The Midnight Plan of the Repo Man by W. Bruce Cameron

What do you get when you mix a former football star turned repo man, a lazy dog, the incredibly literal nephew of the repo man's boss, a best friend who's as naive as he is good looking, a restaurant called the Black Bear Bar, complete with--you guessed it--a bar and a stuffed black bear, a small but quirky Michigan town, and a voice in the repo man's head claiming to be a dead realtor named Alan who needs help finding his murderer? A delightfully entertaining novel not to be missed.

Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings Was More Than The Yearling

Wanting to do something quintessentially Florida, a friend and I recently headed to a former home of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings (that's kin-ANN, by the way, for those of us in the know), author of the Pulitzer Prize winning novel The Yearling. I didn't know a lot about her, but it turns out that she spent a good portion of her life right down the road from Gainesville, and I love checking out historic homes and learning about the lives of those before us. Even when I'm in museums viewing art, I'm drawn to the portraits, wanting to know the life stories of the people I'm seeing and what brought them to have their portrait taken. I like to think I'm being intellectually curious. Some just call it being nosy. 

Either way, one bright Saturday morning, we headed down to an area called Cross Creek near Hawthorne, Florida. It was beautiful--and hot, muggy, and full of bugs. Rawlings farm is now a state park, and the cracker-style house--along with its orange grove, barn, garden, and chickens and ducks--are maintained by the Friends of the M.K. Rawlings Farm, Inc. We walked through the same orange grove that Marjorie cared for during her time, where we arrived at the barn and listened to a ranger explain how Marjorie came to Florida and fell in love with the orange blossoms.

It was accidental, really. Marjorie was born in Washington, D.C., and her path to becoming a journalist and writer took her to Madison, Wisconsin; Louisville, Kentucky; and Rochester, New York. She and her first husband visited his brothers in Cross Creek, and they sorta kinda fell in love with it. There was something about the people there, native Floridians known as "crackers," that she found fascinating, and she and her husband thought it would be a great place to focus on their writing beyond newspapers. With an inheritance, they bought some land seen only by her brothers-in-law. It was primarily orange grove, with a dilapidated house on the property. They weren't particularly interested in growing oranges but saw it as a means to the end of supporting their writing. And so, in 1928, Marjorie and her husband moved to Florida.
 
For a while, they barely got by. Marjorie sold some stories, and as each little pot of money came in, she used it to fix up some part of the house. It was years before it was even painted. One of the most interesting things about seeing her house was hearing about the process of bringing it to what it is today. When she arrived, there were only two rooms. Total. And no bathroom. Over time, a bedroom "wing" was built, two bathrooms were added (the first inspiring a party celebrating its inauguration complete with red roses from Marjorie's uncle in the toilet). For many years, there was no electricity, and when it finally came, Marjorie created light fixtures using some bowls she had on hand and hanging them upside down from the ceiling. There still is no air conditioning or heating, which is why there were beads of sweat running down our backs entire time we were in there.

  

 Marjorie saw inspiration and beauty in her surroundings, coming to love the smell of the orange blossoms and developing close relationships with her neighbors. A lot of the setting and culture can be found in her writing, and she even stayed with a moonshiner in Ocala for a while to add realism to her work. Her husband, however, was not as enamored of Florida, and they soon divorced. As far as I could tell, this seemed to be fine by Marjorie, who spent her days writing on the front porch at this very table and typewriter, surrounded by her oranges, chickens, and ducks. According to the ranger who toured us through the house, she ate her breakfast on the porch, staying out there all morning to write, so intensely that the neighbors passing by the main road in front of the house knew not to stop and chat. The porch is even furnished with a bed on the opposite side from the writing table so she could nap through the afternoon heat.  

