How to look better than ever while working from home.

How are you? Since we're now nearly six months into this lousy scourge, I thought I'd check in again. Hope you and yours are doing okay. 

We're often told how important it is for our overall well-being to stay positive, to find rays of light that pierce the darkness. And I really do try. It's just that, things are so tough for so many people and for so many different reasons, even a brilliant Pacific Northwest summer day can periodically seem engulfed in a carrot-hued haze of anxiety. 

I feel incredibly lucky to have a job right now (insert sound of knuckles raking against splintered mahogany). In addition to its being a reliable source of income, mine is an occupation that doesn't require me to place my health on the line, every single GD day. While I work in close proximity to PSDs, JPEGs and HTML files, none have coughed or sneezed in my face, even once. It's a setting that stands in stark contrast to my wife's line of work. She's an elementary school teacher, a vocation that's experienced more shape shifts than a gob of yellow hair in the prop wash of Marine One.

Education has found itself perched squarely between the stoniest of rocks and hardest of hard places. At the risk of draping myself in a Captain Obvious cape, teaching kids, especially the little guys, is difficult under the most favorable of conditions. Then, when we plaster tiny masks to their mini mugs and order them to stay six feet from that kid with the cool fidget spinner, doesn't that just seem like a bridge too far? For God's sakes, between the ages of five and eight, I can count the number of times I effectively washed myself, and that would be zero, point zero zero four.

On the flip side, keeping our rug rats at home also causes extreme hardships, both to their social and emotional development and their parents' abilities to earn a living. If there were ever to be a flawless, real-world example of the term "clusterf#ck," educating our children during the age of COVID-19 comes closer than anything since, "Houston, we have a problem."

Like a lot of us, I miss going to work. I miss the morning commute, a daily ritual where I could watch through a scratched bus window as my beautiful city's silhouette came to life against the brightening sky. Ultimately, I'd disappear inside its grey canyons, adding my pulse to the energy from a million other hearts already inside. 

I miss the after-work happy hours where I'd undoubtedly laugh my midriff into a knotted, pre-hernial outgrowth. 

I miss the donuts, but not the donut knife which always ended up inside the pink box next to half a glazed and .173 of a bear claw, it's handle crusty with frosting and coconut shavings.

Okay, that's enough of that. We can't spend our time lamenting the old normal, right? After all, if wishes were fishes, Trump would get a red cod (Little shout out to pun-loving soccer fans from New England!). 

My intent here is not to magnify your angst, oh, goodness, no. It's just that, unless I'm absolutely mindful of it, I trend toward the half-empty side of life's ledger. So, rather than dwelling on  the negatives regarding all the sucky things about working from home, here's one overwhelming positive:

Every day—whether it's today, tomorrow, a week from Thursday or seven fortnights previous to last Tuesday—is t-shirt day! And for that, I say woo to the freaking hoo. 

Okay, granted, it's not like I wore American Gigolo-level duds to work when I was going in on the daily:

American Gigolo-level duds, as worn by Richard Gere in American Gigolo

But I am employed by a fashion retailer, so I couldn't walk through the doors in the morning looking like a total schmendrick. It's why now, during this horrible age of Covid, I can at least finally express my dynamic, sometimes disturbing, inner inklings when the mood strikes. I can now be helplessly nostalgic:

Nerdishly belligerent:

Oozing with dad-quality content:

For Pete's sake, you crazy baboon! Seattle U doesn't, nor have they ever, had a football team!

Incurably provincial:

Playfully fickle with overt notes of shameless dishonesty:

Sociopathically jumbled:

Or just downright inspired:

In this new world, one where we've all been living one week, one day—one health-conscious decision at a time—maybe our work-from-home clothing choices are more telling than I'd ever imagined. Be well.

I'm Racist, and I'd Like to Talk About It.

Are you a racist? 

Such an ugly, incendiary word, isn't it? I mean come on, unless you're a cross-burning, tattoo-misspelling, Clorox guzzling Proud Boy, who among us, whether liberal or conservative, wants to include RACIST in our personal rubric, nestled right there between Eagle Scout and Competent Toastmaster? And as a middle-aged white man, just hearing the word makes me want to pull out my imaginary wallet and proudly show you the small, laminated list of all the reasons why I'm not a racist:

a) I haven't voted Republican since 1988, and even then, I was really just voting for Dana Carvey's version of Bush.

b) I have black friends—I can name at least four off the top of my head, but I know I could come up with more if I really tried. Also, there's a black family on my street, whom I cheerfully greet whenever I see them on one of my COVID exercise walks. Like the Toyota commercial for zero percent financing says, "We're all in this together."

c) I voted for Obama. Oh, yeah, twice!

d) If there's still any doubt that I'm not a racist, check out my Facebook and Instagram posts from last Tuesday. See? Nothing but a black rectangle. Quite a statement in my opinion, when I obviously could've been posting cool and compelling pictures of myself.

