For Neal

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Then God said “Here.”

Meet Mike Taylor.

We had dinner tonight at Mike’s Farm, the place of love and food and precious country goodness that I have spoken of here and there.

We took the Crystal and the new BF Taylor, who is rock and roll musician type. Cute. Sweet. Talented. (Yes, my kid’s a goner.)

It was delicious, as usual. It was warm and fun and we talked and laughed and there was cheesecake. And that’s never a bad thing.

After dinner, Willie and I decided to walk over to the gazebo outside and take a look at a small tree that had been planted over beside it. As we were looking at the tree, this adorable little thing came BOUNDING out of the woods behind the gazebo.

Now, you all know how powerless I am when it comes to kittens. There is no greater weakness. No stronger power that will move me than an adorable little fuzzy kitten who mews, not meows, and begs to be my new best friend. I’m done. It owns me.

The minute this little guy came forward out of the woods, prancing around us, hungry but joyous, I was gone. UNO: Because I am a mindless spineless pliable mammal under the intense cute kitten spell and DOS: Because God said.

Let me ‘splain.

Last week at work, Ashley, our new crime reporter and who is also a lover of all things precious and pet like, was trying to convince me to take home a kitten. She has five she’s trying to find homes for. I told her that I was going to stay a two-cat woman after the loss of our beloved Kitty, which was preceded by the loss of our beloved Rocket bunny buns, I just wasn’t ready to open my heart to something furry and beautiful. No matter how empty my nest is becoming.

“But they need homes and you LOVE cats!” Ashley said. Which is true. So *I* said (behold the foreshadowing) “If I’m meant to take in another cat, the cat will come to me. It’ll just come into my life.”

Tah. Dah.

When this little cat came out of the woods, it was bounding right toward me – literally coming into my life. And what fluttered through my mind was what I had said to Ashley.

That’s how God speaks to me. It’s a gentle impression in my heart and soul. A soft nudge way down inside of me where only God lives. Very rarely does God have to thunder and lightning his way around my life. Believe me, when he’s talking to me, I’m all about doing what he says and recognizing specific blessings he’s trying to point out to me. I WANT him to be gentle with me. I am not a fan of the brimstone or the hellfire.

So this little cat came close to me, but wouldn’t let me catch it. Every time Willie or I would get our hands out to hold him, he’d hop, not run, he’s not a runner. He is a hopper. He’d hop away. But he’d stay close. And mew, that sweet little kitten mew that says “I really wanna go home with you and play with things you never thought would be cat toys.”

So Willie and I tried in vain to catch him. We never scared him, or rushed him, we just gently tried to coax him into our lives. But he remained skittish. I even tried to woo him with lipstick and a Rolaids (it’s all I had it my purse) but he wasn’t interested.

After a few minutes Taylor and Crystal came over and also tried to help us catch him, but it just wasn’t happening.

Then I thought “well, maybe the fluttering in my heart wasn’t God. Maybe this cat is not meant for our life.”

So I said, out loud, “God, if this cat is for our family, it must come to us. I can’t keeping trying to catch it because it’s making me uncertain.”

Not 10 seconds after I uttered those words, the little cat walked right up to Taylor, who had his hands down in the grass, palms open, and right into his arms. Because God is totally cool like that. And Taylor is totally rock and roll.

We took the cat and I stopped and checked with the lady at Mike’s Farm to make sure we weren’t taking someone’s cat. She said that Mike would love it if we’d take the cat because people were always bringing strays to the farm and dropping them off – cats, puppies, all kinds of God’s creatures.

We have named him Mike – in honor of the farm and in honor of my brother Michael Duffy. And Taylor in honor of the open arms that welcomed him.

Mike Taylor. Though Willie wants to call him “MT Hammer” and Taylor wants to call him “Mike and Cheese” after the awesome-azing mac and cheese they make at Mike’s Farm.

I just call him my sweet little gift. I love that his coloring is so much like Rocket’s and that he is, so far, not afraid of anything. He is very courageous and feisty.

And oh so rock and roll.

Now, had the pig farm been near a TJ Maxx, then perhaps, blog friends, perhaps.

Alright, yes, I do have more mountain stuff to tell you but right now, we need to talk about Vanceboro. Because it is that important.

