then set it to dark mode because that’s how I like it. It’s my Kindle now, but it will always remind me of my grandma. A strange heirloom for sure, but one that feels very fitting for the age of technology in which we live. The print is small and the books are different, but I’ll keep the case. She picked it, and I think that her Kindle should stay in that case. And, to be perfectly honest, I like the purple.

Thank you for reading. Like I said, it’s kind of an odd story, but it’s also kind of beautiful.

The Kitten Rescue Mission

 So, I did something this weekend that will surprise no one who knew me as a child. Allow me to explain.

Since Alex and I moved into our home, we have been observing the escapades of some of the local feral cats. A couple of houses nearby feed them, and they are always having kittens. One of these mother cats and her fine litter of four kittens took to hanging around our back yard and porch. We had only seen them at a distance until one morning when I saw this pile of cuteness on our back doormat.

I heard that "aww." Don't act like you didn't say it.

Alex and I concluded that we must do something about these kittens. When they were old enough to be away from their mother, we would trap them and take them to the local shelter. They were young and awfully cute, so they had a good chance at finding homes. I wanted to wait until they were weaned because I was worried about our ability to catch the mother, considering that she had lived on the streets her whole life and was understandably quite skittish. Over the next several weeks, they came and went as they pleased. We wouldn't see them for a few days, then Phineas, our ever-vigilant Siamese, would trill at the window. Phineas trills any time he sees a cat outside, so he would alert us when the kittens were nearby. They would get right up to our doormat, but the second we moved to open the door, they would scatter. We let them be, hoping that it would make them easier to trap when the time came. They grew bigger, and we were just about ready to get a trap.

They still liked to sleep on our doormat in the sweet little cuddle pile.

This last Saturday, I was cleaning the house in preparation for a Christmas party with my friends, and I heard Phineas' telltale chirping. Sure enough, we had visitors. The kittens were laying in the warm sun on our back porch. But today, I noticed something off. one of the little tabbies was limping, putting no weight at all on his front leg. I snuck out the front door and crept toward the back porch to get a closer look, and in some vain hope that I could scoop him up in a towel and take him in to a vet. The kittens scattered, of course. As the injured tabby fled, I saw how his leg dangled, totally useless. It must hurt terribly, and dragging it around would leave the poor thing vulnerable to predators and accidents. As a lifelong animal lover, I couldn't just let him go. I asked Alex to pick up a trap on his way home from the barber shop. Today was the day to trap the kittens. I had picked a chicken to make soup for dinner, and I put some chicken scraps in each of the two traps. We placed the taps and waited.

As we were putting away the leftovers from dinner, we looked out and sure enough one of the traps had snapped closed, trapping a kitten. It wasn't the injured kitten, but it was still a kitten that could possibly be tamed and adopted. I brought the kitten inside and Alex helped me shuffle it into a carrier and reset the trap. As I snuck outside to place the trap, I heard our second trap snap closed. Kitten number two! We have two carriers, so into a second carrier the second kitten went, and out went the trap. Within minutes, we had kitten number three! They were either really hungry or kinda dumb. Finally, the only kitten left was our little gimpy tabby. We placed the traps, and hovered by the window. He crawled into the trap and started nibbling at the wet food we placed inside. He didn't step on the pressure plate that triggered the door immediately, only having one front leg working and all, but our patience was rewarded. We shouted in victory as the trap finally snapped closed. We had all four kittens, including the one with the busted leg!

We placed the trap one last time just to see if we could get lucky enough to get the mother cat. She was smart, so surely she would flee after the kittens were captured. She must have been starving after feeding four kittens for so long, because it wasn't long before she, too, was in our trap. We had two carriers with two kittens apiece, so we decided to keep the mother in the trap and just make sure she could see her kittens. They were all not pleased with the whole situation, but they were warm, safe, and had no further injuries from the trapping process. The time from the first kitten to all five cats in the house was only an hour. I was thinking that we'd trap them over the course of a couple weeks, but I guess they wanted to stay together. With them in the crates, I was able to get a good look at them. Aside from that awful leg and being skinny, they looked quite healthy. They weren't sneezing, and their eyes, wide with fear, were bright and clear. And their markings were beautiful, especially the calicos. If they could be tamed, they would surely steal some hearts and get adopted.

Mama kitty. She's small and scrawny, but she's tough, raising four kittens.

These little girls are so cute, and very vocal.

The one on the left is out little gimpy baby

I called the animal shelter, and it was closed (no surprise at 7:30pm), so I was transferred to the non-emergency police line. They said to call in the morning and someone from animal control would be able to pick up the family and bring them to the shelter. Until then, we had five feral cats in our entryway. Our two cats, ever curious, wandered over to make friends, but the cat family was having none of it. That mother cat has quite the stink eye, and she aimed it right at Phineas. We put towels over the carriers and left the cats in peace.

At about 5am the next morning, I awoke to the sound of mewling kittens. I went to check on them, and they were all fine, just upset and probably hungry. I gave them a bit of food and tried to go back to bed. They kept crying. On that day, I learned that I cannot sleep with kittens meowing nearby. It's like a baby cry, I have a deep need to attend to it. So, after lying in bed for a while, I started my day. The kittens had wet the crates and it stank, but I wasn't about to move them and risk an escape. Animal control would be there soon enough and then I'd clean the carriers and the floor. At 8am, I called and explained the situation to the dispatcher. She took my address and phone number, and told me an officer would be out soon to pick them up. I busied myself with chores and tried to ignore the periodic chorus of pathetic kitten mews.