Here's the definition of racism, according to Webster's Dictionary:

1: a belief that race is the primary determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race

2a: a doctrine or political program based on the assumption of racism and designed to execute its principles

2b: a political or social system founded on racism
3: racial prejudice or discrimination

What do you think? Do any of these apply to you? 

Definition Number 1 seems pretty hardcore; like, you'd have to have some really archaic misconceptions about human anatomy and genetics to really get behind it. Still, some do:

Seems like a strange time to brag about your pants, moron. 

To give the majority of us caucasians the benefit of the doubt (hey, why stop now?), let's allow ourselves a "no" for criterion 1 and a "not applicable" for 2a and 2b, which address institutions rather than individuals.

Now let's talk about the third characterization of racism as defined above: racial prejudice or discrimination.

Sorry, can't clear that hurdle; guilty as charged. I do possess conditioned prejudices based on race. I do see color. And so do you, and every other white person in America. We're all racist, and we need to freaking own up to it if things are going to improve. 

Still with me? Great, because I swear I could hear the mouse clicks of countless friends and acquaintances who chose a quick detour to the friendlier confines of TikTok and fuzzy puppy subreddits. Some uncomfortable shit, for sure, to be labeled a racist by some sanctimonious blogger.

Whatever. Find yourself another blog if you're offended by this assertion. The fact is, labeling myself a racist doesn't make me a bad person; quite the opposite, really. According to anti-racist educator Robin DiAngelo, author of the best selling White Fragility: Why It's So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism, admitting to our own racial biases is the first step toward changing a system about which we claim to be outraged. 

The longer we defend the status quo through our silence and lack of dialogue, the more we deny the existence of racism in ourselves, the more we doom our society to an endless cycle of racial unrest. George Floyd, Philando Castile, Breanna Taylor, Trayvon Martin, Freddie Gray and an endless stream of injustices will continue, for the rest of our lives and beyond.

Am I a racist? I suppose that's in the eye of the beholder, but I'm going forward believing that I am.

Logic in the Time of COVID.

Who doesn't love a good conspiracy theory? I know I do.

Or did, anyway. The JFK assassination has to be one of the classics. It alone has more angles than a presidential comb-over: the CIA did it, the mob, LBJ— even Woody Harrelson's dad's been thrown into the mix.

Historically, conspiracy theories have covered the spectrum of deceit and collusion, from simple, self-serving schemes (Jim Morrison faked his death) to intricately-planned, elaborate capers encompassing the deepest corners of government and society (Lou Reed was killed by Lady Gaga).

There's Area 51, quirky and benign member of the Conspiracy All-Star Squad since the mid-20th Century. Or the Illuminati, with its ancient and über-secretive roster of influence, currently boasting such A-listers as Beyoncé, Jay Z, Madonna and Lindsay Lohan (Wait, how is Lohan still a member? Freaky Friday was her last good movie, and it was far before her Botox and Four Loko era.).

With the new millennium arose a docket of fresh, even more sinister theories. The 9-11 Truth movement claimed that the September 11 attacks were actually a controlled demolition orchestrated by the U.S. government, meant to incite war in the Middle East and seize control of the petroleum industry.

In short order, with the election of our first non-white president, came the "birther" movement, where a healthy smattering of Americans maintained that Barack Obama was born in Kenya. According to their purview, only a deviously well-oiled plot could secure his ascension to commander-in-chief, and that's precisely what went down.

Oh, and remember who really latched onto that one? A quick hint—his name rhymes with his daily activity between 2:00 and 2:17—that's right, a McDonalds Dump. Yeah, him. And he's taken the whole conspiracy playbook to a level not seen since Milli met Vanilli. The difference is, this time people are dying.

Why do we gravitate toward conspiracies? And how have some of us devolved into these people who view even the most basic truths through a lens of skepticism and distrust? Surely, a single man can't be responsible for this, right? Well, as the guy himself has been known to bark: "Wronnnng!"

