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Morning Routine with Siamese Kitten Vet Day Adventures

Written September 13, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today was a milestone in our household: Arty’s first big vet day. Translation? Vaccinations, a health check, and a whole lot of dramatic meowing. The good news: our vet confirmed that Arty is a healthy, thriving kitten. The less-good news: Arty believes the carrier is a medieval torture device.

On the drive over, she serenaded us with her most heart-wrenching Siamese opera. My wife, ever the cat whisperer, told me to keep petting her through the carrier door so she wouldn’t think we’d abandoned her mid-aria. If you’ve never traveled with a Siamese, let me explain: they will tell you how they feel. Loudly. For hours. (Our late Siamese, Gambi, once meowed for an entire five-hour road trip. Broadway missed out.)

My wife loves Siamese cats because of their loyalty. They pick a favorite human—like an Akita dog, but with more fur-shedding and fewer walks. For Gambi, that chosen human was me. Apparently, she’d sit on my chair meowing like a widowed opera singer whenever I traveled for work. Flattering, if slightly guilt-inducing.

Arty hasn’t reached that stage yet. She’s still figuring out her territory, cautiously exploring upstairs, but she’s clearly claimed my chair and her cat tree as her safe zones. When we run errands, I know exactly where to find her when we get home: either curled in the cat tree penthouse  like royalty or impersonating me at my desk.

We’re doing our best to make her life cushy. Daily litter box cleaning? Check. Fancy air purifier in the laundry room to keep odors away? Check. Endless snacks, water, and love? Triple check.

The vet laid out Arty’s next steps: one more shot before the 16-week mark and then—gulp—surgery in a few months to prevent her from going into heat. She’ll probably hate us for it, but since we’re not running a kitten factory, it’s for the best.

Back at home, I rewarded myself with a run and some vacuuming. Fun fact: Arty is far less terrified of our central vacuum than Gambi ever was. The machine is pretty quiet since the motor is in the garage, but considering cats can hear a mouse sneeze two blocks away, I still consider her bravery impressive.

By the end of the day, with vet visit conquered and no bad news on the health front, I felt oddly victorious—like I’d just finished a boss level in the game of cat parenting. And the best prize? A perfectly healthy (and still very vocal) little Arty.

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Morning Routine with Kitten Chaos: How Arty Turned My 5K Run into a Purrfect Day

Written September 12, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, I was awakened an hour earlier than planned by two forces of nature: my wife and our kitten, Arty. Arty has officially declared our bed part of her kingdom, and apparently, my feet are her sworn enemies. Nothing says “good morning” like a four-pound ball of fur launching a surprise attack at your toes.

But here’s the thing—I kind of love it. Watching her bounce around like she’s had three espressos before sunrise makes me feel oddly calm and ridiculously happy. I’m starting to think kittens are cheaper than therapy (though with the vet bills incoming, maybe not by much).

Fueled by Arty’s 6 a.m. pep talk, I decided to get out of bed and put on my running clothes. Naturally, Arty sat on the blanket, staring at me like, “Sure, go ahead, human. Run. I’ll be here conquering invisible monsters.” Fridays are a 5K day, and thanks to my tiny furry alarm clock, I hit the pavement early. By noon, I’d already knocked out my to-do list. Honestly, I felt unstoppable—like I’d unlocked some secret productivity cheat code called cat ownership + cardio.

When I got home, Arty and I had a little fetch training session. Yes, you read that right—I’m teaching a cat to fetch. She’s not perfect, but she’s leagues ahead of where she started. Sometimes she’ll go on a 20-fetch streak like an Olympic champion, and other times she taps out after three rounds and collapses dramatically on my lap. Either way, I’m basically the proud parent at her recital.

My wife has been bonding with Arty too. After losing our previous cat, Gambi, years ago, she promised herself she’d spend more time with this one. And she has—whether it’s cuddling on the couch or chasing fleas with a comb like it’s a full-time job.

Tomorrow is Arty’s big day: her first vet appointment. She’ll get her checkup, vaccines, and a follow-up plan for October. We’ve even collected a stool sample (because nothing says romance like discussing cat poop with your spouse). We just hope the car ride doesn’t freak her out too much.

So, yes, my days now start with kitten chaos, mid-morning runs, and poop samples in the fridge. But honestly? I wouldn’t trade it. Arty might be small, but she’s already teaching me how to live bigger, run earlier, and laugh more often.

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Why a Belt Pouch Beats an Arm Holster for Carrying Your? Phone

Brian’s fitness journal after brain stroke

Written September 10, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

Today I tested out a new running hack: ditching my arm holster and slipping my phone into the pouch on my water bottle belt. Turns out, this was a major upgrade—kind of like trading in a wobbly shopping cart for one that actually rolls straight.