Around 9:45, an officer arrived with some transport cages. We had made his job relatively easy, having the cats all in carriers and locking our own cats away in other rooms. The transfer of the mother cat, however, didn't go as planned. The officer lined up his cage with ours and opened the doors. The cages weren't lined up quite right and she bolted out the gap and smacked right into the glass window in an attempt to escape. Thwarted by the glass, she climbed the blinds (if she wasn't so skinny, I'm sure they would have come crashing down), and clung to the rod at the top of the window. The officer retrieved a net from his truck and tried to fish the cat down from her perch. She freaked out and bolted, leaping all the way down and skittering across the house, finally coming to an abrupt stop on top of a shelf in the dining room. Parkour athletes have nothing on feral cats, this little mama kitty could move. She tried climbing the wall, but there was nowhere for her to go. The animal control officer finally coaxed, okay coerced, her into the net.

The kittens were the easy part, he could just pick them up by their little scruffs and put them in the transport cage. He said that they would get the leg looked at by a vet and away they went. I cleaned the front area (this moment brought to you by Nature's Miracle, best stuff for getting cat pee smell out of anything) and wiped down anywhere the mother cat had run, and Alex took the carriers outside to hose down and air out.

I will be checking the "Adoptable Pets" section of the Denton Animal Shelter page in the coming weeks, looking for two little calicos and two little tabbies. Will the one with the bad leg make a full recovery, or will he lose the leg? Maybe I'll see the mother cat up for adoption. Maybe I'll see the mother cat back in my backyard, this time with a clipped ear (the universal sign that the cat has been trapped and spayed), saved from a life of constant pregnancy and kitten-rearing. I only know that as I write this, they may be scared and confused, but on a damp, chilly night, they are warm and fed. That's the best I can do. I can't save the whole colony, but that tabby with the gimpy leg has a chance at a life without pain. It may not matter to the world, but it matters to that family of cats.

And it matters to me.

Merry Christmas a few days early, everyone.

Thirty, Nerdy, and Trying

 Well look who managed to make it to 30!

Alex and I went to the Dallas Arboretum to see their pumpkin display

Yeah, I’m now officially entering my third decade on this high-speed space rock, and honestly, I’m glad to be doing so. I know plenty of folks older than me who say that their thirties are some of the best years of their lives, and maybe I’ll be in that camp. Either way, I’m ready for my birthday party to kick off the fall and winter holiday sprint. I’ve always kind of liked that about my birthday. Halloween, though it is my second favorite holiday, may not be celebrated until after my birthday. It’s the appetizer, and everyone knows the appetizers are some of the best things on a menu.

It really doesn’t seem like enough to measure life in something as cold and impersonal as time, at least not to me. My brother died at 17, that seems like almost nothing. There has to be a better measure.

I am reminded of the song “Seasons of Love” from the musical Rent (which I have seen live), and with a landmark birthday, it’s kind of interesting to look at how we have measured the years of our lives. In jobs we’ve worked? Vacations taken? Books read? Pandemics survived? (please let that one stay at one) The conclusion of the song is to measure your life in love. But that begs the question, how can you measure your life in love? Love is hard to count. If you, my readers will indulge me, I’d like to share some ways that I measure the love that makes my life.

Love is not something just to be received, it has to be given. I am blessed every day with opportunities to give love to other people. And not just people, my dear cats get loved from toe beans to tail-tip every single day. Love goes beyond the romantic, and as I always say, love is a verb. Love is present in the small things that can be done for someone else every day. In listening and being consistent. In an honest answer and an offer of help. Every bit of love I can give to anyone else makes up the measure of my life, more than any date on the calendar possibly can. I fully admit that I am far from the most loving person in any room, but darn it I try.

How can I measure love and not count the love that is shown to me every day? A grand gesture is great every now and then, but just as important are the daily, consistent little snippets of love. The feeling that someone actively wants to be around me says a great deal. I have the blessing of people who love me, and no matter how much love I give, it can’t tip the scale on the love that I have been given. And it shouldn’t. That’s the big thing, love doesn’t keep score. It doesn’t have to be tit for tat. Which is great, because that would be exhausting.

Finally, and most importantly, I have the immeasurable love of my Creator. Which honestly isn’t fair to put on here because everyone has the same amount, and the amount can’t be measured. That one is on a whole other level, so I won’t dwell on it too long.

Love given, love received, and love infinite. Not a bad way to measure, and not a bad life. If the moon comes crashing out of the sky tomorrow, I’m raising a toast and going out with a smile. The phrase “Thirty, flirty, and thriving” is entirely too I-drink-my-pumpkin-spice-latte-out-of-an-Ugg-boot for me. I’m more of an I-drink-my-black-coffee-out-of-a-combat-boot kind of girly. Maybe the phrase on my silly birthday shirt should be “Thirty, nerdy, and trying.” Because that’s who I am. And I would never want to be anyone else. Getting older isn’t bad, and it sure beats the alternative. I fully intend to (pardon my dismembering of Latin) carpe the diem, the week, the month, and the year. Happy birthday to me, and I hope you have a good day.

Older and hopefully wiser,

Kim

Farewell to AnimeFest

 This last weekend was the last AnimeFest. The heads of the convention have decided not to continue holding the event. I have been to this convention six times and it will always have a special place in my heart. Every convention is a little bit different, and some are better than others. AnimeFest has the distinction of always being fairly well-run and having some of my favorite panelists and artists every year. So, as a send-off to this event, I would like to share some special memories I have of AnimeFest.

Charlie was so much fun to cosplay, she's definitely going to come out again at future cons.