In my opinion, the only way a leader can convince his followers to dispute science is to take a sharp right and go after the scientists themselves. If a mask of conspiracy can be strapped to Dr. Fauci's substantial, yet handsome, ears, then all bets are off. What if he truly is a Deep State operative who's been embedded to sabotage the president's chances for re-election?

That's exactly what's going on, according to Alex Jones, a cuddly right-wing conspiracy theorist and YouTube deity, who's also puked out that no one died at Sandy Hook and students who survived the Stoneman Douglas shooting were paid "crisis actors." Crisis actors? I wonder where that would fall on the pay scale in relation to porn acting. Bet some of the lucky ones do both porn and crises.

I just find it really arrogant for someone to claim that they and a few other enlightened souls have the goods, that all this overwhelming scientific evidence is bullshit and they're going to go ahead and opt for the opinion of the social media douchebag who talks like a pro wrestler. How miserable it must be to believe the stuff this guy's schtick, to wake up every morning convinced that faceless zombies in black SWAT gear could bust down the door at any moment.

Let's be real; have high-level conspiracies transpired throughout our history? Of course; look no further than Watergate, Iran Contra or Apollo 11 (Watch the movie Capricorn One and it'll all make sense).

This isn't one of them. We're all doing the best we can right now, and that includes our doctors, scientists, governors and mayors. It sucks when a plague becomes political.

Can't Wait to Hug You.

Well, hello. How are you holding up?

From where I sit here in this makeshift office, converted from a dining room that was previously converted from an office, we're about halfway into week six of, well, take your pick:

•  The 2020 Feel Sort of Cold All Day Festival, sponsored by the Lack of Movement movement.

•  A Vicious, Vegetative, Viral Vacation of Vain, brought to you by the AWSTDSICBTSTSIC (Assholes Who Said They Didn't See It Coming But Then Said They Saw It Coming) Foundation.

•  The First Annual Stop It, You Damn Fool. There's Not a Chance in Hell That You're Hungry Because Twelve Minutes Ago You Ate a Small Ham with Half a Box of Chicken in a Biskit and a Coffee Mug Full of Sweet Baby Ray's Marathon.

•  The Eczema Project. To prove they never really went away, the Beatles have again burst onto the scene with the unofficial theme song of this under-hydrated season: I Want to Hold Your Hand (Sanitizer). Makes my old heart crack and bleed, harkening back to times both simpler and moister.

Since this all started, it seems we've been living through a bizarre confluence of eerie, bored calmness and a gut-churning, sleep-thwarting anxiety about our future. For the first time that I can remember during my 57 years, never has such uncertainty hovered over tomorrow, let alone next week or next month. Only September 11 seems an example of a new reality capable of sinking its talons into us, virtually overnight.

Oh, and speaking of "virtually," this also marks my sixth week of working from home. In the midst of America's economic collapse, I count myself so lucky to still have gainful employment. Furloughs and layoffs rampant as they are, so many surviving occupations have become either monumentally challenging (i.e. teaching small children) or of profound peril to life and limb (healthcare and essential service workers). History will mark these ordinary groups of people as the heart that sustained and delivered us during the age of COVID-19.

Okay, enough of that hero stuff, right? Let's give you a little snapshot of a typical day for Joe Ordinary, low-impact corporate employee. I know you're more motivated than a Trump with the new May Hustler to learn about my WFH routine, so here's a little time-lapse exposition of an average morning, complete with numeric descriptions:

Figure 1) As I sit down to begin my day, I smile at the thought of working for a first-class company. I also say a little prayer asking God to plant little clothes-buying seeds in America's collective consciousness, at least those who have the privilege of caring about buying clothes right now.

Figure 2) Forgot to take a second pee before settling in! Curses!

Figure 3) Ahhh, peed.

Figure 4) Nothing jumpstarts my morning like a hot cup of my friend Larry's Kabaty Coffee. One sip and you'll tell the green mermaid to put down her damn tail and get off your property.

Figure 5) Hmm, what's going on in the news?

Figure 6) I can't believe how rude those reporters are! Why the hell should a president of the United States be challenged on his lies! At length, my anger subsides, and I again petition my maker, thanking him for creating Fox News—last bastion of druther-based factualism.

And that's just my morning.