The volunteers who manage the house have worked really hard to maintain it in the style that Marjorie put together over many years (right down to the closet that became a bar). They continue to grow oranges and take care of the garden she kept outside her kitchen window. Her second husband allowed them to use much of her original furniture, right down to this adorable juicer in the kitchen. The beds are hers as well, and we were told some fascinating stories of the people who slept there while visiting Marjorie, including Zora Neale Hurston, Margaret Mitchell, and Robert Frost. They said that Gregory Peck also stayed there, but if you saw the length of that bed in the guest room, you'd share my serious doubts. Her cast iron stove also remains, and in the winter, the rangers and volunteers cook recipes from Marjorie's cookbook, Cross Creek Cookery. A copy of the book is propped open in her kitchen to a recipe of hers the volunteers like to make for an "utterly deadly southern pecan pie," which I've already decided I must return to the farm for in December. There's another, supposedly less-deadly, recipe on the facing page, but why would I be interested in that? There's another porch off the kitchen facing the side of the house, where Marjorie often received visitors of prepared food on its way into the kitchen. There was a very cool icebox out there, filled by trips to Hawthorne for fresh ice. I will add refrigeration to my list of things to appreciate about the time period in which I live.


The house itself is darling, with a kitchen window overlooking the garden and a dining room table overlooking the outhouse (which explains, the Ranger told us, why she always sat at the head of the table, refusing to let anyone else sit there at her dinner parties--she didn't want them to have to eat with a view of the outhouse). 

It took years for Marjorie to pull all this together, buying and improving things a little at a time as she sold her work. But she was this close to having to throw in the towel when she sold The Yearling. Oh, she wrote other novels and many stories, but The Yearling won a Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 1939 and was made into a movie a few years later, earning her a permanent place in literary history. Only then was she financially comfortable on her farm. And what a beautiful farm it is.

Marjorie certainly wasn't any more perfect than the rest of us. She had a long-time companion named Idella Parker she called "the perfect maid," but theirs was a complicated relationship, despite how much she decried the state of race relations among Southerners. When Zora Neale Hurston visited Cross Creek, she was made to stay in the tenant house with Idella. Marjorie was sued by a friend she made the very day she arrived in Florida, Zelma Cason, for the way she described Zelma's son in one of Marjorie's stories. Her second husband, who owned a hotel in St. Augustine, didn't much care for Cross Creek, and Marjorie didn't much care for his hotel (which is now home to Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum). So they pretty much lived apart half the year and used a place she'd bought at Crescent Beach as their "permanent home." No, she wasn't perfect but she certainly was interesting.

Our tour ended back outside, and we walked around the property a little bit. It really is beautiful. Marjorie lived life a little hard and eventually, it caught up with her. She spent much of the last years of her life at a place she bought in New York where she completed what turned out to be her final novel. She was back in St. Augustine, distraught over the recent death of her editor and friend, Maxwell Perkins, getting ready to start a new book she she died of a cerebral hemorrhage. She left the farm at Cross Creek to the University of Florida to be used as a writer's retreat, but I can't imagine anyone was surprised to find that college students don't take the same care with historic places as other folks, and eventually, it was given to the state and turned into a state park. 

Visiting Rawlings' farm made me feel like I was truly getting a taste of something that was uniquely Florida. That might seem odd, considering she wasn't from Florida, but her fondness for native Floridians and their land is reflected in her writings, and visiting the farm made me a part of it.

Marissa Meyer Encourages Teens to Battle the Books

Many libraries around the country participate, in their own way, in a Battle of the Books program. It usually involves teens reading a few selected young adult books and then competing in some way to see who knows them better. There are judges, time keepers, and coaches. The kids really take this seriously (not to mention their parents), and it can be a very intense event.

The Alachua County Library District held it's annual Battle of the Books tournament this past weekend. Seven teams, each representing their home branch library, competed to see who could correctly answer the most questions correctly about:

All of these are excellent books that could be enjoyed by teens and adults alike. The teens in our branches have spent the summer reading these books and studying them, with librarians serving as coaches. They've quizzed each other, created flash cards, done dry runs...there's no doubt these kids are out to win. Oh, and they have fun, too.