-The first AnimeFest I ever attended was a month after I moved to Texas. It was the first convention I was able to attend after I moved. Looking back on the pictures, I can't help but smile. The big anime that year was Yuri on Ice!!! (the exclamation points are part of the title, I don't make the rules), and a college friend who lived in Maryland at the time flew down and joined in the merriment. We cosplayed our favorite characters and the Yuri on Ice!!! photoshoot was one of the biggest ones I have ever participated in, second only to the Disney shoot at Katsucon.

Look at me and Rachael, being silly

-AnimeFest used to host a competition called Ani-Idol, where contestants would sing prepared songs from various anime in front of judges for prizes. Out of many contestants, I made the finals. The finals were held at 9am on Sunday. Now, anyone who has sung knows that this is not the optimal time to be singing, especially not if you happen to be a soprano like myself. High notes tend to not happen before 10am without a lot of preparation, and the third day of an anime convention is not conducive to proper vocal prep. I got out of bed at 6am after being out until 1am to be in cosplay (I got a score bonus for cosplaying the show I was singing from), warmed up, and ready to perform. I walked away with fifth place, and I was very proud of myself.

I was dressed as Kotori from Love Live!

-I walked into my hotel room with a bag, announcing "Look what I won at a panel!" This happened every. Single. Year. One year, I made it my goal to acquire as much free stuff as I could. This meant trying to get on stage in every game panel I could. At the end of the convention, my pile of free stuff was larger than my pile of stuff that I bought. 

-Speaking of interesting things bought at a convention, at one point I bought a few volumes of manga. They were wrapped in plastic, and when I went back to the hotel room, I unwrapped them. A DVD fell out of one. A DVD with the logo of the publisher and no other information. In a volume of manga. My friends and I were all rather confused. So we all agreed that whatever this thing was, it needed to be investigated. We popped in in a DVD player and discovered......it was a bunch of trailers for anime from the early 2000's. We watched the trailers and laughed at how absurd the whole situation was.

-Looking back at my pictures, I realized that AnimeFest was where I first wore one of my most iconic cosplays, Ariel in her pink ball gown. I love this cosplay, it would make my six-year-old self proud. It seems appropriate that the final year for AnimeFest would be the year I show off one of my best props, Charlie's battle trident.

I always love wearing this cosplay

Conventions are a unique experience that is kind of hard to describe. This is partially because some of the best things about cons are those small moments that aren't on the schedule, that just kind of happen. Like bursting into a hotel room with a free poster and explaining the grand tale of my victory in a trivia panel though my deep knowledge of the manga of highest art that is Ranma 1/2. Or waiting in line for a panel and making the acquaintance of a first time con-goer who had no idea that there were so many people as nerdy as them. Or being in a hotel with 10,000+ people and somehow managing to run into the same person three times in a single day, then exchanging social media info and suddenly having a new friend. 

Thank you to everyone who made AnimeFest happen over the years, your efforts were appreciated. I hope my friends and I can find a new con in DFW during the summer, because I need something between the Texas Frightmare and the TRF. I'm sad to see it end, but I'm glad I got six years of AnimeFest. Here's to even more cons with even more memories.

Grocery Shopping Victory!

 This blog post is nothing deep, it's just a story about my life that I made interesting through narrating in my own head like a cartoon character.

It all started when I received a coupon in the mail. This was a coupon for $20 off of a $200 purchase at Kroger. I do all of the shopping for Alex and myself, as well as a portion of shopping for our friend who rents our spare room (he joins us for dinner most nights because it's easier to just make one meal for everyone). The weekly grocery shop has totaled over $200 more than once, especially if there are non-food items on the list. This should be a cinch. I prepared my list for Friday. I get quadruple fuel points on Fridays, which keeps my average fill-up to a total cost not seen since 2020. I had planned on attending a concert with a friend that evening, but if I could avoid dawdling in the aisles, I should have plenty of time.

When Friday finally dawned....I had already been awake for a while. I went in to work early because the schedule was a doozy. It would have been a medium amount of work normally, but my supervisor, the only other person who shares my duties, was on vacation, so it was all me. Fine. Then the doctor drops that she wants results an hour earlier than usual because she needs to leave. I tell her I make no promises, but I will do what I can. Then the patients had the audacity to arrive early, which would normally be great, but on this day that means I'm stuck trying to cram a full day of work into about five hours. It was all fine, I had great help, but I was grateful to leave and start my weekend.

I had my list, I had my reusable grocery bags, I rolled into the parking lot of Kroger with the air conditioner blasting (Texas in June is only slightly cooler than the devil's barbecue). I grabbed a grocery cart and began my mission. My objective: acquire $200 of groceries and get out in a reasonable amount of time.

My first stop: non-food items. Though not purchased as often, non-food goods like makeup and toiletries can add up fast. Unfortunately, the household was not short on any of those things. There is one thing, however, that will be quickly used and has a decent price tag: cat food. With two energetic, 10-month-old kittens in the house, an extra supply of cat food will not go to waste. I found the usual brand of kibble and was pleased to see that it was on special. If I buy 3 or more bags, each bag is $2 off. So three bags we into my cart, $15 each with the discount, $45 toward my goal.

I proceeded to the grocery section, acquired all of the items on my list, and looked in the cart. There is no way this is over $200. I opened my couponing app and made a second pass of the store, throwing in items that would keep for a while and were currently discounted. I looked in the cart once more. We're close, but I'm not sure it's over $200 yet. So I made one more pass of the store, roaming the aisles and throwing in anything with a sale tag that I knew I could use. A brick of cheddar cheese here, two boxes of pasta there, a few cans of chickpeas for good measure. I was finally satisfied with the look of my cart and turned toward the self-checkout, grabbing a pack of gum just in case. Honestly, I probably looked slightly crazed, so single-minded was my focus.

