Losing our boy

Chase Bird, Christmas 2014

I can’t tell you about the last six months without first telling you about Chase Bird. We lost our boy on Tuesday, October 27.

You know that my cats are my family. Larry feels the same way. So the last two weeks have not been easy.

Chase Bird’s death was unexpected. He was referred to a different vet to do dental surgery for stomatitis. During the exam before the surgery, the vet found a mass in his abdomen. We gave permission for her to do exploratory surgery.

He had numerous tumors, including one a little smaller than a golf ball. They could not be removed. Even without doing a biopsy, the three vets there thought it was lymphosarcoma, or lymphoma. The prognosis was very poor, and he was certain to be in pain.

Their recommendation: let Chase Bird go while he was on the table, so he would feel no pain and no fear. We let him go.

My friend Carolyn made this for me.

I want you to know about Chase Bird. He came into our lives in 2007 when he started hanging around our house. Apparently, he had been hanging around the neighborhood for a while.

He was so thin, we started feeding him. One morning, he jumped into my car as I got in to go to work. I remember his little face looking up at me, eyes so bright and eager. He chose us.

On October 20, 2007, we brought him into our house. We named him Chase Bird. He became family.

He was a gentle cat who would snuggle on our laps. He had the longest legs and jumped with such grace. When he purred, he also “puffed” his cheeks and made a clicking sound. That was his “I’m content” sound.

He could catch a toy mousie in the air. His paws could bend and pick things up—you’d swear he had thumbs. He would carry certain toys—only certain ones—in his mouth and looked so cute.

My friend Christi made this.

I am writing this on Tuesday night. We picked up his ashes tonight and brought him home. This ritual is heart wrenching and comforting, a strange mixture of emotions. It’s another reminder he’s gone. But his remains are home.

I have to believe that I will see my boy again. I still talk to him. I believe his spirit lives on.

And I think I heard him tonight.

The crematory service puts the name of the pet and the name of the pet parents on the bottom of the wooden box that holds the ashes and on a certificate stating that the ashes are his.

Chase Bird’s humans were listed not as “Larry and Tina Barbour.” They were listed as “Larry and Tiny Barbour.” Larry and I laughed and cried, probably a bit hysterically, when we saw that. And I’m sure I heard Chase Bird laughing too.

Meet the newest member of the Barbour family

Abbey Hunny Bee Barbour

Meet Abbey. She is the newest member of our family. We adopted her yesterday from the Campbell County Animal Shelter, and we are so excited!

She is about one year old and very small, weighing just seven and a half pounds. We have her in a separate room in the house, and she is looking more comfortable as time goes by.

Yesterday, she spent most of the day hiding underneath furniture. Off and on, I sat in the room and talked to her, read, and watched some TV. Last night, I went in and put on some soft music. She came out from under the sofa, sniffed my hand, then came to me so I could pet her and hold her. She is such a sweetheart!

Today we took her to our vet to be tested for feline leukemia and FIV—both came back negative. She got some of her shots, and we set up an appointment to have her spayed in three weeks when it’s time for her booster shots.

Larry said she’s already mama’s cat. But I’ve spent more time with her than he has. Once he spends more time with her, she will adore him, I’m sure.

Chase Bird? Well, he’s not too happy. We are keeping the door closed between the two kitties, but they have caught glimpses of each other. It’s a process for cats to get used to each other.

Our vet advised us to keep her isolated from Chase Bird for a couple of weeks because we don’t know if she perhaps caught an upper respiratory infection at the shelter.

I first saw Abbey on Feb. 1 when I went to the shelter to cuddle with the cats. Her name was Hunny Bee at that time.  

When I held her, she was a purr-baby and so affectionate. She also seemed tolerant of the other cats around her.

I kept thinking about her, but I didn’t do anything about adopting. We just weren’t quite ready.

Then I saw on the Facebook page of Friends of Campbell County Animal Control (a volunteer group that works to get the shelter animals fostered and adopted) that Hunny Bee had been adopted. I comforted myself with the thought that she had gotten a good home.

Then Hunny Bee popped up on Facebook again, available for adoption.

Sunday, when Larry and I went to visit her at the shelter, we learned that she had been adopted by a family with small children, and it wasn’t a good mix. So they returned her to the shelter four days later.

She had originally been surrendered to the shelter by her owner, so there she was at the shelter, given up twice. She had been there for four months.

Now she has a home with us, and we plan for it to be her forever home.