A couple of months ago, my boss asked me if I might be able to help bring in a children's or young adult author to speak at ACLD in order to spend out some funding by the end of our fiscal year. I am lucky and grateful to know the adult library marketing folks for the major publishers, and I'd talked to some other librarians at a recent conference about how to make an offer to come speak appealing to your favorite authors. Maybe I could use some of these connections and techniques to convince a youth author to come to Gainesville, at which time our fantastic and incredibly creative children's staff would take over the planning.

I once again have to send virtual flowers to the fine folks at the Macmillan Speaker's Bureau, who responded to my query with a list of  possibilities. Several were intriguing, and I was rather impressed that I might actually have a chance to meet some of these awesome writers. I showed the list to our youth services manager, who immediately pointed to one. "Oh, look," she said casually, "Marissa Meyer. She'd be my choice. You know, with Battle of the Books coming up."

I paused. How did I miss this? Of course! How amazing would that be? To have the author of one of the Battle of the Books actually AT the battle? OMG. But could we actually pull it off? The battle was only about six weeks away. Bringing in an author involves contracts and money and arrangements at the local bed and breakfast during wedding season. I wasn't sure we could do it, but it was definitely worth a try.

And sure enough, it worked. Marissa graciously agreed to come cheer the kids on during the afternoon of August 2. I had the great pleasure of telling the staff member coordinating Battle of the Books that Marissa would be attending, and even better, seeing the lit up face of a teen she was working with at the time, get the news. These kids were going to be SO excited, and it's thrilling to be a part of that. Several of us poured over flight possibilities, as Marissa was coming all the way to Gainesville from Seattle, and she needed to be back the afternoon after the contest. The Macmillan folks were fantastic, turning over paperwork and arrangements immediately. Erin, the youth services manager, agreed to drive an hour and a half to Jacksonville to pick her up from the flight that ended up working best. Contracts were signed, brunch with the teen librarians was had, and Marissa arrived for the battle with a huge smile on her face.

Her smile is truly the first thing you notice about Marissa, as it's big and wide and genuine. It didn't take long at all for the kids to start crowding around her, asking for autographs and pictures (in fact, she signed the back of a couple of the teens' team shirts). Booksamillion sold books, and the rep ended up leaving early because he'd sold everything he brought. Marissa mingled for a while as we talked with a couple of reporters and got everyone signed in. She asked if I'd put her purse away somewhere, to which I readily agreed, only to spin around in a circle trying to decide the safest place to store it. Finally, I decided to take it back down to my office. Walking past the children's desk, I caught the attention of the one chidren's staff member not upstairs and pointed at the purse. "It's Marissa Meyer's purse!" I mouthed, pointing to the bag in question. She nodded, no doubt agreeing that this was exciting, but possibly wondering why a purse was the most important part of this visit.

I made my way back up to the conference room, where Marissa began a presentation to the teens. It can be hard to engage teenagers, but these guys and their families were at full attention. Marissa had prepared a PowerPoint presentation in which she described the process she went through to get to a place where she had a completed novel she was proud of and thought could be successful. It seems that Marissa pretty much always wanted to be a writer, and despite being certain she could be published and making money off her writing by the time she graduated high school, she showed us a long list of novels she started but which, for various reasons, weren't completed or weren't something she wanted to submit to an agent. It was a great message for the teens to hear that, when you really want to do something, it's worth continuing to try and learn to do it better but not let failure stop you from trying again.

And then the competition began! I was serving as one of three judges, and I'm not sure I wasn't at least as nervous as the teens. I found myself wishing I could be sitting with each team, giving them advice, making sure they understood what the question as looking for. Marissa helped us with some pronunciation, and how many people can say the author herself told you how to say letumosis? After each round, we took a break. We had planned that Marissa would make her way to each team's table to chat with them personally, but I don't think she actually made it to any of them because they all came to her first. She was quite generous and animated with the teens, parents, and staff members who were all having fan-reader moments. 