The a/c has been out in the camper for about two weeks now. This is a problem for me, the person who sleeps in a beautiful three-bedroom home with central air every night of the week, not for my husband who stays in our two-bedroom camper (with the capacity to sleep 10!) four nights a week. He can handle a “little heat” as he likes to put it. I can not handle the thought of my man working his tushy off 12 hours a day and not being able to come home to a cooled dwelling for the night. I’ve been worried about this a/c situation ever since the stupid thing broke.

BUT I am trying not to harp or nag or bother my husband when we have our precious two whole days and three whole nights together each week. I’d much rather spend that time rubbing his feet and addressing him as “Lord of the household” while bowing deeply and revealing full cleavage. Hey. You work on your marriage and I’ll work on mine, OK?

BUT last week it got to me and I tearfully explained that I was very worried that he was not sleeping in a/c during the week. He works in the heat much of the day and shouldn’t have to come home and sleep in the heat. Heat is bad. I don’t want the heat to do bad things to him that will hurt him. Bad heat bad. Cry, cry. Blubber, blubber.

SO he agreed that he’d work on getting the a/c fixed. And last Friday that’s what we did. And it involved the town of Vanceboro. Oh, did it ever.

And let me preface this by saying the stories I am sharing are not, in any way, written with a mocking tone or with any insult or judgment in my heart. I am quite proud of living in the south. And sometimes that means you need to make observations and share them with others.

The guy who worked on the camper’s a/c the last time lives in Vanceboro which is near where the camper is located. We were planning to go up last weekend anyway to do some cleaning so we figured we’d get the ball rolling on a/c repair as well.

We get to Vanceboro and I ask Willie where this place is and he says “oh, it’s this shack on the side of the road,” which, for those of us in the south, is not all that unusual.

We get there and it is, indeed, a shack, but it has a carport attached to it. The guy, we’ll call him Bud, apparently sells carports in addition to fixing a/c’s, doing small engine repair and selling propane tanks.

When we pull up, Bud is sitting under the carport attachment on a picnic table having some coffee with another guy. We’ll call him Billy. And right away I know how this is going to go.

Vanceboro is not only in the country, it’s what we southerners call “the real country.” The real country is beyond redneck. Beyond hillbilly. It is timeless and things there never change. It is plastic flowers stuck in the front yard. It is big family Bibles opened to Psalm 23 and positioned on Formica coffee tables in the living room. It is bouffant hair, flowered dresses with white collars, striped ties on Sundays and a place where people “snap beans” and everyone else knows what that means.

And I’m not gonna lie. It can be scary. Even for those of us who’ve been born and raised in these parts. Weird has its boundaries, my friends. Even for us.

So within seconds of pulling up to Bud’s shack, I knew who this guy was – I’d known his type all my life. He “works” for a living doing a variety of things that he’s had to learn to do because nobody else knew how to do them and, well, someone needed to learn how to do them because in the real country you do most things with the folks you know. You don’t go to the big city (which would be New Bern or Washington in this case) if you can help it. You call Bud. Bud can fix most anything. And, by the way, he can also refill your propane tank and attach a carport to your shack.

The drawback is, of course, that Bud is going to work when and where he wants. He’s going to sit at his shack until about noon having coffee with Billy and hanging out. At some point he’ll go “down the road” and work on something but only for as long as he wants too. He might fix it then, he might fix it later, he might fix it never, but he’s always going to tell you “I’ll be there in a couple of days.” Bud is in no hurry. Don’t ever forget that.

My husband, being well versed in all things southern, knows the rules. We pull up and I sit tight as I am a mere woman and things like a/c repair and propane tanks will just make my head hurt. My man gets out, with his coffee in hand, and heads up to Bud. The coffee is a huge signal. It says to folks in the real country “hey, I’m not in a hurry either. I got all day. I’m just here to visit. And maybe talk a little business.” Willie shakes Bud’s hand and Billy’s hand then commences visiting.

Which is how it works in places like Vanceboro. You can’t just get out of the car and directly approach Bud and directly ask him directly if he can fix your a/c directly. You have to ease into it. Easing is very important. You have to hang around. Relax. You’re in the country. The REAL country.

After a while, another guy, let’s call him Bubba, pulls up in a truck, hollers something out the window to Bud and Billy, then smiles and drives off.

Soon after, Willie gets back in the car. The whole exchange with Bud took about 20 minutes. As expected, Bud said he’d be at the camper “in a couple of days” to look at the a/c. I asked what Bubba hollered to Bud. Then Willie starts laughing.

