When I first moved into my humble little farmhouse, the first soul I met wasn’t human. It was a golden patched tabby cat, sitting under my giant pine tree. The date was August 20, 2021.
I said, “Well, hello there!”
He meowed a barely audible, “Meow.”
This was Mr. Tibbs.

From that day on, he came by nearly every day. He loved food. He loved cream. He especially loved catnip. Me? Meh – He tolerated me. For four solid years, if I came too close, I earned the same reply: HHHHHHHHHHHHH!! He’d take a couple swats at me as well. He was truly feral.

I remember an occasion or two that I snuck a few pets. He hissed in outrage. And punched me.

Around our fourth year anniversary, I noticed the change. He was getting thinner. He had trouble eating. He drooled. He still rolled in catnip, but he looked ragged and weary. I fed him baby food and gravy, slipped “natural antibiotics” into his meals, and watched him fight to stay himself. Days later, upon closer inspection, he had infected mouth ulcers. When he groomed himself, he’d cry in pain.

One evening, he stopped in the middle of the street, sat down, and would not move any farther. He meowed when I called. He looked so thin, so dirty, so tired. I went to him. I let him sniff the tub of catnip. He had zero interest.

I bent down and, for the very first time, put my hands gently around him and lifted him into my arms. He did not resist. He rested his head on my arm and … purred. I held him until he signaled he was done. Which was quite awhile. I went to get him food and cream, but when I came back he had already wandered down to the creek. He paused, looked over his shoulder at me then trudged away along the water’s edge.

I called a vet and planned to take him in the next day. I would hold him as he crossed over.
But he never returned. For three days, his bowls of fresh/refreshed food and cream sat untouched. His catnip piles lay waiting. I’ve been around and raised enough animals to know: Mr. Tibbs was gone.

I sat on my porch and ugly cried.

After blowing my nose in my shirt, I noticed a yellow flower blooming out of season. Was it a message from the Great Kitty Beyond? I decided it was. And I read into it: You done right by me. (God, I hope so).

I went for a walk.

And then something strange happened. I came home from said walk and found this guy waiting on my porch:

He rolled in Mr. Tibbs’s catnip, ate all his food, drank all his cream. He rubbed against me, purred, and claimed the porch like it was his. This is Mr. Tibbs II, aka JUNIOR.

The next day, other familiar and unfamiliar cats appeared as well, as if gathering for … A wake!!

The other cats went their separate ways. The neighborhood couple ate an entire tub of peanuts making quite the mess and left. In the wee hours I drove Mr. Whiskers home. But Mr. Tibbs II / Junior stayed. For several days, he was glued to my side — a very proper mourning. Perhaps he was just making sure I would be alright.
And he’s still here.

I will forever miss Mr. Tibbs: The Feral King Under The Giant Pine.
The one who let me hold him only once.

A small fledgling bluejay appeared the steps one recent morning, halfway between sky and soil, not quite ready to leave either. Its feathers were scruffy, not yet fully grown, its eyes fluttering open and closed in uncertain rhythm. It had slipped too soon into danger, where instinct and sorrow crossed paths.

The stray cat came first. She had lingered around the house since she was a frightened kitten herself—still unclaimed, still watching the door but never stepping in. Her instinct was ancient. She moved toward the fledgling. The fledgling’s parents screamed from the trees above.

Then, the door opened.

There was a moment—brief and impossible—where the soft underside of sorrow met the unfixable facts of nature. A towel was fetched. The bird was lifted. It closed its eyes. It opened them again.

A voice, quiet and human, told it: you can go.

There was no miracle. No cinematic flutter back to the branch. Just a stillness that settled like dust. The bird was carried beneath the big tree in the backyard—wide-armed and rooted deep. A hole was dug. The body returned to earth.

Above, the bluejay parents still cried.

A few words were whispered. Not out loud—grief often knows when to bow its head in silence. But later, as the wind stirred the branches, a voice did rise. It said: I’m sorry.
And meant it.

The next morning, when the stray cat returned for her daily meal, the bluejays cried again. Memory, it seems, lingers longer in feathers than in fur.

A photo was taken before the end—proof that he existed, that he was seen. Later, a painting was made: the fledgling in ink and blue, curled into stillness like sleep. A poem followed. And all of it—the image, the verses, the grief—became tribute.

Because he mattered.
Because small lives do.
Because even when the world doesn’t stop, we can.

For Blue

You were not mine to keep,
but I kept you just the same—
in the hush between heartbeats,
in the cradle of my hands.

Feathers not yet ready,
eyes not yet gone—
you blinked once,
and I told you
you could go.

The sky didn’t break.
The world didn’t stop.
But I did.

I buried you under the big tree.
I whispered to God.
And I wept
because I saw you.

And you mattered.

Field Monograph: Faolanus crinklii

Compiled by Dr. S.L. Pickerel
Department of Domestic Fauna Studies
Ohio Institute of Paranormal Ecology

📘 Taxonomic Classification

Described: Pickerel, 2025

Kingdom: Animalia
Phylum: Chordata
Class: Mammalia
Order: Lagomintia (provisional)
Family: Menthosauridae
Genus: Faolanus
Species: crinklii
Common Name: Wintergreen Bandit

1. 📝 Morphology & Identification

No confirmed visual documentation exists of F. crinklii itself. All identification is based on indirect signs, primarily wrapper spoor—small cellophane rectangles (~4cm x 2cm), typically crinkled, discarded in clusters or linear trails.