But the end had to come, and when the final numbers came in, our team from Tower Road branch came in first. They, and the second place team, won signed copies of Marissa's newest book in the series, Cress. Truly, all the teams were great, and it was a lot of fun to see them talking so intensely as they agreed on the answer to write down. If there was a favorite, it might have been the team of one, who chose not to join up with another team, but worked diligently through the whole thing, holding her pen over her answer board thoughtfully before finalizing each answer. Her mother told me she was a little shy, but I saw her getting to talk to Marissa, and I can only hope that's a memory she holds on to for a long time.

The end of the day was filled with last bits of signing and picture taking, including this one of all the participants. I had walked around to each table, taking pictures and asking the teens which of the three was their favorite books. And even after I pushed back at them a little disbelievingly, they all said the same thing: Marissa Meyer's Cinder.

Sasha's Life Story

We interrupt this primarily book-related blog so that I can pay tribute to the cat who has been with me throughout my adult life. Sasha was an important part of my life for a long time, and I ask you to indulge me while I immortalize her here. If you're a book person who's not a cat person (for some reason that is beyond my ability to fathom), skip to the next blog entry. I promise to have new articles soon.

Sasha was born on a farm in Pescadero, California, just south of Half-Moon Bay, on August 10, 1993. This little bit of Heaven on Earth is home to my aunt and uncle, who were trying to place the kittens from a litter born to one of their farm cats. They'd heard that I, a newly-minted grad student in library science, wanted a kitten and wasn't having much luck at the local shelter in Lexington, Kentucky. I grew up with dogs, not cats, but perhaps as a result of wanting what I didn't have, I had been desperately waiting to get a cat of my own. So, my aunt and uncle agreed to send her to me, and at the young age of ten weeks, Sasha flew in the baggage hold of a passenger flight to me in Lexington from San Francisco, with a short connection in Dallas.

It was a cold night in October when I went to meet my kitten's flight (there's a sentence you don't utter every day). Her flight got in around midnight, and I anxiously paced the small baggage claim area while suitcases were put on the conveyor belt. Would they just put her on the belt next to everyone's bags? How would they know where to find me? When it seemed that no new bags were being added, and there was still no sign of anything resembling a cat carrier, I snagged one of the baggage handlers. It turns out she'd been sitting outside on the tarmac all that time, as the "live animal" label on the top of her carrier was contradicted by nobody seeing anything inside. I'd be hiding under the towels, too, if I was left outside in Kentucky at midnight in October. 

We drove home, and I tried out our new names. I had already determined that she would be "Sasha." My cousin had called her Jasmine, which I liked, but I thought a new name was required for starting her new life with me. Calling myself "Mom" was a little odd, but it doesn't take long to start thinking of yourself that way (I assume it's the same for humans). In my apartment, I got my first good look at her. Sasha was all black with a small white locket on her chest I didn't know it at the time, but she developed ears that seemed just a tiny bit large for her head. Her whiskers were black, like the rest of her, and her eyes were big and round. My aunt had sent her with a small white and red teddy bear in her carrier, and over the years, she pulled this old friend out periodically. And boy was she excited to be in her new home! She was very busy, crawling all over everything, and I don't think either of us got much sleep that night.

Sasha learned her manners quickly and was always extremely well-behaved. We spent that first year together setting up the routines that would continue for the next twenty-one years. She learned quickly that she would get put in a carrier, or at least locked out of the bedroom, if she yelled to try to get me up in the morning, so we soon came to an understanding. She didn't wake me up, but getting her breakfast must be my first priority upon rising. Fair enough. "People-food" was never allowed at our house, and all her life, I could put plates of food near her to have her do no more than smell it as something interesting. She was a perfect litter box user. We never had a problem with treating furniture or other household goods badly, so she was pretty much allowed to climb on anything she wanted to. She was never big into toys, but she did have a small cloth "Willy Worm" of whom she was quite fond.