Where did her name come from? Her full name is Abbey Hunny Bee Barbour. We wanted to add Abbey but help her get used to it by keeping the Hunny Bee. We like the name Abbey because one of our favorite TV characters is named Abby (Pauley Perrette’s character on NCIS). We added the “e” in affection for our good friend Ann, whose first dog was named Abbey.

Book review: Overcoming OCD: A Journey to Recovery. By Janet Singer with Seth J. Gillihan.

Today I have the pleasure of reviewing a book written by a woman who I met through blogging and who has inspired me with her advocacy for educating others about OCD.

The book is Overcoming OCD: A Journey to Recovery, by Janet Singer with Seth J. Gillihan.

Janet writes a blog called ocdtalk, where she discusses her experiences as a parent of a son with OCD and their journey to find help. She also keeps readers updated on research being done on OCD. And she is an advocate for Exposure and Response Prevention therapy, the leading therapy for OCD.

In her book, Janet writes about Dan’s journey from being unable to eat, from lying on the floor for days at a time, caught in the snares of OCD, to reaching a diagnosis of “mild” OCD and being able to have a fulfilling life.

Dr. Seth J. Gillihan is an expert in treating patients with OCD and other anxiety disorders. In addition to having a clinical practice, he is a clinical assistant professor of psychology in the Psychiatry Department of the University of Pennsylvania and a visiting assistant professor of psychology at Haverford College.

Gillihan gives readers the “facts” about OCD: what it is, what the symptoms are, what treatments are available, what problems people seeking treatment might face, and more.

The abiding theme of Overcoming OCD is hope. But Janet isn’t feeling much hope when her story begins. Her son Dan has struggled during his first year of college, and Janet visits him to try to help.

She is shocked by his haggard appearance and his obvious anxiety. And she is shocked when they reach the motel where she is staying, and he is unable to climb the concrete steps up to the second floor.

Step by step, slowly, she helps him up the steps. Then he says he’s unable to come into the motel room. She pulls him into the room.

“And so our journey began,” she writes (p. 2).

Janet knew her son had OCD, but she had never seen it manifested in such debilitating ways. Dan couldn’t eat, couldn’t use his cell phone, couldn’t drive, and couldn’t go to certain places. His promising future in animation—a dream that he had had for years—seemed in jeopardy.

Janet and her husband Gary and the rest of their family rallied around Dan and supported him on his road to recovery, which was never linear and never easy.

Dan spent about nine weeks in a residential OCD treatment center, and Janet and her husband struggled with staff who seemed to be leading Dan to a life of lower expectations. The treatment center did give Dan a good foundation in ERP therapy, providing him with tools to fight his OCD.

The family moved to Dan’s college town so that they could be there to support him. He saw a number of doctors and was on a number of medications. Side effects of some of those medications put Dan into a medical crisis and delayed his recovery.

Janet learned to speak up and ask questions of Dan’s caregivers. She did her own research. She interviewed perspective doctors to find the right fit for Dan. She supported Dan in the tenuous dance of being independent but getting the help he needed to fight the OCD.

And she and Gary remained Dan’s cheerleaders and advocates, supporting him unconditionally without enabling him in his OCD.

I read Janet’s blog, so I know that Dan is now doing great, with mild OCD. He graduated from college and has a job that he once dreamed of.

But as I read her book, I felt a taste of the anxiety that Janet and her husband felt as they watched their son sink so low that they never thought he’d come back. I felt the anger at the lack of caring and lack of knowledge that some so-called experts displayed in treating Dan.

I also wanted to reach into the book and tell Dan, It’s going to be OK. I guess that comes from my own experiences with having OCD and having to fight my way to better health.

Janet’s story makes it clear that ERP therapy, sometimes with, sometimes without medication and other therapy, can help those with OCD become more than their OCD. They can live fulfilling lives despite having OCD.

But she shows that one must search for and sometimes fight for good mental health care. Her story makes it clear that there’s still so much education needed of even medical professionals about how to best diagnose and treat OCD.

Gillihan’s explanations are very helpful, especially for those not familiar with OCD.

I really didn’t want to put this book down after I started it. It’s inspirational, absorbing, and just a plain good story.

Parents with children who have OCD would particularly benefit and would be reminded that they are not alone in their journey. The beneficial role that family support can play is well illustrated.

I would also highly recommend this book to anyone who wants to know more about OCD and to those with OCD. I found myself relating to so much of what Dan experienced.

Throughout the journey that Janet and her family took with Dan, family friend and clinical psychologist Mark was a godsend, a person who offered information and hope to the family. In her book, Janet writes, “If you are going to have a mental health crisis in your family, I recommend having a close friend who is an amazing clinical psychologist” (p. 25).