Before I began the process of scanning and bagging my loot, I took stock of items around the register just in case I came up short. I was relieved to see a small selection of gift cards that I could use as a safety item. I scanned my items and bagged them, watching the total slowly rise. My bags steadily filled with produce, dry goods, and frozen foods. When the total reached $160 and I still had items to go before my trump card cat food, I smiled like....someone way too involved in their grocery shopping. When I scanned the last bag of cat food, I saw that the total had reached the $260's. But there was one more potential obstacle. That total was before all of the sale prices and digital coupons were applied, and I had a LOT of sale items. I hit "Finish and Pay" and watched the total drop......to $226. I had won. I slapped my coupon on the scanner and saw my final total: $206.86. I tapped my card and received a receipt as long as my arm. At the bottom of the receipt was the total amount that sales and coupons had saved me. 

That's a new record for me. It's the little things in life.

I trotted into the scorching-hot parking lot with my booty and my tale of glory. I shared my tale with my best friend in a most dramatic fashion as we dined on chicken and fries before the concert. I thought that those who read my blog might get a laugh out of it. I'm not going on Extreme Couponing any time soon, but just like everyone else, I'm trying to live in a world of growing costs. If I can have a little fun with couponing and managing the spending of my household, so be it. I'm grateful for the jobs that Alex and I have and the blessing of a reasonable amount of financial security. That could all change in a second, so I'll enjoy what I have while I have it. 

Thank you for reading possibly one of the silliest blog posts ever. Have a good day!

1 Year later and I'm Turning Into My Mother

Facebook has informed me that I have been married for exactly one year!

What does it feel like? Not that different, actually. It just feels like the next step down the path that Alex and I have chosen for ourselves. We still make time for each other just like we did when we were dating, and we still hang out with our friends apart from each other.

What has changed the most is the surroundings, honestly. My blog post about my wedding was written in a apartment, this one is written in a house. I wrote about my wedding with the darling cat of my childhood purring next to me, I write this with a pair of kittens sprawled on the other side of the couch, a couple of new lives as we begin a new chapter of our own.

Instead of having to save the top tier, our bakery gave us a free anniversary cake

Home ownership has brough out things about me that I had forgotten about. I remember now how much I loved having a bird feeder to look at, and how I loved identifying the birds (and the squirrels) as they came to snack. I used to do chores in the yard and garden regularly. I haven't used any of that knowledge in years, and here I am, regaling Alex with the proper care of tomato plants. This proves to me that the dreaded fate of the daughter is coming true: I am turning into my mother!

Mother's Day is fast-approaching, so let me tell you about my mother, and why I am turning into her. My mother raised a garden all through my childhood and to this day. Every day, she was happy to see the little plants progress, tending them until they were ready to harvest and enjoy. I remember her calling me to the garden to show me an exceptionally large squash or an oddly-shaped tomato.

As anyone who gardens can attest, no one grows a garden just for themselves, not unless you are deeply passionate about grilled zucchini. If you have a garden you share. My mother was no exception, foisting buckets of zucchini, jars of salsa, and bags of green beans off onto anyone who would take them. We made zucchini bread, scones, and a decadent chocolate zucchini cake that I remember to this day. Even after all of that, we still had extra vegetables. I was given free reign to smush up old cucumbers, zucchini, and tomatoes at my grandparents' cabin, making a huge, mushy mess to dump in the lake.

At the time, I didn't fully appreciate the joys of gardening. It was hot, and the mosquitos found me delicious. It seemed like a lot of work, the kind of work that leaves one sweaty and mud-streaked. But when Alex and I were looking at houses, we were also looking at back yards. When Alex and I looked out the back door of the house that would be ours, I said "This would be great for a garden."

A garden I wanted, and a garden I would have. I dove into research and constructed raised beds to alleviate the problems of the north Texas clay-packed soil. I built the boxes and asked for assistance hauling in mulch and soil. I selected plants and carefully placed them in the beds. And I waited.

Anyone who knows me knows that I like things to happen quickly. If I am given a chore, it's done within hours. If I decide to plan a vacation, I have flights priced out in minutes. If I decide to build a costume, I've already got a plan and I'm brainstorming how to make the character on the screen abide by the laws of physics enough to make a costume possible. But you know what gardening takes? Time. Patience. *Sigh* Sometimes I feel like God played a joke on me, putting a desire to garden in a brain that doesn't like to wait. I've always thought of my mother as a patient person (she raised four kids, if she wasn't patient before, she is now), so like my mother, I was patient, and I found that the waiting wasn't as hard as I thought. I found joy in stomping out to the garden every day to look at the progress. I stared at my little plants, wondering "is that a new leaf? Are they getting taller?"

I marveled at the natural processes so finely tuned by the Creator. I hoped that I had set up the boxes correctly, that the soil would support my fast-growing vegetables. At this point, I am more observer than keeper. My back yard has been blessed with rain every week, meaning I barely have to water, a rarity in this part of the country. I weed and ensure that my plants remain unbothered by pests. And they grow, they do all the work. I call Alex over to show him my first zucchini as it grows seemingly an inch every day, and to ramble about my plan to turn these tiny green tomatoes into salsa when they grow fat and red. Just like my mother used to do to me. I am turning into my mother.

And I get it. I want to share this garden, too. I want to make that rich zucchini cake again, and offer my friends extra tomatoes. I have enjoyed conversing with my mom on the joys of gardening, asking her what kitchen scraps to save for composting, and even giving her tips like using a hose timer for consistent watering.