I didn't have a lot of experience with cats, and so at the time, I was still interested in allowing her some outdoor access. But even then, it made me nervous, so I bought a leash for her (yes, they make leashes for cats, but I bought a cheap one, and  it didn't work well). One of the funniest things I've ever seen was taking Sasha out on the lawn in front of my apartment. At first, she just splayed her legs out, flat on her stomach, not understanding what to do on this strange surface. Then she started scooting around on her tummy. She couldn't figure out how to walk on the grass! An incident of her breaking out of the leash and managing to dash over to the apartment complex office was enough for me not to try that again.

When I got my first professional job in Gastonia, NC, she drove the seven hours with me to my new apartment and found that she liked it as much as I did. It's still one of my favorite apartments. By this time, she was something of a spoiled little girl and hadn't learned much about being a cat. My favorite memory from this period was the day that I came home at lunch and decided to lay out for a bit on the back patio to get some sun. Soaking up the warmth, I heard something that made me turn my head. Evidently, Sasha had also wanted to get some sun, so she'd managed to slide open the screen door and let herself out. As is often the case during North Carolina's late spring, everything was yellow in pollen, and by the time I opened my eyes, so was Sasha. She was rolling around on her back, scratching any itch she might have, and couldn't have been happier. 

After a few years, we moved to Durham, where it became clear that I babied Sasha beyond belief. I wanted to put her in the bathroom while we brought stuff in from the truck to my new apartment. "She might get scared or startled," I explained to my parents. My mom laughed and said she should be right in the middle of it getting comfortable with movement and noises (she didn't get a lot of that just living with me). We compromised, and she sat in her carrier on the dining room table while we unpacked.

It was in Durham that Sasha got sisters. At this point, it had been she and I against the world for five years, and she wasn't interested in changing that. She was pretty content with my company and not much interested in anyone else's, human or animal. But I had gotten into cat rescue work, and as happens to most people who get involved in rescue work, I soon landed foster cats at my house. Sasha expressed great displeasure at this turn of events. It's just for a little while, I assured her. But it was soon obvious that the additions to our household were way too comfortable to consider leaving. Sasha spent the next six months sitting on the toilet seat, facing the tank, with her back to the rest of us. It was one of the most pitiful things I've ever seen, and I spent a lot of time on the phone with my friend Vicki trying to figure out if this was really going to work. The day Sasha climbed down from the toilet seat (again, not a sentence you hear everyday) and started smacking the others around, I knew it would be okay. She needed them to understand that she was at the top of the totem pole (Mom, excluded, of course), and as long as they remembered that, they'd get along fine. 

Interestingly, Sasha never really became friends with any of my other cats, and it's understandable considering she had me all to herself for five years. They were clearly interlopers. But it was her sisters that taught her to be a cat. She'd never admit it, of course, but she totally copied them. One Christmas, I came back from having been out of town to arrive back at my apartment at about 1am. Wanting to keep the girls busy while I unpacked enough to go to bed, I found a pack of tiny toy mice I'd brought back for them and threw them around the living room. Sasha started rubbing on them, making sure they smelled like her. Very possessive, that one. But I noticed her watching Dalilah, who was batting them around, tossing them up in the air, sneaking up on them.  And before I knew it, Sasha was doing the same thing. Every once in a while, I caught her doing something she'd never done before in imitation of the other cats.
 
This arrangement continued when I bought my house and everyone had more room to spread out. The other cats pretty much kept out of Sasha's way, and I made every effort to give her extra attention. She was my favorite, always would be, and I didn't care if I showed favoritism. Cats pretty much set up their own social structure (which is subject to change at any time), and there's not a lot their humans can do about it, but I must say I encouraged her place at the top. I was working at home one day when I observed something that must have gone on quite a while, but which I'd never noticed. My back door had a long, luxurious stream of sunlight coming in that was perfect for cats sitting in a row to get their daily dose of sun. It fit about three cats, so they would start lining up closest to the door, first one cat, then the next, and somehow, Sasha often seemed to land at the end. But, that not being the prime spot, she would stare at the cat in front of her until that cat was finally intimidated enough to move and let her get closer to the door. Then she'd do it to the next cat until she got the best spot right in front of the door. No one argued with her. No one dared.