The belt itself came after a chat with my nephrologist. I proudly said, “I’ve started running again!” and instead of high-fives, I got, “Are you drinking enough water?” Because Tennessee summers are hot enough to roast marshmallows on the sidewalk, and running a 10K without hydration is basically survival training.

Originally, I borrowed my wife’s old running belt. Back in her racing days, it carried everything: keys, cards, a license, and occasionally water bottles when she ran with friends. But like all veterans, it eventually retired—translation: it broke. So, I upgraded to my own shiny(ish) version.

My belt’s pocket is the perfect size for keys or a phone. The problem? My old phone was basically the size of a small TV and didn’t fit. That’s when my wife introduced me to the arm holster. And while it worked, it also slipped, bunched, and demanded constant fiddling mid-run. Worst of all, it caused me to drop my phone once—because apparently, I like to add “juggling” to my workouts.

Enter: my new, smaller phone. It fits in the belt pouch like it was born there. No slipping, no bouncing, no phone gymnastics. And wouldn’t you know it—I clocked my fastest time yet. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe the pouch is my new superpower.

The phone itself is also a delight. I’ve redownloaded my apps, got my audiobooks back, and life feels orderly again. Was my pace faster because of the belt setup, the phone, or pure runner’s glory? Who knows. All I know is, I finally hit a sub-9-minute kilometer—my first since last spring.

The goal now: keep that pace up and maybe even shave it down before 2025 waves goodbye. In the meantime, I’ll keep running, hydrating, and making sure my phone stays securely on me, not in pieces on the pavement.

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When Life Gives You No Puff Pastry, Bake Cinnamon Rolls

Brian’s fitness journal after brain stroke

Written September 7, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

Yesterday’s grocery run dealt me a cruel blow: my beloved puff pastry sheets were nowhere to be found. Gone. Vanished. Puff, indeed. Since my weekend yard-work-and-running combo demands extra calories, puff pastry has been my trusty fuel. But no puff pastry meant I had to improvise – bake cinnamon rolls!

For a moment, I stood in the frozen aisle with my arms stretched like some tragic Shakespearean hero, whispering, “Wherefore art thou, puff pastry?” Alas, the shelves mocked me with their emptiness. So I grabbed a backup plan: cinnamon rolls.

This morning, I baked cinnamon rolls. To be honest, “bake” is generous—the box basically said, assemble, shove in oven, bask in glory. Within minutes, my kitchen smelled like a sugar-scented candle factory. The rolls were petite, so I shared one with my wife. She’s not big on sweets, but she declared them “delicious,” which is high praise from her.

Eight little cinnamon spirals came out of the oven—perfect math for my running week. Four running days, two rolls per day. On non-running days, I’ll behave (or at least try). They’re tucked neatly in Tupperware, ready to serve as post-leaf-vacuuming rations.

Speaking of leaves: the windy weather turned my yard into a leafy confetti zone. Vacuuming leaves isn’t as brutal as mowing, but it still eats up 1–2 hours. Normally, I escape with an audiobook, but with my phone screen now as black as a gothic novel, I’ve been awkwardly leaf-sucking in silence. My phone still makes sounds, taunting me like a ghost who won’t leave the house. I can’t even snooze my alarm because I don’t know where to swipe on a screen I can’t see.

My wife assures me the new phone is arriving tomorrow. I’m already sweating about the data transfer—will it be smooth, or a tragic comedy? Last time, it took two phones and an awkward dance of swipes and codes. This time, I’ll be going in blind. Literally.

Until then, it’s me, my cinnamon rolls, my audiobook-shaped silence, and a yard full of leaves. Wish me luck.

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Thunderstorm Workout: An Alternative Way to Stay Active

Brian’s Journey after a brain stroke

Written September 6, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

This morning I woke up like a superhero ready for a 10k—but the universe had other plans. My new Google phone, the sidekick I’d been waiting for, pulled a diva move and decided not to show up. Delivery delayed. My wife explained that we missed the carrier’s cut-off, and since it’s the weekend, the phone is basically sipping margaritas in a warehouse until Monday.

Now here’s the problem: I had psyched myself up for a two-hour run, but without audiobooks, that’s just two hours of listening to my own thoughts. And trust me, my brain is not the best playlist. To add insult to injury, it was cold. Like, September-just-started-but-we’re-already-in-October cold. Nashville apparently skipped the weather memo.