I would add that having a family like Dan’s would help those suffering through a mental health crisis see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Overcoming OCD: A Journey to Recovery is published by Rowman & Littlefield. 2015. For information about ordering the book, go HERE.

Anniversary

On Friday, Nov. 7, eleven years ago, Larry and I went to the Campbell County courthouse and got married. The past eleven years have been the best of my life.

Larry and I had planned on a small church wedding. But the arrangements began to seem complicated, and we started thinking more about what we really wanted: to be married.

A few months before our planned wedding in January 2004, I moved my furniture and most of my things into Larry’s house. But Waddles and I still lived in Rustburg.

One day, while I was over at Larry’s house, he asked, “Would you ever want to elope?”

I was surprised, but we talked about it and decided that the best course to take was to get married at the courthouse by the judge so our close family could be there.

Six weeks later, we got married.

That morning, after I got dressed and ready to go, my brothers and mother and I gathered to drive to the courthouse. One of my brothers was a volunteer EMT at the time, and he had brought one of the ambulances to Rustburg to pick up some things for a fundraiser.

He suggested ferrying me up to the courthouse in the emergency vehicle. He didn’t run the lights, though—that was against the code.

So Larry, standing outside the courthouse with his parents and daughter, saw me arrive in an ambulance. Unfortunately, we didn’t get pictures of that.

We went up to the third floor to the circuit court, and Judge Samuel Johnston performed the wedding.

He said he was glad to have a happy task to do since he had presided over a testy divorce earlier that week.

Years later, the now-retired Judge Johnston wrote a book, and I interviewed him about it for the newspaper. I told him that he had married my husband and me.

“Did it stick?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, it stuck,” I said.

Happy Anniversary, dear Larry! 

Asking the question, Who am I?

"Hidden clover" 

Asking myself the question, who am I, is not new for me. I have often wondered who I am in relation to mental illness. Would I be the same person if I didn’t have OCD? How would I be different if I didn’t have depression? Am I who I am partly because of the mental illness?

I am asking myself the question with a new concern now.

Since my mother’s suicide attempt a month ago, I’ve been flooded with all kinds of memories from my childhood and young adulthood.

Therapy over the years made me aware of my unhealthy childhood. And I made great strides in moving away from negative beliefs about myself. In many ways, I thrived.

But I stayed in a toxic relationship with my mother because I believed I had to. And I never fully faced what my childhood had been like and how much the anger and resentment I had stemmed from that.

My mother’s actions and the aftereffects a month ago tipped me over.

I’ve had to face the fact that I had a lousy childhood. There’s no longer any way I can dress it up and make it look reasonably OK for the rest of the world. It’s time for me to be honest about it with myself and with others.

And I have to look at myself and figure out how much of this past junk I’m still carrying around with me.

With the help of my psychiatrist, I’ve realized that my way of being in the world and my way of handling relationships were heavily influenced and shaped by my mother.

I’ve worked on this before, but now I am especially mindful about the ways I may be carrying on the habits learned from an abusive past.

So now that I know without a doubt that my mother’s influence was and continues to be toxic to me, how do I answer that question—who am I?

As I am apt to do in any new situation, I’ve been reading a lot. One helpful work I came across in my search was an article called “You Carry theCure In Your Own Heart,” by AndrewVachss. The article was first published in 1994 in Parade Magazine.

Vachss is an author and an attorney who works with children and youth.

Here is a passage from that article:

“If you are a victim of emotional abuse, there can be no self-help until you learn to self-reference. That means developing your own standards, deciding for yourself what "goodness" really is. Adopting the abuser's calculated labels—"You're crazy. You're ungrateful. It didn't happen the way you say"—only continues the cycle.”

This new journey of re-understanding of who I am is a difficult process for me, harder than it ever was before.

Meditation, reading, and writing in my journal have become very important ways to become aware of who I am without my mother, without the belief system that she started me on as a child. I want to be aware of what my values are, what my core beliefs are.

I keep telling myself, “I can do this. I am not alone.”

And I’m not alone. I know there are others who have gone before me who have overcome similar obstacles. I know there are those struggling with the same sorts of issues. I know there are people cheering me on. I believe there is a presence of Spirit—God, Creator—that I don’t understand but am becoming more aware of.

I pray. I meditate. I read. I write. I knit. I laugh with my husband. I hold my cat. I follow my doctor’s instructions and take the medication that helps enable me to do what I need to do.