One weekend, when Sasha was 8 years old, I found that she'd isolated herself in my bedroom closet and clearly didn't feel good. I took her to the vet on Monday, where they took some blood and gave her some fluids. I loved the folks at the Carrboro Plaza Vet Clinic, and I knew they would figure out what was up. The next day was September 11, 2001, and I was returning to my office after trying to get some news about the Twin Towers when I got a voice mail from Dr. Sheri. Sasha's blood work had come back, and her kidney values indicated she was in renal failure. So I went home to get Sasha and bring her to the vet, listening to NPR all the way. Dr. Sheri warned me that they couldn't guarantee a good prognosis yet, this was quite serious, but they would keep her for the week and give her all kinds of supportive measures to try to bring her out of the crisis. Sasha being Sasha, she did recover, and the day I went to pick her up with a return to joy in her eyes was one of the best days ever. She looked so much better than the last time I'd seen her! I learned how to give her fluids on a regular basis, bought her special food, and immediately began reading all about CRF: Chronic Renal Failure. Most cats will go into renal failure eventually, if they live long enough, but this was a little young. They can live several more years in this state with good support. Sasha broke all the records by living another 13 years.

One by one, Sasha's sisters passed on, but Sasha continued to do well. She had other minor health issues, like a heart murmur. But mostly, she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. I told people that she was first in, and by God, she was going to be the last out! I think she was just stubborn enough to be waiting to have me all to herself. And so she did. She LOVED being an only child again. Not only did she get all my attention, but she got all the attention of anyone who came over, including my boarders. She'd never much been interested in anyone but me, but as she got older, she found that she liked being the center of attention. And what princess wouldn't? When my mom came to visit, she sat with her on the couch. She made new friends in Miss Laura and Miss Flora, boarders who cared for her as much as I did. And she became loud. Boy, did she become loud! I never quite figured out what it was--Dr. Sheri said she might be starting to get a little senile--but she would pick the most inopportune times (like 4AM) to start yeowling. She didn't seem to really want anything, just for everyone to know she was there. For someone who'd never been particularly chatty, old age was turning her into quite a loudmouth.

One of the best things I ever did for Sasha was to get her a play pen so she could sit out on the back deck. I'm way too paranoid to let her out with some kind of protection. I didn't think she'd really go anywhere, but you never know what a cat will do when startled. At this point, she was too old to jump very high, so I ended up with an octagonal shaped, topless pen with a door that I could line up with my back door. She loved the ability to ask to go outside (at least, that's what I assume the whining next to the back door was). She'd stretch out and bask in the sun, warm those old bones, and yell when she was ready to come back in. She was only allowed out when I was nearby to keep an eye on her, but we both got a kick out of her expanded living area. She wasn't as interested in it as it got cooler, and it seemed the whole point was to get some sun. If there was not direct sun shining onto the deck, she'd walk out there, turn a circle, and walk right back inside.

At 19 years old, I informed Sasha that she was going to have to pull up stakes and move to Gainesville, Florida. Not only that, she was going to have to stay with her Auntie Vicki for a couple of weeks while I got the house ready to sell and packed up to leave. It seems that this bothered me more than it bothered her. Sasha got her own room at Auntie Vicki's, complete with her own furniture and lots of time with Vicki. Every time I went over to visit, she was so excited (not to mention full of herself) that she scooted back and forth between me and Vicki, not sure who she wanted to be with more. She couldn't stand that she had both of us in the same room. Eventually, it came time to pick her up and head out of town. I literally went to get her after having packed the car to the roof and was ready to drive way, and it was only then that I realized how many accoutrements she has. That girl owned more things than I think any girl should own. Beds and blankets and brushes, oh my. For a few minutes, I thought she'd have to drive, and I'd have to ride on the roof. With some creative packing, and some flexibility with my need to see out the back window, we all made it inside (with the one of us with a license at the wheel). We stopped for the night in Savannah, where Sasha got to stay in her first (and last) hotel room. She didn't think much of it. She was good in the car, and I was able to keep her carrier open so that she was safe, but I could give her periodic pets. 