Then my wife pointed out the thunder and lightning. Yes, actual thunderbolts—while I was too busy sulking about my phone to notice. She had already cut her own run short (she’ll run through snow, rain, plagues of locusts—you name it—but thunder is her personal “nope”). To be fair, her aunt once got hit by lightning. Survived, but the story was enough to permanently traumatize her. On a day like this, I will find an alternative way to stay active.

So instead of dodging lightning like a wannabe Olympic sprinter, I downgraded to a safer workout: vacuuming. It doesn’t burn quite the same calories, but hey, clean floors are underrated cardio.

Meanwhile, our kitten staged her own adventure. She scaled the stairs, stormed into our bedroom, and leapt onto the bed like she owned the place. My wife was over the moon. Me? I was just proud our tiny furball could jump higher than my weekend motivation. She’s getting braver by the day, meowing for pets, curling up on my lap, and basically running the household with four paws and a tail.

Honestly, spending the morning with her wasn’t a bad trade for missing my run. Thunder outside, purring inside. And while I do feel naked without a phone—no alarms, no stopwatch, no audiobooks—I’ll survive. It’s wild how much we rely on those little rectangles, even when we’re not on social media.

Until my phone comes crawling home on Monday, I’ll be over here vacuuming, cat-cuddling, and pretending I meant to skip that run all along. When the weather is not suitable for running, this is how I deal with it, an alternative way to stay active.

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Running Blunders: The Great Water Famine and the Phone Faceplant

Hello, Dear Readers,

Today, I managed to commit not one but two running blunders—proof that even with the best intentions, chaos has a way of lacing up its sneakers and jogging alongside me.

Error #1: The Great Water Famine.

Normally, I’m the kind of runner who looks like I’m training for a desert ultramarathon—I haul around two water bottles to protect my kidneys (which, unlike me, don’t tolerate nonsense). But this morning, in a rare burst of “efficiency,” I dashed out the door without filling them. Halfway through my 5k, I was parched enough to consider licking morning dew off the grass. Instead, I paused my app and sheepishly jogged home to guzzle water. Annoying? Yes. Life-threatening? Not quite.

Error #2: The Phone Faceplant


Just as I was nearing the glorious end of my run, my phone decided it had endured enough of my playlists and flung itself out of the armband like a rebellious teenager. It hit the road, kept my audiobook running (cheeky!), but left the screen as black as my mood. Restarting didn’t help. Swiping blind works—if I remember the exact location—but let’s be honest, that’s a party trick, not a solution.

My wife and I fiddled with it for hours before she wisely ordered me a replacement. Her only condition? “Anything but the Pixel 10—we’re not paying flagship prices for your clumsy running habits.” Fair enough. Since my old phone was out of warranty anyway, it was time to retire it.

The problem is, my phone isn’t just a phone. It’s my running buddy, my audiobook narrator, my alarm clock, my weight tracker, and my lifeline to family. Without it, I had to rely on my wife to send word to relatives that I wasn’t ignoring them—I was simply living in a temporary tech blackout.

Now, I’m staring down a week without audiobooks, which means my runs and chores are about to get a lot more… “mindful.” Worse, my streaks—language learning, planking, and possibly running—are about to snap. Still, even without apps counting my every move, I’ll keep the streak alive. After all, progress isn’t just about the record—it’s about the run itself (and not dropping your phone while doing it).

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Our Kitten Artemis Learns Fetch in Her First Week!

Hello Dear Readers,

Chilly again today. The wind tried to strip our tree naked last night, but it clung to its leaves like a modest Victorian, which mercifully postponed my rake date until Tuesday. Future me can deal with that. Thanks, future me.

Artemis, however, is fully present-tense. She’s officially comfortable with us—which apparently means my desk is now her personal jungle gym. Her favorite hobby? Attempted cable cuisine. I spent the morning gently relocating her from “forbidden spaghetti” (charging cords) and explaining that our insurances does not cover kitten teeth.

To redirect the tiny gremlin energy, I introduced Fetch 101 with the toy mouse. Reader, she nailed it. I tossed; she sprinted; she returned it about a dozen times, tail high like a victory flag. Then I threw it a little too far into the hallway—aka The Unknown—and she sensibly declared, “Nope.” Game over.

Naturally I filmed her athletic triumph and sent it to the family chat. My niece swooned; a friend dubbed her a “puppy cat.” Accurate. During rounds two and three, she sometimes looped back just out of arm’s reach, clearly negotiating for better treat terms. Eventually she’d park under my chair—her safe zone—so I could snag the mouse and relaunch.