He said Bubba hollered “I’m off to New Bern. Back in a while.” Then Bud and Billy just looked at each other and shook their heads, the way country folks do sometimes. Bud told Willie the last time Bubba said he was going to New Bern, he was gone for six months – as he got arrested and went to prison. They still don’t know what he got arrested for or why he went in prison.

They do know that Bubba doesn’t work. Doesn’t have a license. His car isn’t registered and hasn’t been inspected in “God only knows when.” So the trip to New Bern “may not bode well for him.”

“He’s an odd one,” Bud told Willie. “His mamma takes care of him even though he’s near 30. Lord. Every time I try and have a chat with him, he just hangs his head and says ‘I got a lot on my mind.’”

Then Billy chimes in and says that Bubba has, for the last several weeks, decided, for whatever reason, to “go camping” instead of living with his mom. He pitched a small tent. In the middle of a field. Where hogs are raised.

Bud, upon hearing this, just sighed and said “That boy’s got problems.”

I don’t know why someone would feel the need to live in a tent in the middle of a pig farm, but I do know that in the real country, this is, again, not really that big of a deal. Sometimes you need to go to New Bern. Sometimes you need to have coffee outside a shack at noon. Sometimes you need to live with pigs. And sharing Bubba’s story with total strangers isn’t a big deal either. It’s just visitin.’

Which is why I am sharing it with you.

I also very much need to tell you about Vera’s Diner. But that’ll be later.

Oh. And Bud still hasn’t shown up to fix the a/c. But when Willie talked to him recently, he said he’d be there “in a couple of days.”

I love the south. Seriously. It’s a special kind of crazy that just grows on you. Like fungus. Or The Real Housewives of New Jersey.

The Hills, minus MTV

The husband and I recently took a much needed weekend getaway together alone. And by that I mean we had many hours in the car to talk dirty and feel each other up really connect on a spiritual level as man and wife.

We, of course, headed to the mountains because (gasp!) it has been more than a year since we’ve been, so it was high time to get high up in the hills.

I’m going to try and post in the order and route of where and how we went because I get a lot of people (read two family members and one person at work) who always want to know where we went and what we did. That’s the thing about the mountains. It’s a destination? But unless you have a general idea of where stuff is, you can get seriously lost and drive around for two days and have done nothing but see curvy scary stuff like this:

So, when I bore you to tears with catalogue my trips on my blog, I’ll try and be more specific and detailed. Especially when it comes to all the hot sex I have with my husband. Then, I’ll even include photos. Or at least diagrams with stick figures.

We left on a Friday around 11:30ish and stayed on U.S. 40 until we got to Clemmons where we visited. Why did we visit Clemmons? Because we’d never been. And that is how we like to do our road trips. Stopping at cute, cool little towns that have neat stuff and looking around. We both prefer that over something that is full of tourists and traffic.

In Clemmons, we stopped here:

This great country store with huge ferns.

As I’ve discussed my husband’s love of ferns on this blog before, you all know that if there’s a fern around, we must stop and look at it. It is a given. I must stop and see purses, my husband must look at ferns. This is the secret to our marriage.

Inside the store were all these great things made right here in N.C. Honey from Mocksville, jelly from Clemmons, and something called “pink tomatoes.”

These tomatoes are very strange looking and they had boxes and bins full of them. I asked the guy what they were. He explained that pink tomatoes had no acidity to them and were sweeter than red tomatoes. Willie and I were enthralled. “Are they a new breed of tomato?” we asked. “Oh heavens no. They’re an old Southern tradition. I’ve been eating pink tomatoes all my life.”

Um. Confuse me?

As we are both southern born and bred people who have live in the south all our lives and know the difference between such crucial matters such as turnip greens and collard greens and Luzianne iced tea and Lipton and Duke’s mayo versus any other mayo anywhere, we were quite offended that this guy was telling us about an “old southern tradition” that we’d never heard of. What was going on? Where had these pink acid-less tomatoes been all our life?

We did not buy a pink tomato, but I did pick up a few gifts for others. I very much wanted to buy this flag as I am 1/8th Jewish:

And well you don’t see a lot of garden flags with menoras or dreidels around these parts. But I didn’t buy the flag. I also didn’t buy this:

Because it’s a lie. Each beautiful day begins with coffee, pancakes and ends with your husband smacking you on the ass.

More posts on the trip coming soon.

No. Really.

Art IS pain, highness

The daughter got another tattoo. That’s “tat” for those of us who have “ink” and are all taboo with ourselves.