I probably shouldn't say this, especially considering my standing as a representative of the fashion industry, but not all of those pictures were taken on the same day. And since we're on the subject of wardrobe, I recently ran into this lonely figure in the spare bedroom:

I'm told it was referred to as a belt, meant for holding up non-elastic-based trousers.

Hmm, doesn't ring a bell.

All this frivolity aside, I truly hope you're feeling decent and dealing with the anxiety in a healthy way. I speak from experience when I say that alcohol, during times like these, tends to treat us like that time when we were little and went to the Puyallup Fair with our parents. We spent all our money on rides during the first fifteen rapturous minutes and then endured the next three hours in the pavilion, regretful and sad as we got dragged through the quilts and jam.

Can't wait to hug you.

Weird Times. Take Care of Yourself.

How are you holding up? For lack of a better word, these times are interesting, aren't they?

Especially up here in the Seattle area. On Wednesday, to curb the spread of coronavirus COVID-19, the King County Department of Health advised businesses to allow "nonessential" employees to work from home. My company, based in the heart of Seattle's steadily-shrinking retail core, displayed a prudent abundance of caution, took the county's advice and told us not to grind our cootie-blooming carcasses against its freshly-disinfected door knobs until at least March 20.

Okay, sure, good call, but still I'm a feeling a little salty that creating cutting-edge digital advertising wouldn't be considered essential. There is such a thing as a fashion emergency, after all; it's freaking documented:

So here I am, working from home, aka WFH. Other commonly kicked-around corporatisms for this arrangement include IHD (It's Haircut Day), Riding Dirty (Remaining un-showered until... a little bit later) and SBCTLT (Shit, better check the laptop).

Just kidding, you all know my work ethic.

During times like these, I find that my fear of uncertainty can overwhelm the uncertainty itself, if that makes sense. My mind concocts scenarios far uglier than the actual events that eventually transpire.

Back around the time the hippie picture above was taken, I remember experiencing a sleepless night on the eve of a home inspection. Our house had been sold, and prior to closing they wanted this small window issue fixed. I took care of it myself, which of course immediately worried the shit out of me.

All night I churned out mental screenplays where the inspector berated me for the job I'd done, told me that now the house could never be sold and we'd all have to stay in that house and be miserable because we're having another baby in a few months and we'll all be crammed so close together that we'll hate each other and at least two of us will become homicidal and we'll never become a real family. Oh, and he was laughing.

It didn't quite turn out that way. The real inspector showed up holding a small dog, looked at the window for about five seconds and signed off on it without even putting down his Chihuahua. He wasn't laughing and he definitely had pants on. Sorry, that happened in one of the screenplays.

I'm trying to keep that mindset from seeping into my thoughts right now. Just because we don't know the true scale of events to come, it doesn't mean we should envision Armageddon as a given. Should we prepare ourselves? Of course.

Last Saturday, my wife and I assessed our current provisions. Living where we do, it doesn't hurt to have a small stockpile of canned and dried foods in the unfortunate event of an earthquake. Who wants to struggle a week without food, then desperately gnaw at the lifeless cadaver of Frank, your elderly next door neighbor who goes door to door during the holidays to dole out his world-famous mountain goat muffins? Wouldn't you just rather pop open a can of satisfying Chef Boyardee Beef-a-Roni and ignore Frank's body altogether?

That's what we figured back in 2012 when we took the girls to the grocery store to stock our emergency preparedness kid. In hindsight, it's creepy that we did that. What did we say to them? "Hey, kids, guess what? We're taking a trip to Safeway to buy stuff in case our house falls into the earth. Who wants Spaghetti-Os?"

Last weekend, after going online and discovering that even the most robust of canned food (low-acid products, such as meats and vegetables) can only hold out three to five years, I'd felt like I'd dodged a gastrointestinal grenade in not cluelessly devouring some honey baked beans from Obama's first term.

So we emptied out the old stuff:

Beautiful, yes? It has the makings of a hot dish to end all hot dishes. And while I don't specifically remember, if I were (pot)lucky at some point in the late '60s or early '70s, I scooped something similar to this ambrosia from a random slow cooker in the Messiah Lutheran Church fellowship hall.

Here's the replacement load, or part of it, anyway:

Since we were buying for a different demographic, the Boyardee factor gave way to slightly healthier choices. Still, canned food tends not to get that fancy; lots of salt and sugar, pretty much regardless of what you buy. And seriously, if things get that rough, I'll be breaking into the other shopping cart: the one filled with nothing but vodka and thoughts of happier times.