She’s getting cozy in my office but remains cautious about the rest of the house. No stairs yet. Kittens are like Wi-Fi: great in one room, mysteriously weak everywhere else. We’re patient. She’ll make the upstairs leap when she’s ready.

New habit: every time I stand up, I hear a bell and turn to find Artemis installed on my chair like a small, purring CEO. She’s not big on being picked up, so I bribe—sorry, “redirect”—with the mouse. Works like a charm, and my chair survives another coup.

All in all, 10/10 day with the “puppy cat.” We’ll see if she wants a rematch tomorrow—preferably with fewer attempts to eat electricity.

If you want to read similar postings:

Earn Trust With a Shy Kitten’s First Day Home

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Earn Trust With a Shy Kitten’s First Day Home

Hello dear reader,

This morning, my wife had to head into the office to make up for yesterday’s day off, but not before assigning me a critical mission: earn the trust of our new kitten, Artemis. She’s three months old, cream-colored like our other cat we used to have. She is a Siamese (read: delightfully vocal), and currently suspicious of… well, everything.

First, I conducted a thorough front-yard audit and concluded—heroically—that it required neither mowing nor leaf duty. With that brave decision made, I checked on Artemis and found her tucked inside her cat tower like a shy marshmallow. We’d let her be last night; trust can’t be speed-run.

Eventually, she ventured out and circled my desk, then attempted to share my breakfast. I countered with kitten food. Negotiations were successful. By the time I started with my breakfast, Artemis had decided our home—and maybe even I—were not agents of chaos.

I kept my movements slow and offered gentle pets. The purr engine kicked on. She weighs approximately one feather and soon installed herself on my lap as the day’s tiny supervisor, alternating between naps and performance reviews (“more scritches, please”).

She’s still cautious about sudden movements and hasn’t followed me upstairs yet, but she’ll eat and drink with me nearby. Progress! I texted my wife photos throughout the day; she was both relieved and a tiny bit jealous when Artemis chose my lap for her board meetings.

We’re considering a vet visit next Saturday, but we don’t want to overload her with new-environment stress. In the meantime, we introduced a few toys. She’s intrigued but politely reserved—however, the cat tower is a hit. Up, down, into the little cubbies—10/10 cute.

Artemis is warming up fast, and I’m completely smitten. Yes, I love our new kitten.

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Finding Artemis: Our Labor Day Cat-venture and the Search for the Perfect Siamese”

Written September 1, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

This morning, I thought the big achievement was finishing my run. Little did I know, I’d also be adopting a feline goddess before dinner. Yes—meet Artemis, the future queen of our home.

We’ve been cat-less since 2023, when we said goodbye to our beloved Gambi after 18 glorious years of cuddles, meows, and fur-covered furniture. My wife’s heart took a long time to heal—understandably so. You don’t just replace a cat like that. You mourn. You reminisce. You scroll through thousands of blurry but precious photos.

For a while, we were in a “just looking” phase—aka the emotional equivalent of window shopping for heartbreak. We knew we needed a hypoallergenic kitty (thanks to my sisters and their sneezy rebellion), so Siamese was at the top of the list. Plus, they’re famously chatty, dog-like, and full of personality. In other words: my wife’s dream roommate.

Now, I suspected she wasn’t quite ready to adopt—until she surprised me this morning with “I found one.” Just like that. After months of “maybe later,” the stars (and the Craigslist gods) aligned.

We contacted the seller immediately. Thankfully, this wasn’t one of those sketchy “we’ll ship your cat from a faraway land for a low-low price of eternal regret” situations. This seller was local-ish and insisted on in-person pickup—a good sign. So we hopped in the car for a 75-minute drive on Labor Day, armed with enthusiasm and… a freshly washed cat carrier from our Gambi days.

When we arrived, we met four fluffy candidates. It didn’t take long—my wife’s eyes locked on one little girl. You know that look. Game over.

Kitten acquired. Money exchanged. Artemis meowed the entire ride home like she was giving a TED Talk on feline relocation trauma. I offered moral support via finger-through-cage-bar, but I didn’t open it. I’m not that much of a softie (or risk-taker).

Back home, she emerged from her carrier like a tiny explorer setting foot on a strange new continent. I gave her my room for base camp—cat tower, access to the laundry room, plenty of toys. She’s still a little shy, but she’s already claimed the territory, scarfed some food, and started pouncing like she owns the place. (Which, let’s be honest, she probably will.)

And her name? Artemis. Goddess of the hunt. Judging by her sneak attacks on a feather toy, she’s ready to live up to it.

I am so happy about her. I named her Artemis. She will be a great huntress the way she is playing around her toy.