We settled in to our third floor apartment, where I was happy to see that she enjoyed the porch I'd made sure was part of my new floor plan. A screened in porch, she was able to walk in and out at will (blissfully unconcerned about the electric bill). She adjusted pretty well, found her new favorite spots (the ones where she got lots of sun, naturally), and began developing an affinity for dry Fancy Feast. What was once a special treat soon became more and more a part of her regular diet. At this point in her life, her special diet wasn't going to do much for her, so I gave in (her increased yelling at the pantry door made that an easy choice). And she had her running water bowl with a little waterfall, which made her quite a happy (and sometimes wet) girl. She was pretty clingy, wanting to be with me wherever I was, and a laptop was not enough to stop her from crawling onto my lap. She insisted she could only sit on my lap facing one direction, so if she happened to crawl up facing the other way, we went through an elaborate process of circling on my legs a few times until she was facing the proper direction.

Sasha had a few crises in this last year, the scariest one of which started as I was leaving town for several days. She recovered, convincing me she wasn't quite ready to go anywhere yet. We found a new vet here in Gainesville, and the folks at the Jonesville Animal Hospital are as fantastic as those at my former vet's office. They started her on therapy, which despite being great fun to tell people, really just referred to a laser therapy developed to ease the pain in her spine and joints. It seemed to help, and along with some meds, she felt pretty good. She did get cold easily, and I often came home to find her way deep under my bed covers (although, in fairness, she had always loved to do this). One day, I went to go tell her I was home and pulled the covers back only to have her turn her head and put it back under the covers. Her age was starting to show, as evidenced in those black whiskers turning white, but she was still happy.

Last week, Sasha stopped eating and obviously wasn't feeling well. Not wanting to linger here, I'll just say that she quickly went downhill. It's terrifying to try to make decisions for someone else, even your cat. I've said for a long time that I would not extend a cat's life just for me, that they needed to be happy and comfortable and interested in living for me to continue medical intervention. It was time to put my money where my mouth was. Thursday night, I took her to the vet for the last time. With us was that red and white teddy bear with which we started life together.

Sasha was a constant throughout my adult life. I used to tell her she was a California Cat, then a Kentucky Kitty, then a Carolina Cat, and finally, a Florida Feline, but we were together the entire time. I was 22 when she came to me, and I'm amazed that she stayed with me as long as she did. She was the one who was with me in grad school when I knew no one (and all those other places I moved where I knew no one). She came through and accepted other cats in the house even though she wanted me all to herself. She was willing to split the bed fifty-fifty, conveniently forgetting that our size comparison was far from fifty-fifty. Even I didn't realize how very much a part of everything I do she is. I've noticed that I don't leave stuff on the couch (though I'll leave stuff on any other surface with space) because she might want to sit there. I keep the toilet seat closed in case she wants to crawl up there (even though she hadn't done that in years).  I periodically ask for plastic bags at the grocery store because I can use them for scooping. I don't leave the dryer door open because cats might crawl in. I look around to see what she's doing before I leave the house. I see a shadow and think she's approaching me. I hear a noise and think she's at her water bowl or litter box. She's not physically here anymore, but she'll be with me forever.

PS: In our last moments together, I told Sasha she was going to get to see her sisters. Then, imagining her response as most pet owners do, I could hear her saying, "And what makes you think I want to see them?"