Please stay safe during this flu thing. We're all going to have to break some unhealthy habits in order to get a handle on this. I, for one, am willing to sacrifice, even if it means not kissing people good morning on the bus for a while.

Oh, and please stop buying toilet paper, because I'm sure you already have enough.

Take care of yourself.

Go Big! Go Austin!

I think this is my first empty-nest-themed travel post. Back in the old days, I attempted to diarize (I promise I won't use that word ever again) our family trips. There was Vegas, San Diego and camping on the Green River, to list a fistful of the chronicling exploits when our kids were the ages of unruly urchins who possessed magnetically-opposed fashion sensibilities.

And while a positive experience overall, traveling with tots will most assuredly involve heated disagreements, constant compromise, complaints of crippling hunger and periodic physical assaults among our young. At that point, the spousal eye contact is established and the nonverbal question is asked: was this worth it?

Oh, of course it was. But when you realize that that period of your life (bless its heart) has rapidly faded in the rear view, it takes a second to remember how care-free a two-person vacation can be. It's just two of you and by golly, you're both adults! You can have rational conversations and adjust on the fly, thereby exponentially increasing your average-enjoyment-per-minute ratio.

With that in mind, I have to tell you about our trip to Austin, Texas. I want to say it's the mecca of adult entertainment, but that's actually a strip of hotels in the San Fernando Valley. You know what I mean—if you're over twenty-one and love food, history, art and music, Austin has it all.

Here are some highlights:

Austin is home to the University of Texas as well as a rapidly-expanding tech sector, which helps explain its young demographic (Median age is 31.5). At the west edge of campus is the UT Tower, built in 1937 and still an imposing symbol of both the college and city.

The Texas Longhorn gridiron squad, as luck would have it, was playing at home that sunny Saturday afternoon of our visit, so after securing a couple of game tickets online (my awesome wife's idea!), we headed for campus.

While my bride thought a tour of the Tower and its panoramic view was a great idea on its surface, my thoughts naturally veered onto a more sinister path. Viewing the world through my invisible true-crime lenses at all times, I knew that the Tower was the scene of a horrific massacre over 50 years ago. 

On August 1, 1966, after stabbing his mother and his wife to death the night before, former Marine Charles Whitman took rifles and other weapons to the observation deck atop the Main Building. He opened fire indiscriminately on the surrounding campus and streets, and over the ensuing 96 minutes, he shot and killed 14 people and injured 31 others. The incident ended when a policeman and a civilian reached Whitman and shot him dead. 

Brutal. Gave me a chill to be up there even on a 75-degree day, and made me realize that mass shootings are nothing new in the U.S. Still a fascinating experience though, given the Tower's historical significance outside both prior to and since the tragedy.

From there, it was on to the football game! The photo above shows the stadium in the near distance. The majority of the crowd was primed for a day of fun and football; for some, though, it was business time:

I could feel the intensity of the day as these UT band members crossed our paths. Made me remember putting my game face on back in high school for a big parade or performance. Seriously, nothing is hotter than a marching band uniform on a sunny fall day. We may not have looked like athletes, but by God, our inner thigh meats chafed like them.

The band was wonderful, forming an eagle, the phrase "Thanks Vets," and "Go Horns" during halftime. And if that wasn't hard enough, everything they drew was upside down! Always going big, that Texas.

Inside the stadium, a blanket of pukey Texas burnt orange made my eye sockets sizzle, but holy shit, what an atmosphere. As you can see, that lonely guy sitting in front of me had tragically given up on reconnecting with his oblivious cohorts:

Not to be outdone, I had wisely chosen to wear my most relevant clothing article, a University of Washington basketball sweatshirt. People looked at me like I was some daft Yank who'd taken a wrong turn at the Red River Cutoff (not a thing).

Aren't selfies just the best ever? 

Without boring you too much longer, here are a couple of other super fun things about Austin:

It's the capital of Texas! The majestic rotunda and its surrounding buildings are home to such historically illiterate governors as Rick Perry and George W. Bush!

Terry Black's Barbecue. Seriously, everything was so delicious I had to call an Uber because my hand couldn't stop rubbing my belly. Truly ambrosia for the PNW barbecue-challenged.