The rule always was that once my kids turned 18 they could do what they wanted with their bodies. Which means that all my nay saying about tattoos and piercings became powerless once they became legal human beings who could vote.

(Caveat: This is, of course, within reason. Even at 18, there shall be no insane doings by my adult humans/former children. No brothel openings. No 80s mall perms. No conversations that ever start with “Did you know that cubic zirconia looks just like diamonds?” Let us be sensible.)

As the last of my lot of two is now one month into her 18th year, she has gone and inked herself again.

That is Jamee Melvin tattooing (tatting?) the lower back of my daughter Crystal. Jamee and her husband David recently opened “Gypsy Rose” — the first tattoo shop the Jacksonville Mall has ever had and rumored to be the first tattoo shop located in a mall in the state.

Here they are conferring on a design at their new shop, which is clean and family friendly, but still has an edge to it. Jamee is extremely talented, has tattoos up to the base of her neck and is working about 12 hour days while she’s 8 months pregnant. David’s doing the same, sans the pregnancy, but he’s working about 20 hours, and publishing a tattoo magazine while he finishes some of the construction on the shop. I don’t know if it gets anymore hard core than that.

Crystal has wanted this double heart crown tattoo for more than a year that symbolizes love and loyalty. She finally got it Saturday. But it was not without pain.

I got to go with her to get this one only because her BFF had to work late. While there, I learned more about tattooing and specifically Jamee and David’s professional stance on it, which is, just because you come in the shop and want a tattoo, doesn’t mean you’re always going to get one. They’re not going to let you put stars on your forehead or letters on your knuckles or large hippos on your forearms just because you want it. Especially if you’re young. Especially if you’re new to tattoos. They want to produce art that people want without it ruining their life and their chances of being gainfully employed. It was quite the eye-opener for me. I did not know that tattoos and integrity had ever met, much less were friends.

I got a good lesson in seeing beyond stereotypes and my kid got a great piece of art at a place that will treat her with respect and will help safeguard her decisions about tattoos. Which is good, because I don’t think this will be my kid’s last one.

Well, bring it on. Frankly if all those subliminal messages that I played on hidden tapes around my children warning of unprotected sex, irresponsible drinking and tattoos but simultaneously lauding the power of prayer and prunes didn’t do any good, then so be it. There’s nothing else I could have done. Except have had an actual conversation about these topics. But every good mom knows that talking to your kids is the worst thing you can ever do. Brainwashing is much more effective.

And infinitely more amusing.

“I’m 43 and got a tattoo.”

So I got a tattoo.

Yes. It is incredibly cliché. I don’t know of many women nowadays who manage to get all the way through their 40s without thinking: “You know what? I’ve yet to have someone dip a needle in ink and shove it into my skin. It’s TIME TO DO THAT.”

Therefore, I’m just fulfilling my 40ish duties.

It’s a simple one.

Mine is the one on the arm. Crystal’s is the one on the wrist. We got the tattoos together to celebrate her graduation and turning 18. We decided on the word “peace” to represent Amber and her “I’m in the Peace Corps now!” status – the star represents Crystal. Cause she loves stars. And she’s stellar and sometimes full of hot gaseous air.

The word peace represents a lot in my life right now- but mostly this scripture from Psalms 34:14:

“Turn from evil and do good. Seek peace and pursue it.”

I really, super love the direct simplicity of these words. This scripture is like the whole basis of walking with God to me. (And it pretty much sums up any religion that’s worth a crap). It’s God saying “Quit being a jerk and be nice. Relax. No, really, RELAX.”

I love it.

But the tattoo has also become this tiny symbol of change and courage. It was the first stop on this road of firsts that I now find myself on.
-First tattoo
-First time with no “children” technically, everyone is now an adult
-First time visiting Disneyworld.
-First time actively CHOOSING to ride a roller coaster.

And my latest, I attended my first midnight showing of a movie ever.

That’s my friend/co-worker/sometimes pseudo daughter Amanda. The one who, in addition to introducing me to the amazing Talulah Mankiller, made me finally read the (TM – cover your eyes) Twilight books, which I found were not so disgusting. We attended the Eclipse premiere last night where I learned that just because the movie starts at midnight, you don’t. We got there at 10 p.m. and did a lot of waiting.