And I find out who I am.

Love and saying no

“One of these days, I’m going to pack up my bags and leave. And then you’ll find out what it is to not have me around.”

I heard my mother yell those and similar words many times when I was a child. Usually it was during a tirade when she was complaining about how hard she worked and how little she was appreciated.

The words scared me. I pictured my mother packing suitcases—it was always two suitcases in my imagination—and leaving the house, leaving me behind.

What would I do without my mother?

It didn’t matter what kind of mother she was. I needed my mother, and I didn’t want her to leave.

I have been thinking about her words a lot over the past couple of weeks. Maybe they’ve been on my mind because her suicide attempt seemed like the ultimate threat. Perhaps that’s not a fair assessment, but that’s the connection I’ve made.

I told you in my last post that some wise people have helped me. One of those is my minister.

A few days after my mother was taken to the hospital, I met with him. I wanted to get feedback on my reaction to what she had done. I wanted to talk about the guilt that I felt because of all the anger and hate I felt, not just over the recent incident, but over a lifetime of pain.

During our conversation, I made the comment that I knew my feelings were wrong, that the Jesus of my faith tradition taught that we should love one another.

My minister said he couldn’t say what love was.

But he could say that love was not always saying yes. Sometimes, he said, love was saying no. Love didn’t mean that we had to put up with whatever someone did.

Those words helped me tremendously.

I have begun to see that loving my mother doesn’t mean that I have to place myself in circumstances where I am open to abuse.

I love my mother because that is what I needed to do as a child: bond with and love my mother.

She is my mother. She is not evil. She is not a monster.

But she has never acknowledged the truth about our past, nor does she admit that there’s anything wrong with the continuing put-downs, manipulations, and lies.

I was hoping that she would finally get the help that she needed. But she is choosing not to.

I rarely saw her or talked with her on the phone before her actions almost two weeks ago. I was trying to resolve my sense of guilt even then.

Now, I have a sense of resolution.

I cannot be around my mother, at least not now. I cannot talk to her or see her. I cannot have a relationship with her.

I don’t wish her harm. I hope she has a good life. I hope she is happy and healthy.

But for my own health, I have to stay away from her.

Looking back: Josephine

I have found that even though I’m not actively working on my memoir, memories and remembrances from the past come to me and want to be told. So I’m making them little stories to share.

Today’s post is about Josephine, my great-aunt and the doll that she gave me.

Aunt Josephine was my father’s aunt, so my great-aunt. She was my paternal grandmother’s youngest sister. The photo below is one taken of my great-grandparents and their daughters. Aunt Josephine is the little girl on the right on the front row. My grandmother is on the back row, second from the left.

There were brothers in the family, too—quite a large family—but none are in this photo.

My grandmother died when I was 4 years old, so I don’t remember much about her. Two of her sisters, Josephine and Ida, who is standing beside Josephine in the photo, were like surrogate grandmothers to me growing up.

I didn’t think of them as that when I was little. It was only when I was an adult did I realize how they played that grandmotherly role with me.

Aunt Josephine played another important role in my life. She had been the one to introduce my parents to each other. She was the youth leader at my mother’s church in the 1940s, and she thought she and her nephew would get along.

Aunt Josephine was fascinating to me. She loved antiques and collected a lot of things. Her husband built a little building beside their house for her to store her treasures.

Her house was so different from mine. It was full of stuff. There seemed to be no order to anything.

Sometimes Aunt Josephine’s mood would be low. She looked greatly fatigued, like she could barely move, and her eyes looked sunken in.

I remember her visiting our house one hot, summer day. She looked drained and sad. But she sat down at our piano and played lovely tunes by ear.

I understand now that the way she kept her house and her low moods may have pointed to depression. At the time, it just seemed like that was the way she was.

One day, for some reason, she gave me a doll she had found somewhere in her treasure hunts. I was little enough to still be playing with dolls, and I liked this doll’s pretty face and what was then long golden hair.

I held on to the doll, and some years ago, after I had had her in storage for a long time, I decided to refurbish her a bit.

All of the photos of Josephine the doll in this post are "after" the changes.

One side of her head was bald where her wig was halfway off, and the hair itself smelled moldy. So I tore off the wig and gave her a good bath.

I bought a bag of doll hair. It was in individual ringlets. I hot-glued each one to her head, giving her a head full of dark hair.

Why dark hair? Because Aunt Josephine had had dark hair before it turned white, and I wanted to name my doll Josephine.

I added a pair of glasses because I liked the look.

