Jazzie making the best of this baby situation. 

Winky will have to wait...

Over the weekend my 17-year-old grey tabby, Jasmine, died of kidney failure. She was the first pet that was all my own. I got her in my sophomore year of college.

She had insinuated herself into my life in so many ways. I didn’t realize that I scan the rooms as I enter the house to see where the cats are sleeping-- until she was missing. I also catch myself putting my cereal bowl on the floor for her to finish.

She had become hard to love with her various ailments and her insistent cries for attention-- for recognition. Jasmine would never let my husband or children forget that she was the first love of my life. She cherished that distinction.

Jazzie loved to sleep on top of me, regardless of what position I was in. In the wee hours of the morning, when she couldn’t sleep, she would try to engage me in conversation; I rewarded her adamant tête-à-têtes with the other side of the door.

My mother-in-law, Adria, surprised us with a baby-sitting visit; unfortunately, it was the same day Jasmine’s back legs stopped working. We stayed in and I held Jasmine for the last night of her life. The next morning, Saturday, Will had a ball game. He spent some time with the kitty before leaving and kept asking if she would get better. Travis and Adria took Will to the game and I took Jasmine to the veterinarian. The vet cried with me as she gave her the shot to ease her pain.

I had an hour or so to sob unabashedly until I had to break it to my seven-year-old son. Somehow, having to darn his tender feelings brought me out of myself and my self-pity. On Sunday we had a viewing and a lovely memorial. The baby and the other cat attended. The neighbor took his dog into the house out of respect. We gave her flowers and each put a shovelful of dirt on her grave.

For a marker, Will painted a river rock with Jasmine’s portrait and I inscribed her birth and death dates on the back. My husband dug the hole and did the heavy lifting (the river rock and Will and my spirits).

My one-year-old girl crawls around saying “Owwww, Owwww” parroting Jazzie’s voice. Alas, she won’t remember the cat who taught her to meow.

Terrific Kids, Allergies, Taxes and Turtles

My son received a "Terrific Kid" award today. (I guess it's the modern version of a citizenship award.) Two kids from each class get this award every quarter; we guessed that approximately a third of the school will be recognized as terrific before the end of the school year. Despite our skepticism, he was very excited to get the award. No one needed to tell us he was terrific.

The whole house is sneezing. I think Kleenex plants pollen rich foliage to enhance their profit margin.

It's April 12th and I am writing here instead of finishing my taxes! I'd expand on my procrastinating nature, but the guilt is killing me.

Coming up in the next entry: Winky the one-eyed box turtle.

To blog or not to blog... will anyone read it? Might the wrong people read it? Will this forum be my downfall in my 2030 bid for a Senate seat? (I knew I shouldn't have published that I'm a 36- year-old woman with a crush on Kieran Culkin.)

I fancy myself articulate and could have been a proficient writer had I ever applied myself. (I smack of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in Pride and Prejudice!) Maybe now I might apply myself? Growing up, my diaries had two or three sanitized entries and were then abandoned. I can write a mean letter of complaint or letter to the editor.

If nothing else, this will relieve some of my favorite writers of my lengthy comments on their blogs. They don't know me, but I presume to enter their limerick contests and share my children’s triumphs and tribs with them anyway. You can also be privy to my beefs with belligerent gas station attendants and smarmy shop girls.

Please excuse my obsession with Jane Austen—there will be too much of that. (A fitting segue to my 1st link http://pemberley.com.) My life as a liberal in a Southern-fried American town may be some fodder as well.

Then there are movies...have you seen Kieran Culken in Igby Goes Down?