I'm not sure if my other knew it at the time, but when she was asking me for help picking green beans and explaining how far apart to plant the peas, she was planting another kind of seed. A seed of appreciation for the simple act of growing food. And that appreciation has given me a hobby that yields more than just a fine homemade salsa. As the plants grow, I am working to grow patience. I am appreciating the beauty of life as it erupts from the ground. Humanity has gardened for millennia, and I'm just continuing the tradition. Sounds pretty grand for a back yard, doesn't it?

These pictures were taken eight days apart, it will never cease to amaze me. The zucchini in stores always look so small, i like to let them get a bit bigger. This one will be delicious!

But the big thing that puts a smile on my face today is this: I'm turning into my mother, in a good way. Sure, turning into your mother can be a bad thing, but in this case, it's not so bad. As I send her a picture of my huge zucchini and ask her for the family salsa recipe, I don't mind being a little more "Mom" today.

"Mom! Phineas and Ferb are Being Adorable!"

 So, a couple of weeks ago, Alex and I acquired a pair of kittens. I've posted the story of Puff's adoption on this blog. Now let me tell the story of Puff's little brothers, Phineas and Ferb.

So, getting two cats was my idea. Puff did well as an only cat, she only needed me and she was fine. She didn't really like other cats. But not all cats are so solitary. Especially with owners that work outside the home, a lot of cats do well in pairs or small groups. They have someone to play with when the owners are out. And this way, Alex and I can both have a cat to hold at the same time!

Since Puff passed away, we have desperately wanted cats. It's honestly kind of pathetic. How am I supposed to lay in bed on a Saturday morning without a cat purring on my chest? Who can I talk to when I'm alone in the house? Every time I saw a cat, I zeroed in on it and tried to pet it with a single-minded focus akin to the feline fixation of my childhood (for those who did not know child Kim, my obsession with cats was rather....insane). Getting a cat at age 13 actually made me less obsessed with cats by channeling all the energy into one direction, that of my incredibly spoiled pet. Apparently, that obsession never actually went away, and boy was it surprising to have it rise to the surface again.

Whatever cats do to people, it's contagious. Is it love, or is it toxoplasmosis? Whatever it is, Puff gave it to Alex. He already liked cats when we met, and my little charmer hopped onto his lap and into his heart. He lived without cats for years, but after three years with Puff, he was counting the days until "new cats day" right alongside me. I've ruined him, he's a cat dad forever now. He is particularly fond of black cats because they make him feel like a wizard.

Two cats that are already friends, at least one of them black. A simple order, one that we should be able to find in all of DFW. On the Saturday after New Year's, we set out. We started with the Denton Humane Society, then the local PetSmart. We were surprised at how few paired cats we saw. Orr next stop was a nearby Petco, where I had seen a local organization say they had adoption events.

A corner of the store was filled with cages of cats. Alex and I walked over and saw a cage with two kittens asleep in a pile, one black and one unmistakably Siamese. The volunteer opened the door and invited us to pet them. When Alex put his hand in the cage, the little black one wrapped his little paw around Alex's finger and he was gone. That little pile of black fur had stolen his heart.

We held them, and the Siamese purred up a storm in my arms. We learned that though they are not brothers, they are best friends and would do well adopted together. We were told that they were sociable, playful, and cuddly, a great match for us. The black one was named Gravy beacuse he had been found in a tiny cage in a trailer park being fed table scraps. The Siamese was named Champagne Problems after the Taylor Swift song. We signed the papers and they were ours.

"Mom, you have two hands. One for each kitty. Now pet us!" (Look at their little Valentine's Day collars)

Riding passenger with a box of kittens on your lap is possibly one of the best feelings in the world. They stuck their little paws out the holes in the side, asking for attention. I told them that they were going to a new home with toys, treats, and lots of love.

We put the box in a bathroom with a litterbox and opened it. The Siamese leapt out immediately, wanting to explore. The black cat decided to hide. We intended to leave them in there fora few hours, butthe siamese insisted upon inspecting the entire house. There were things to be sniffed! By evening, he was playing with us in the living room, totally comfortable in the new space.

His adoptive brother took his time. He spent a few days hiding under the bed, only coming out if i coaxed him or put a food bowl next to the bed. Slowly but surely, i lured him with a toy down the hall and into the dining area, where he foumd food and water. When he decided that the living room was a good place, the siamese, excited to finally have someone to play with, instigated the first of many wrestling matches.

We knew that these boys needed new names for their forever home. They were a pair, so they needed a pair of names. Coffee and Bagel? Cookies and Cream? Pinky and The Brain? We bounced names back and forth until we found a set that just felt right.

They are Phineas and Ferb, the main characters of a cartoon by the same name. Ifyouare not familiar eith it, I highly recommend at least looking up some clips. It's about two boys who get into wild adventures in their back yard. Phineas is the ringleader and the more talkative, and Ferb famously says one line per episode. It's one of those kids cartoons that adults also enjoy for its creativity and music, so Alex and I are both fans. The siamese is into everything and likes to talk in his little kitten squeak, so he's Phineas. The black kitty is a bit more shy, but very affectionate and nice, so he's Ferb. The boys in the show are also step-brothers, so it's even more fitting for our brothers from another mother!

No one is alone with these bots in the house. Ferb sits on Alex when he plays video games, and Phineas likes to watch me cook from the kitchen stool. They follow me around the house in the morning and sleep piled around me at night.

I'm so glad we have our sweet boys. Their big sister Puff...would probably not be a fan since she didn't like other cats much. But they are good successors, and I'll be sharing their antics for years to come. The house is a home once again.

Have a great day, and pet an animal if you get a chance!

My 2024 Challenge

Okay, before we get into my 2024 challenge, let's review the last year. Because 2023 was quite a year for me, and I feel like I should give the year its due.