The dress she has on in these photos is an old baby dress—one of mine, I think. And she’s wearing my baby shoes.

I would like to dress her in clothes that look like a girl would wear around the turn of the 20^th century. Someday I will.

For now, she sits in a rocking chair that was mine as a child. And she reminds me of Aunt Josephine.

Do you or did you have any relatives that fascinated you?

Looking back: The little red chair

When I was a small child, my paternal grandfather lived about a mile away from us.

One day he walked up to our house carrying a little red chair that had been in his family. He wanted my father and his children to have it.

I was the youngest and the only daughter, so I ended up making the chair my own.

When I was growing up, I kept it sitting in front of an old vanity that I had in my bedroom until I left home. I could sit on the chair and brush my hair and “primp.”

 I liked the story behind the chair. My grandfather, who was born in 1885, used it to learn to walk. Someone would turn over the chair so that it set steady on the floor, and my grandfather would push it across the floor.

Apparently, someone cut the legs down short so the chair could be used for this purpose.

You can see where the chair back and the top of the front legs are smoothed down from rubbing against the floor.

Granddaddy didn’t have an easy life when he was young. His father died when he was two years old, and his mother died when he was four. He had three older siblings. Apparently he lived with different relatives growing up, eventually living with his paternal grandmother.

Granddaddy in 1889, when he was four years old.

Granddaddy when he was a young man.

The chair has been painted red since I can remember. I don’t know why someone painted over the wood with thick red paint. Perhaps it was to brighten it up for children.

Now I keep the chair in either our den or living room. It’s currently sitting in the living room, providing a seat for a stuffed snowman that I’ll keep out a few more weeks.

I have an old doll that would probably look better on the chair than this stuffed snowman.

(Note: Do you think I should try to remove the red paint and show the original wood? Would that hurt the wood?)

I have other pieces of furniture plus other treasures that have been in my family a long time. I’m trying to record their stories so I don’t forget and so my nieces and nephews and other family members will know their meaning.

And I have so many family stories to record, including my father’s writings and letters he wrote his sister during World War II.

Not all my memories are good, but that’s the way life is. The good can be remembered, and the bad can be learned from.

Do you have any pieces of furniture that have been in your family for a long time?

The Christmas season: Joy and sorrow both have their places

The Joy

I hope you have been enjoying the holidays. We had a very nice Christmas.

Christmas Eve was spent with my mother-in-law and my stepdaughter and her family. Then we had Christmas dinner with my mother and one of my brothers and his wife.

And Santa visited the Barbour household and was very generous.

Chase Bird sniffed out his stocking after I laid it under the tree Christmas morning—I think he smelled the catnip in the toys.

He dragged the stocking around. Then we helped him get his new toys out. He seemed pleased.

I received something in my stocking that I’ve never received before: a bag of coal. I thought I had been pretty good this year, but apparently . . . Santa thought otherwise.

Oh, well, there was plenty of candy in the stocking, too. And actually, the coal is really candy.

The Sorrow

The ending of the Christmas holidays always leaves me feeling a bit low. But this year I’m trying to take a different perspective.

One of my mother’s younger sisters died last Saturday morning. It was not unexpected—she had been suffering from terminal cancer. But it’s always a sobering shock to hear of the death of someone who has been in your life—your whole life.

This week a person in our community who was probably known by just about everyone died. He was a good man, a public servant who served the schools and the citizens of the county for most of his life.

So how do we make sense of sorrow in the midst of the joy that we’re “supposed” to feel this time of year?

Somehow the sorrow seems to be in direct opposition to the holidays. But maybe it’s not.

The Christmas Story, whether you take it literally or figuratively, is one of love. Grace, peace, compassion—they are all there in the story.

Other religions teach love, too. As a Christian, I happen to celebrate Christmas.

For me, Christmas is a reminder of the love that we must share if life is to hold any meaning. Loving others is acting out the love of God. It’s love that we celebrate, and it’s love that comforts.

And if Christmas is a time of remembering this love, then that love should be lived out for the rest of the year.

Maybe the festivities are drawing to a close. But the love is not.

I give thanks

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you who celebrate! I hope you enjoy time with family and friends and make new, warm memories.

And to all my readers: I am thankful for you.

“We often take for granted the very things that most deserve our gratitude.”

― Cynthia Ozick

Larry

I give thanks for Larry.

I give thanks for Chase Bird.

I give thanks for my mother and Larry’s mother and the rest of our family.

“Cultivate the habit of being grateful for every good thing that comes to you, and to give thanks continuously. And because all things have contributed to your advancement, you should include all things in your gratitude.”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson

Leaves and pine needles caught in the fence around the raised bed garden.