I usually don’t do well with crowds plus I’m not a night person (the latest movie I’ve ever been too was an 11 p.m. show several years ago. I fell asleep through a lot of it). But, instead of getting all keyed up and full of dread and talking myself out of it, I simply looked at my peace tattoo and told Amanda “I’m 43 and I got a tattoo. Let’s do this.”

It was so worth it. The movie was great and hanging out with Amanda is always peaceful, comforting and fun. And one of the best parts of the night was actually all the other people there with us – everyone was having fun, no one was loud or obnoxious or rude. Everybody was into the movie and enjoying the escape. I loved the energy that night. (And I have to say, Carmike 16 in Jacksonville, you are amazing and so is your staff).

So. Yeah. I’m inked. I’m finding my courage. And I’m very much enjoying my journey of firsts.

Blast ye mice!

I am trying to catch the excuse mouse.

It scurries around my life leaving excuse droppings in various places. When I find them, suddenly there’s a pretext as to why I don’t do all the things that I want to do. There’s justification to why I don’t meet goals or deal with situations that need a good dealing with. I don’t do it because excuse mouse has left me plenty of fertilizer. Plenty of whys I can’t. An inventory of validation.

Since I’ve been trying to catch excuse mouse for several months now, I have come to see just how severe its little trail has been in my life and I am not proud. Not proud at all.

I do have reasons for not making certain steps at certain times. Reason is a synonym for the word excuse, but a bad one, I think. Reason I believe in. Reason is sturdy and strong. It has cause, motive and basis. Reason is good. Reason is free. Reason probably has a Harley. Reason is the only reason (ha!) emotion doesn’t completely take over the planet.

Excuse is lazy, stagnant and boring. It still lives at home and drives a beat up Gremlin. It borrows money from its friends and never pays it back. It works at the last photomat in existence. It’s emotion’s BFF.

I haven’t caught the excuse mouse yet, but I have trapped it in various places in my life. Long enough to make some goals for which to try and reach. Long enough to get a tattoo. Long enough to reacquaint myself with one of my first loves (the ocean). Long enough to shape up financially. Long enough to want to educate myself more spiritually. Long enough to look in new directions for new direction.

I am vexed by excuse mouse because now that my nest is empty, it’s a lot more noticeable. Suddenly there’s time for all the things that I’ve wanted to do and try in my life because there is no one here who needs my attention otherwise. No little souls to nurture. No hands to hold. No tears to wipe. No hearts to mend. Nada, madda.

It’s a weird place to be. It’s not an unhealthy place – I don’t want to hang on to my daughters or their lives. I want them to be productive, fulfilled citizens and find their own families and their own excuse mice. But it’s very hard to positioned oneself in the background. Very hard to blend into the fabric of a new independent life. Hard to hear about new experiences that I can’t be a part of. Hard to watch not-so-wise decisions that I have no control over.

I’ve been raising kids since I was 10 when my baby brother was born. That’s 33 years of parenting. And out of all those years, THIS is the most difficult time for me. NOT being a parent is the hardest part of parenting. I don’t know how to love from a distance as my girls move forward into their own lives. I don’t know who I am now. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing now. And most importantly, I don’t have anyone to shop with.

Yes, I’ve heard the “new lease on life” speech, but I liked my old lease. It was full – really overflowing, slopping over, spilling out FULL – of joy and love and structure. It was the whole frame of my life. I understood its purpose. I knew its limits. I lived to keep it strong and secure.

And now it no longer covers me. I’ve outgrown my old lease. I have to find a new one.

I’m working on it. I am setting traps for the rodents of delay and that is slowly helping me navigate my new existence. My new normal.

Or, whatever normal is for a 43 year old woman who names mice after excuses.

And then tries to catch them.

Grace

Clarity was something I’d never felt or understood until the day you were born — small, delicate and handed to me in a soft blanket.

You’d fall asleep in my arms but every so often, I’d look down to find your small blue eyes looking up at me. Keeping watch. As though it was your job.

You’ve always done it well.

You’re the one who taught me that when life is out of focus, you’re supposed to quit looking at the big picture. And instead, see the tiny blue flower in the field of green grass. The stray feather on the ground. The silver shells in a sea of sand.

You’re the one who taught me that sometimes you should choose the bumpy pumpkin instead of one that’s perfectly round. That it’s OK to take a step back, so you can see where you need to take a step forward. That some of the smallest moments are some of the biggest.