This is one of my favorite light displays in my neighborhood. Peanuts Christmas has a special place in my heart.

I began the year an engaged woman with one living grandparent and one cat, living in an apartment. All of those things changed. First, my grandmother passed away, meaning that all of my grandparents were present at my wedding, but only in spirit. I gained a wonderful husband to be my partner in this all-around weird experience called life. My new husband and I went to Switzerland on our honeymoon. Switzerland! It's still kind of amazing to say it. We were able to buy a home together, which neither of us had anticipated. Then, after we had moved into out new house, my cat, my dear Puff, passed away. So much has changed. Not necessarily for better or for worse, just different. Just life doing life things. Time passing as it should. We all learn what we can through the seasons and take life as it comes.

In 2024 I will turn 30, and that doesn't scare me one bit. A lot of people my age are afraid of it, but I guess I just wasn't born with that fear. I'd rather grow old than the alternative, so I'll just be a cool old person. But will I also help to throw overdramatic "funerals for my 20's" for all of my friends and probably myself? Of course! Will there also be cakes made with black cocoa powder decorated with snarky phrases? What do you take me for?

In 2024, I resolve to get a pair of cats. *whispering from off-stage* I have been told that this does not count as a resolution. Alex and I are getting cats anyway. Not only for our own companionship, but because I currently cannot be near an animal and not try to pet it. It's going to get dangerous with the local wildlife if I don't get some kind of furry creature into my home real soon here. The little furballs will be all over my social media, so be on the lookout in the coming days.

So, on to my challenge for 2024. This idea came into my head when I was helping my mother bake a pumpkin pie. She uses the tried-and true Libby's pumpkin pie recipe from the back of the can of pumpkin. I was looking at the recipe card, then I looked at the can of pumpkin, which was another brand. I noticed that the recipe was different. And I started thinking about all of those classic back-of-the-box recipes that so many homemakers have had as staples through the decades. The most well-known of these is the Toll House chocolate chip cookies. It feels like cheating, but it really is a great chocolate chip cookie recipe. I guarantee someone you know had a "special cookie recipe" that is just the Toll House recipe. It got me thinking: What other recipe gems are hiding on containers in my kitchen?

So, my fun little challenge for 2024 is to cook my way through the recipes that are already in my kitchen. I took a few minutes on January 1st to turn around every bottle, box, canister, and bag I could find in search of recipes. I took pictures of all of them and I intent to make them. There may be a really good recipe that I've been ignoring for years! From the Clabber Girl baking powder biscuits to the Grandma molasses barbecue sauce, the only ones I passed over are ones I know I won't like. If you want to know if the Panko coconut shrimp is any good, you're going to have to make it yourself, I don't like coconut.

Is it a resolution? Eh, not really, but resolutions have never been my thing anyway. I'll post my little pilgrimage through my cupboards on Facebook, so enjoy my results. Maybe I'll find a new favorite to keep on the recipe rotation!

I hope you are getting your new year off to a great start and that you have a good day in general. With any luck, my next post will be about new kitties. 

Here's to 2024!

Remembering Puff

On November 11, we laid to rest my beloved cat of 16 years, Puff. She has walked with me through so much of my life, and she deserves at least one blog post for her. And yes, she’s a cat. But she was mine, and I’m the one who knew her best and feels her loss deepest. So here are some beautiful memories of my special girl that I want to share. Unlike a person, she has no obituary in the paper, no fancy service, so let me give her a blog post. It's the least I can do for such a dear friend.

My little supermodel kitty

I have to start with when I got her. I have always loved cats, and those who knew me as a child will know that my love was near obsessive. I had wanted a cat for years, and it was finally time for me to have one. We went to farms where people were giving away kittens, and we looked at the humane society, to no avail. On the day before I started seventh grade, we decided to try the humane society one more time, and there she was. It wasn’t one of those starry eyed love-at-first-sight moments, I honestly don’t think I’m a person who has those. But she was a sweet, pretty girl who would get along with the current ruler of the house, my brother’s cat, Kuzco.

When we brought her home, she was very quiet, not meowing, but only giving the occasional trill and purring. That cat spent most of her waking hours purring, always happy. We noticed that the fur was rubbed off of her little forelegs from reaching through the bars of her cage. Poor thing needed lots of attention, and who better to give it than someone who had literally read the encyclopedia entry on cats multiple times?

As we got to know her, we kept finding that Puff was…perfect. Not only was she a lovely cat to look at, with her long silky tortoiseshell fur and round, orange eyes, she was nice. She didn’t scratch or bite, and she liked being around people, even submitting to being carried around on her back and having her belly rubbed. She kept herself very clean and well-groomed, and she used the litter box perfectly from day one. She was even quiet to boot, so we gave her a collar with a bell, otherwise we couldn’t find her. She only meowed in distress, the rest of the time she spoke in a sweet little trill. What on earth was she doing at the humane society? Who would give up such a great house pet?

However she got there, she was mine now, and nothing could keep us apart. Every morning, my mom would use her to wake me up for school, knowing I was awake when I reached up to give my girl her morning hug and skritches. This was short lived, however. She would run off and proceed to get a case of “the wildies” or as the internet affectionately calls it, “the zoomies.” She would race around the house as I got ready for school, eyes wide and tail fluffed up.

When I would come home from school, she would meet me at the door to be scooped up and cuddled. If I had a bad day, my mom would bring her to me for comfort. It didn’t make my problems go away, but it’s nice to have a little living creature that’s happy to see you and thinks you’re the best thing ever. I would read in bed every night, and Puff was my little book rest. She would sit by me and politely look at my book, then look at me until I accommodated and lifted my book for her to sit on my lap.