The UT Mexic-Arte Museum. Phenomenal sculpture, paintings and exhibits, including the video account of a child separated from her parents at the border. Powerful stuff.

The Lyndon B. Johnson Presidential Library. If you're like me and don't know a heck of a lot about LBJ, I think you'll be amazed when you learn how much he accomplished during his five years as Commander-in-Chief. In the end, Vietnam ultimately broke him, but only because the term "presidential conscience" wasn't an oxymoron in his world.

I had to dig this picture out of a musty basement box. On the back, it says it was taken during my family's trip to DC in the summer of '67. While I don't remember it, I know the president was a master of the knock-knock joke, and little 5-year-old Timmy couldn't have been more tickled.

The Congress Avenue bridge bats. Every night, starting in late March and continuing through early fall, North America's largest urban bat population rules the dusk. The bats begin to wake up around sunset, and soon hundreds to thousands of them are streaming out and flip-flapping east over Lady Bird Lake. The people in the above image had a great view— perhaps too good. They may have been unaware that the world is your comfort station when you're a Mexican Free-Tailed Bat. 

Have I convinced you to experience Austin yet? Okay, then, how about this: in one 24-hour period during our stay, the temperature plummeted from 77 degrees to 31! That's a bigger drop than George W's horseshoe skills after he quit drinking.

Please, visit Austin soon. You never know when it could be swallowed up by the rest of the state.

For Leo, the Best Cat Ever.

My buddy Leo died a couple of weeks ago. He was 15.

As anyone knows who's lost a pet, those first few days afterward can be pretty tough. When you get home, no one is there staring back at you from the front window, waiting to say, "Hi, it's great to see you. You've been gone a really, really long time. Where the hell is my food? I'm soooo hungry! But it's so good to see you. But where's my GD food? I'm literally starving. Stop tripping over me and get me some food, Tim!"

This is Leo shortly before he passed away. Poor dude started looking a little like a kitten again. He'd developed a tumor inside his right sinus cavity and it steadily grew to the point where, although his energy and appetite were normal, he'd rest with his head down to take the pressure off the lump in his face.  Here is is on the fridge, his favorite perch during those final days.

Periodically, he opted for a human skull to replicate the effect:

Leo joined our home when he was three. He and his sister had previously lived with another family who decided to return the two of them to the adoption agency, as the siblings had some congenital health issues. Leo's sister (let's call her Leah) was born without a tail and had difficulty controlling her bladder and bowels. Leo (aka Lee, Leroy, and the Toothless Bastard Cat), had only three or four teeth and a stubby, crooked tail that resembled a furry, leopard-print rabbit’s foot.

Could he be a douche bag? Oh, hell, yeah. He peed on a surge protector behind the TV, causing it to emit a toxic, gag-inducing cat smog throughout the house. It was apparently to protest the extended vacation from which we'd just returned.

On more than one occasion, he pooped in my wife's shoes in an effort to display his displeasure at his exclusion from social events. And if you turned your back for a split second, you'd find the little urchin raking his sandpapery tongue over a freshly baked loaf of banana bread, a black bean soup ladle or a tuna casserole left uncovered.

Leo's bodily fluids reached far and wide, especially for such a petite mammal. Due to his toothless condition, he was a big drooler, often depositing ropey trails of slobber onto his preferred sleeping spots. And combined with his hoggish dining habits, Lee's dental condition elicited voluminous, barely-digested chow regurgitations on nearly every conceivable household surface.

But any annoying behavior, any amount of cleaning up after him or tripping over him or running into him, was profoundly overshadowed by his loving, yet quirky personality.

He liked to sleep in strange, often precarious positions:

He enjoyed watching me watch Husky games on TV:

And he'd frequently belly up to the bar while I prepared dinner, as if patiently waiting for me to mix him a Manhattan.

In the event that someone in the family was upset, our sweet guy would hop up on their lap and tuck his head under their chin as if to soak up the negative emotion. He'd often lie on me with his fuzzy cat arm draped across my chest like we were going steady.

Leo lived a fairly pampered life, especially during his final days. His palliative care often included supervised visits to the backyard:

And just a lot of daily TLC:

Sometimes, I still think I can hear his claws clicking on the hardwood floor in the next room or sense him looking at me from the dark hallway. I can still feel his damp nose lightly touching mine as if to say, "I'm here to hang out with you."

It was Leo's time to go, but I miss him so much. We all do.