There are days (all of them) when I’m amazed that you’re my kid. There are days (all of them) when I marvel at your instincts, your power, your fearlessness and your gifts. My favorite is your ability to tie souls together to form a family. I’m glad you started with ours.

After 18 years of you keeping watch, I now see crystal clear. And I know that if destiny is why I’m here, then grace is why I matter.

I love you beautiful daughter. Happy graduation and happy 18th.

Mom

Hidden gems, changes, southern goodness

So for May, the masthead was “a hidden gem, really REALLY hidden” if you’ll remember …

I went with that slogan because I’ve been blogging less and less lately – thus I’ve been really REALLY hidden. I know why this is, but it’s not stuff I want to share on the blog yet. And when I do share it, it’ll be after I’ve changed it to a private blog (coming soon!). You’ll still be able to read, as long as you register (and those of you with blogs or open ids won’t have to register). Right now, I’m feeling rather exposed and I want less of that. I want to select who I expose myself too. Some of you know exactly what I’m talking ’bout.

For June, I had no idea what I wanted. But, thankfully, my brother did and came up with this delicious masthead of golden sunshine goodness.

I very much love it. I long to have the healing properties of vitamin C. And I am made with real southern goodness.

But only on Wednesdays.

Goodbye sweet friend

A week ago, I stepped outside just before the husband and I were to have our early morning coffee to find we’d lost a member of the family.

Our sweet little cat Kitty was in the front yard, politely curled up, and with us no more. I turned around went back inside and told my husband “We’re going to have to buried our precious friend.”

We’ve had Kitty for almost 16 years. A stray, she showed up on our doorstep when Crystal was about 2. She was full of fleas, very thin and the tiniest little kitten I’d ever seen.

At the time, I was not an animal person (I’m still not. I like my animals, but I’m not much of a fan of anyone else’s. I feel the same way about kids. Sorry.)

But on that day, somewhere in the mid ‘90s, when I opened the front door and looked down to see this sad little thing sitting there looking up at me, it broke my heart. And when she uttered the most pathetic “meow” I’d ever heard, it opened my heart. I scooped her up, put her in the car, and we headed to the vet.

Nearly $200 later, the little stray cat was feeling much better and we suddenly had our first family pet. Whom we promptly named Kitty. Because we love originality.

Kitty became an extremely territorial feline. No one and nothing came in her yard or near her family unless she approved. We often came home to find Kitty at the very top of our roof – center of the pitch – looking down on her kingdom. We realized later she was keeping squirrels out of the attic, but at the time, we just figured she was being queen – sans the crown. She was just as protective of the inside of her house. No little bug or critter that may have somehow wandered inside was there for long. We often found just remains – a pair of legs here, some antlers there, a wing, possibly a small tail – of whatever tiny creature had dane disturb her home.

Kitty was very loving – even more so as she got older. She was a fan of licking your toes. The minute you’d touch her she’d start purring. She was very vocal about wanting her dinner on time and being let in and out of the house when needed, but for the most part, she was very content, peaceful, loyal and dependable.

She was the best cat anyone could ask for.

And like so many blessings in my life, I didn’t ask for her. God just gave her to our family because he’s God and he does cool stuff like that. For 16 years, that sweet little cat has been a part of our lives. Always around, in the background in family photos, in the darkest nights, in the early mornings, through most every adventure we’ve had as a family, that wonderful being was there. Nuzzling an arm, rubbing a leg, purring a soft purr and loving all of us and our wretched human flaws.

A week ago, we buried her in the corner of the yard under the grapevine. The spot is shady in the heat of the day, but warm in the morning sun. We stood over her tiny grave, held hands, thanked God for her life, and sent her spirit off to live with grandparents, a dad, a bunny and a few other pets we’ve lost over the years.

A week later, I’m still amazed at how strange things feel without her around. And I’m comforted by the fact that heaven has a new guardian – one that will keep the squirrels at bay, protect the inhabitants and love with a fierce devotion.

So today, take a moment and thank the good Lord for whatever special creature has been a blessing to you. Bask in that affection that only comes from a precious pet and return it. One of the many things God asks in his scripture is that we humans respect his animals and treat them kindly. I hope we did right by Kitty, because she certainly did right by us.

She will forever be missed.

This is a pic of a pic taken many years ago. Got Milk? – our inherited (and missing) cat is in the background and Kitty, our beloved, is in the foreground, no doubt heading toward her human, who is taking the pic, in hopes of a nice scratch on the chin.