Texas has completely lost its mind today.
Ninety degrees before noon. NINETY.
Before. Noon.
Excuse me???
I’m an ex-barn cat from rural Georgia, not a lioness prowling the Serengeti. I was built for mild springs and the cool shadow of a front porch, not whatever this swamp oven situation is happening outside right now.
Even the concrete patio is hot. The air feels thick as syrup. The birds are losing it, screaming from whatever shade they can find, and even the potted tomatoes look personally offended by the weather.
And Dad walked past the window at least four times this morning muttering “Lord it’s hot” like a broken smart speaker that only knows one phrase.
Meanwhile, Charlie Is Out There Losing His Mind
My brother Charlie — the orange one, the chaotic one — is stretched out flat on the back deck soaking up every single ray like a solar panel with whiskers and absolutely zero survival instincts.
Honestly, male cats are a different species.
Me? I spent the entire morning rotating between the bathroom tile, the kitchen floor, and that one cool strip of hardwood under the dining table. Strategic. Methodical. Dignified.
Eventually I made my way over to our neighbor Susan’s yard, because her garden runs along the creek and it’s always a few degrees cooler over there. She’s got big shade trees, flowering beds, and this little pond she keeps for frogs and goldfish.
The Frog Pond Incident
The water was catching the light just right. There was a little breeze coming off the surface. The frogs were just floating around, unbothered, living their best amphibious lives.
And for one horrible, embarrassing moment — I considered getting in.
Actually getting in.
Now I need everyone to understand what that means coming from me. I hate wet paws. I once got splashed by the garden hose and spent the next two hours aggressively grooming myself and giving Dad the silent treatment. I have standards. I have a fur coat that I maintain with a level of dedication most people reserve for their skincare routine.
But that heat? That heat had me standing at the edge of a frog pond seriously considering a lifestyle change.
I was mid-contemplation when one of the frogs paddled right up to the edge and just stared at me. Blinked. Slow. Deliberate. Like an invitation.
No thank you, sir. I still have my dignity.
Barely, but still.
Susan Always Comes Through
Susan saw the whole thing from her porch and nearly fell out of her lawn chair laughing.
“Go ahead, Luna,” she called over, fanning herself with a seed catalog, “you can take a little swim if you want! The frogs won’t mind!”
Woman, please. I am already fighting intrusive thoughts over here. Do not encourage this.
Instead I did the sensible thing and loafed dramatically in the deepest patch of shade I could find while Susan complained about the heat, her garden, and approximately seventeen other things I didn’t need to know about. The woman tells me too much. I respect it.
After a while she poured fresh cold water into a wide clay saucer she keeps near the flower beds and set it down next to me.
“There you go, sweetheart,” she said, scratching behind my ears. “That’s better.”
And honestly? It was. A lot better.
That’s the thing about Susan. She’s out there in 90-degree heat worrying about her goldfish, her frogs, her plants — and somehow still finds a moment to make sure I’m taken care of too. Some people are just built like that. Quietly generous. Genuinely good.
It costs nothing to make sure the creatures around you are alright. Susan figured that out a long time ago.
Charlie, However, Has Not Figured Out Anything
I came back through the yard and he was still out there. Flat on the hot deck. Eyes half-closed. Slowly cooking himself like a rotisserie chicken that learned nothing from the first hour.
Dad had to go out and physically carry him inside, muttering about sunstroke and vet bills. Which, for the record, is exactly why pet wellness plans exist — because some cats refuse to accept their own limitations and their owners end up googling emergency veterinary care at 2pm on a Tuesday in July.
Not me though.
I was inside. On the tile. Hydrated. Dignified.
Living my best life.
Couldn’t be me, Charlie. It really couldn’t.