Puff had to be involved in whatever I was doing. She would sit right in the middle of any craft project like she belonged there and petting her was an important part of the process. Making beds was near impossible without locking her out of the room, or else she would insist on being made into the bed. Every year when the Christmas decorations came out, there was a little pile of orange and black sticking out of the garland. I didn’t have the heart to make her stop, it was so cute.

When I went to college, I couldn’t bring pets, so Puff had to stay with my mom. Apparently, she would look for me whenever I left and was happiest when I was home. Even though she was mostly cared for by my mom, she was still my cat.

Though she was definitely mine first and foremost, Puff never met a stranger. If guests were in our house and sitting down, my little furball had to make the lap rounds and see who gave the best pets. She was particularly fond of people with long legs because they had the most lap to stretch out on. Ever the little lady, she would daintily hop onto a lap and settle herself down, purring and asking for pets. Even people who didn’t like cats had a hard time resisting such a cutie. You had to at least give her a few pets, it would be cruel not to! Over the years, she melted more than a few hearts. It gave me a sense of pride to hear “I don't normally like cats, but I like this one.” My little charmer.

When I moved to Texas, I initially didn’t bring Puff with me because I didn’t have a job and wasn’t sure I would be able to afford the pet deposit. But by the grace of God and nothing less, I quickly found a job and built a nice little life. But I missed having someone greet me at the door, or a furry creature on my lap in the evenings. I wanted a cat. I asked my mom if I was crazy to want a cat and she replied with “Can I bring your cat when I visit?” And of course I said yes. I was reunited with my fur baby once more!

My friends in the area, who had heard me talk about my darling cat, finally got the chance to meet Puff. They are good people, so of course they petted her when she jumped on their laps. She left her furry little pawprints on every heart. Her presence was a welcome staple of every gathering in my apartment.

When I met Alex, the man who would become my husband, he shared a house with several other people, so no pets. But he had always liked cats especially, and was quite pleased when Puff jumped onto my lap during a video date. When he met her in person, he quickly fell in love with her (Quicker than he fell in love with me? Maybe). He suddenly had to adjust to having his work or games constantly interrupted by an orange and black intruder who needed attention right this second. And he loved it. When he worked from home, he would send me pictures of her just being cute. He loved scooping her up and cuddling her. She absolutely stole his heart, and she knew it. Puff had Alex wrapped around her little toe bean.

When she was 13, she became half the cat she was, losing weight at a rate that made no sense given her appetite. She had never been a big eater and had no interest in most human foods (except going feral on the occasional empty tuna can), but she was still eating her normal amount. I took her to the vet. They wanted to runs some blood tests, so I went to work and waited for the call.

I was sure that Puff had some life-threatening condition, work was not easy that day. I was terrified that I’d be leaving the vet’s office with an empty carrier that day. I got the call to come pick her up, and it was good news. She had hyperthyroidism, totally manageable with daily medication. Puff has never had a problem taking pills, and the pills were cheap, so I was overjoyed that my girl still had some time with me.

Puff was never much of a “chatty” cat, but as she got older, her trills became so human it was almost uncanny. She had one that was a perturbed “Mom” when I pulled her away from something she shouldn’t be getting into, like a drawer I was about to close. She had one that was “Hey,” for when she was disturbed from a nap. Still another was “Huh?” when something new confused her. She truly was a “people” cat, and it was funny.

Older cats need a little extra care and consideration, and Puff certainly needed that in her old age. I kept an ottoman next to the bed to make jumping up and down easier on her joints. I gave her wet food to help her with constipation. Her fur started getting knots because it was hard to groom, so I brushed her (despite her protests). I don’t begrudge it one bit. For every moment of “Ugh, I have to brush the cat and make her mad again,” there are a thousand moments of “Awwwww, she’s purring!” She was a happy little old lady, content to sit on a lap or a pillow and get skritches. When I got Puff, I didn’t consider that she would be waiting for me after my wedding, or that she would explore the backyard of my first house. But she did those things, and I’m so grateful.

On the evening of November 6, 2023, she started walking like she was off-balance, and seemed fussy and distressed. I was really worried, because a 16-year-old cat with a chronic condition can’t handle very many serious treatments. We got an appointment for Wednesday, and I told myself that it was an ear infection or something.

On Wednesday, I went to the vet with Alex to pick her up. She had kidney failure, and while she wasn’t suffering very badly at the moment, we would need to schedule the dreaded final vet visit sometime in the next week. I had mentally prepared myself for this moment as much as I could, but it still broke my heart. I’m glad I prepared myself, because I was still able to look at the vet with tears streaming down my face and say:

“Can you do Saturday? She’s a very well-loved cat and I want our friends to say goodbye to her. And I want to sit with her on Friday night.”

He checked the schedule, “We’re technically booked, but we can stay a little late. How about 4:30?”

And there it was. My time with my cat was no longer measured in years, months, or even weeks. I only had three days left.

I sent messages to my friends, inviting them to sit with me and my cat in her last days. I made her comfortable on the couch, and planned to spend as much time with her as I could. She was still eating, so I gave her the best wet food. She was so wobbly and unsteady, she couldn't climb into her litter box. We made her a makeshift potty pad in a corner, we felt she deserved a small bit of dignity. Alex and I sat with her and cried, knowing that we were doing our best, but hurting all the same.