Figure 1. Wrapper Spoor Pattern
Crinkled transparent rectangles deposited without nesting, often appearing in toe-print or arc formations. Believed to be a communication or navigation mechanism.

2. 🌏 Habitat & Range

Core Habitat:
Northwest Ohio (approx. 41.5°N, 83.7°W)

Confirmed Range:
Up to 100 miles from the core zone, with sightings in surrounding counties and residential interiors.

Map 1: Estimated Distribution of F. crinklii
Dark green = confirmed core habitat
Light green = expanded sightings
Spoor confirmed in both rural and suburban interiors and exteriors

3. 🍬 Diet & Feeding Ecology

F. crinklii is an obligate monophagous consumer of Wintergreen Life Savers (Mentha saccharata tabularis). No secondary food sources confirmed.

• Foraging signs: torn or punctured wrappers
• Unwrapping rate: ~2 seconds per unit
• Rejection of non-target baits: 100% (Pickerel et al., 2023)

“The subject demonstrates a dietary rigidity unseen in most domestic cryptofauna.” – Journal of Applied Cryptozoology

4. 📈 Behavior & Temporal Activity

• Nocturnal and elusive
• Peak activity: 21:00–02:00 EST
• Observed behaviors:
  • Repeat foraging at empty sites
  • Wrapper scattering in known corridors (e.g., kitchen → couch → glovebox)
  • Zero audio trace
  • Post-foraging denialism in suspected hosts

“Spoor appears freshly deposited within minutes, often under conditions of complete silence. Witnesses remain unaware until a sudden and inexplicable shortage of wintergreen is observed.” – Pickerel, 2024

5. 🔍 Field Identification Protocol

To confirm F. crinklii presence:

• Survey wrapper sites daily.
• Photograph spoor with macro lens and oblique light.
• Map crinkle pattern density.
• Count remaining mints before and after periods of absence.

Do not attempt confrontation.
Subjects exhibit advanced deflection and may trigger localized cognitive dissonance (“The Grandson Defense”).

6. 📚 Reference Notes

• Pickerel, S.L. (2021). Unwrapping the Unknown: Faunal Markers of Midwestern Mintivores
• Pickerel, S.L. & Collins, P. (2023). Cryptofaunal Mintivory: Ecological Monotony in the Domestic Sphere
• Pickerel, S.L. (2024). Transdimensional Infiltration via Affection Anchors: The Grandma Effect

🔐 Conservation Status

Abundant.
Not subject to legal protection.
Local lore discourages eradication. Management strategies limited to rationing.

Appendix A: Visual Evidence of Existence of Faolanus crinklii

Collected and catalogued by P. Collins, 2025
All images unaltered. Locations and timestamps verified.

Figure A1.

Wrapper spoor trail, north/south alignment pattern.
Location: Eastern exterior of small farmhouse, Champaign County, OH (May 2025)

Figure A2.

Close-up of single wrapper (~4cm x 2cm).
Notable features: pressure-folded edge, leftward twist.
Location: Living room, Champaign County, OH (May 2025)

ARF

As you may, or may not know, I have something called Essential Tremors. I’m not sure if it’s that I’m older or if it was Covid or whatever – but the shakes are getting shakier. For example, I was visiting with friends at a restaurant. Eating has become quite the comedic entertainment. At one point I get some of that lovely green lettuce doused in dressing upon my fork, go to lift the bite to my mouth, suddenly my hand decides to audition for “Bobby Brady’s Cymbal Solo” in the middle of a quiet restaurant. Fork is a clanging, lettuce is a flying, and the entire place becoming intimately aware of my personal percussion performance. I did what any sane girl would do – I laughed. Then basically apologized to the entire restaurant. (One of said friends later called wondering if my condition was fatal).

There are workarounds and very very very expensive products. I bought the SILVERWARE THAT WON’T BANG YOUR PLATES. The trick to the ones I have are that they are weighted. They are weighted to the point they make my hand tired. I made the executive decision to skip public salads and get something easier. I can hold a bowl of soup pretty well. I sure can’t eat it with a spoon! And don’t think for a minute I haven’t downed a bowl in public. Half of which ends up down my chest. I’m basically become a walking Rorschach test. Yes, I’m a hot mess but I embrace the chaos.

I do have meds for the shaky hands, but remembering to take them? That’s a whole other level of fine motor skill I haven’t mastered. Believe it or don’t, alcohol is known to actually help. So, my backup plan is beer. It’s like a chaotic good situation; I either stumble through life pill-less and shaky, or slightly less shaky and slightly tipsy. It’s a coin flip, really, and the coin is a bottle cap.

ANYHOO

I say all the above to share that holding a pencil is getting rough. I have the heart to still do graphite pencil work – but color pencil levels me. The last 2 color commissions I had took FOR EVER. I restarted both of them. Maybe it’s perfectionism … Let’s just say they were less “artistic masterpieces” and more “artistic meltdowns.” I’m seriously considering dusting off the ol’ graphite pencils for some detailed commissions. Frankly, anything feels easier than wrangling those killer rainbow sticks right now. 

Regarding The Secret Life Of Rabbits, however, is my place of zen. The memorial book above was a labor of love and a bit involved but I loved every moment. Drawing someone’s rabbit in a single comic? Absolutely! So, back to comic commissions and maybe even graphite commissions! Any thoughts?