I give thanks for the familiar pieces of life.

I give thanks for the new and surprising.

I give thanks for the animals and trees and flowers and skies.

Trees at sunset. November 9, 2013.

I give thanks that I have a home.

I give thanks that I always have plenty to eat.

I give thanks for clean water and clean air.

I give thanks that I have access to good health care.

I give thanks for books and words and color and light.

I give thanks for my blogland friends.

I give thanks to God for all that He has given.

“If the only prayer you said was thank you, that would be enough.”

― Meister Eckhart

My father was a veteran

“On Dec. 7, 1941, Japan bombed Hawaii, and the U.S. declared war on Japan. So after that, the draft was for six months after the war ended. In February 1942, they lowered to age to 20 years, which caught me.

“In March 1942, I went to see a draft board member and asked him whether to start a crop. He said he saw no reason not to, and if they did, to just ask for time to get my crop in.

“On July 25, 1942, I got my notice to be examined on Aug. 12. I went to the draft board and asked for a two month delay and was refused. The draft board chairman said, ‘You will be getting $50 a month. You can hire someone to do it for you.’

“On Aug. 12, 1942, I was examined, passed and was sworn in the U.S. Army the same day. This was done in Roanoke, Virginia.”

“My birthday present on July 1, 1944 was going under the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, California and seeing the U.S.A. the last time for one and a half years.”

--from my father’s writings

My father and his mother.

My father served in the Pacific Theater during World War II. He was a medic. He served from 1942 until 1945.

In 1942, he left behind his farming, his family and his life in rural Central Virginia to answer the call from Uncle Sam.

He saw parts of the country and the world that he would never have visited otherwise. He saw horror and pain. He made lifelong friends. He came home and was forever grateful for being able to come home.

Today on Veterans Day, we honor all veterans. We take a day to thank those who served their country.

There will be programs and ceremonies to formally honor veterans. I’ll attend one in my town.

But I also remember my father’s service. He has been gone for many years, but I still have his words, his memories, his thoughts about his time in the Army. I hold them dear.

Changes

   Thank you for listening to me while I work through changes.

Chase Bird

“All things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful,

The Lord God made them all.”

--Cecil Frances Alexander

When Larry and I got married almost 10 years ago, we formed a blended family. But not in the way the term “blended family” usually refers to.

Larry has a daughter, but she was already married and had two children when I married Larry. I didn’t have any children.

We blended our cats.

Larry had Thunder Cat and Sam. I had Waddles. Waddles and I moved into the house Larry already had in Altavista, and we became the happy family we had dreamed about.

Or not.

The cats didn’t get along. We should have known it wouldn’t be easy.

We really didn’t know what we were doing. We immediately introduced Waddles to Thunder and Sam—face to face in the same room. A lot hissing and growling ensued, as you can imagine.

We learned. Usually you have to gradually introduce cats to each other. It can take days—weeks—months before they will spend peaceful time together in the same room. Sometimes it never quite happens.

But eventually, it did happen with Waddles and her two new siblings. They could, for the most part, remain at peace with each other.

One of the happiest times I remember is when all five of us—Larry, me and the three cats—were together in the den, sitting around, hanging out, calm.

Sam was the last of our “original” cats. When she died last week, the group of cats that we started out with, which we formed our family with, was gone.

“O heavenly Father, protect and bless all things that have breath: guard them from all evil and let them sleep in peace.”

--Albert Schweitzer

In 2007, we added Chase Bird to the family. He was a stray that started living under one of the bushes in our front yard, and eventually we took him in and adopted him.

The other cats didn’t like him. He and Thunder Cat had a growling row one time. So we kept Chase in his own room. Larry put up a gate so that he could see what was going on, but we couldn’t let him out with the other cats.

We worked on introducing Chase to them. But as time went on, it seemed less workable because first Thunder Cat, then Waddles, got very sick and fragile.

Chase and Sam had more interaction, usually through the gate. But we were very careful about unsupervised meetings. Usually, if Chase was running around the house, it was because Sam was in a part of the house he couldn’t get to.

“Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened.”

--Anatole France

Now Chase Bird is the only cat we have. He has full run of the house. It has been an adjustment for all of us. We’ve had to get used to a cat that is young enough to jump up on kitchen counters and dresser tops and bathroom sinks. He is getting used to a freedom that he hasn’t known.

He is a blessing and a comfort. We are fortunate to have him.

But so many changes.