The next morning, Puff seemed weaker than ever. Not in pain, but so unsteady and limp on the couch. I went to work looking like a wreck. My eyes were red and puffy, and my voice was constantly choking up with tears. I hated being away from Puff for any of her last hours, but I knew that taking off last minute to be with a pet is probably not the best use of my limited vacation days. My coworkers were all very sympathetic and understanding, they knew that Puff was a special part of my life, and some of them had lost long-time pets, too. I decided to hide in the lab so patients wouldn’t think I was sick, with my red eyes and sniffling. Seeing how weak she was, I was terrified that she would pass away while I was at work, with no one beside her. That thought alone made tears fall anew.

When I made it home and saw her still peacefully sitting on the couch, I cried with relief (this story is going to have a lot of crying). I went into the kitchen to make some dinner, and who should hobble her way into the kitchen just to be near me? My frail, tired little kitty! I held her and sort of cooked with the other hand until she was ready to settle back on the couch. When I sat down with my food, she was determined to get at my bowl. It was a burrito bowl with all kinds of things in it that are bad for cats, but I couldn't deny her a little something. I had Alex bring me some wet cat food and a spoon, and I fed her on my lap, pleased that she still had a good appetite. We watched nature documentaries because my heart couldn’t take much else, and I worked on a craft project. She could hardly walk, the poor thing, so I lifted her down from the couch when she wanted to and followed her around to pick her up if she fell on her way to the potty pad or food bowl.

Friday, Alex was off for Veterans’ Day, so he could stay with Puff and make sure she didn’t fall and hurt herself. After I got home, several friends came over to say their goodbyes. They all saw how weak she was and assured me that it was time. Tears were shed over her, and she made the lap rounds one last time. Sick as she was, she was still Puff, and she needed laps.

Alex and I both slept on the couch before the fateful Saturday, neither of us could stand to be away from her. I woke up on that awful morning with Puff curled up on my chest. I have woken up with Puff on my chest hundreds of times over the years, but this is one I will remember forever. I gave her the last dose of the painkillers from the vet, fed her more wet food with a spoon, wiped her clean with a pet-safe wet wipe, and sat with her. What else can you do as you count down the last hours of your furry friend’s life?

One more friend came to sit with us, and the hour grew near. She napped in the sun on the porch, munched on food, and was as sweet a cat as she had been her whole life. Alex and I wrapped her in a blanket and carried her on one last trip around the house, showing her all of her favorite places. She was so weak, she didn’t need a carrier, so I held her as Alex drove us to the vet.

The vet’s office is located inside a Petsmart, and as we walked in, the clerk said “What a beautiful cat!” and noticing that she had no carrier, “Is she sick?” Through tears, I said gently “She’s very old and crossing the rainbow bridge today.” I’m sure the clerk was mortified, but I was secretly proud of my little girl. Charming everyone right to the end.

I showed the vet techs a picture of Puff as a kitten so they could see what a lovely girl she was. The vet told us what would happen, that Puff would go into a deep, peaceful sleep, slipping away quickly and without pain. He assured us that we were making the right choice, saving her from a painful, lingering death. I knew in my head that it was best, but my heart broke for my dear friend.

Alex sat in a chair nearby and I stood at a table as they brought Puff in, a needle in her foreleg to make things go smoothly. I petted her and told her how much I loved her, that she wouldn’t hurt anymore, and she could visit me any time, if that’s something cats do. She was so limp, I didn’t feel her fall asleep. She was so weak, she passed away almost immediately when the vet gave the final shot. The last thing she felt was my hand stroking her fur, and the last thing she heard was my voice speaking words of love. That’s how it should be. If my dear Puff has to die, then she dies knowing that she was loved.

The vet took her to put her into a box for us, and Alex and I wept together. What else is there to do at that moment? We took our little box to the car, and I had to remind myself that it didn’t matter if I jostled the box on the way home. The contents would no longer be frightened or fuss.

When we walked into the house with no cat, Alex cried again. It was real. We no longer have a cat. He went to the backyard to dig the grave, and I took on the sad task of removing all evidence of a pet cat from our house. I cleaned up the litter boxes and potty pad, a chore I always hated, but would do a thousand times over for my Puff. I washed out the food and water bowls, not refilling them this time. I threw away what remained of Puff’s thyroid medicine, those little pills that had bought me three more years with her. No matter how long she lived, I feel like it would never be enough for me to repay the love and joy she brought to me. Her little paw prints are all over my heart, and many other hearts as well.

Once the grave was dug, we laid Puff to rest with a poem: “If I Should Grow Frail” by Julia Napier. I encourage anyone dealing with the loss of a pet to read this poem, it’s beautiful. Puff will watch over the backyard forever. We have a little stone kitty to mark her grave, and we’ll have white daffodils in the spring. She’ll always be close to hand.

I didn’t throw away the empty litter boxes or food bowls. I will need them again. Alex and I want another cat. In fact, we want two cats. We plan to adopt a pair of littermates in the new year. I won’t look for ones like Puff. I’ll never find another Puff, and it wouldn’t be fair to my new babies to compare them to her. She was one-of-a-kind, and I’m honored that I was able to share her whole life, from kittenhood to the final moment.

After Puff was laid to rest, I kept accidentally looking for her. I would see a shadow or hear something that was a bit like her tag jingling, and instinctively look for an orange and black pile of fur. But she’s gone. I won’t find her in the cushions of the couch or on my pillow. It hurts, but not like it did a while ago. It hurt more to see her suffer than to know she’s gone. The house feels too quiet, and the bed feels empty. But know this: I will take these days of tears and the ache in my heart if it means I got to share the life of such a wonderful creature. A week or two of being an emotional wreck? A pittance compared to years of scooping her up every day and hearing her purr. The loss hurts, but it only hurts this bad because the bond we shared was so great.

Thank you, Puff. Thank you for every moment on this earth. You were a blessing and a joy. May we meet again in a better place. Until then, sit on the laps of angels.