- Unearthing a lost catnip mouse or fur-encrusted ball under the couch.
- Finding a dropped whisker or nail casing on the carpet or furniture.
- Deciding to wash one of her old blankets.
- Deciding to wash any of the clothing I wore the last day of her life.
- Afraid to put on the clogs I wore around the house because one of her first morning routines was to stretch her front paws on them and scratch at them.
- Watching movies or television (which I've done little of) that feature a cat - especially ones with cats in jeopardy that were always turned off in the past anyway.
- Realizing I can no longer sign a card to a friend or relative "From Us & Sandy, too"
- Coming across clothing that feature "I Love Cats" on them.
** Like the sweatshirt If ound on a rack at a clothing store during one of my forays just to get out of the house. Pretty white sweatshirt with blue turtleneck band and a picture of a chubby gray cat holding a red heart printed with the words: "Cats Purr With Their Hearts". I remember grabbing hold of the display rack and felt the entire store swirling. I thought I was going to faint. My eyes blurred and I felt tears welling up. But somehow I managed to catch them before they fell and before I fell.**
- Seeing the first stray cat wandering off in the distance.
- The first condolence card.
- Discovering a photo of her I'd totally forgotten I'd taken.
- And the worst of all, the First Christmas.

Whether each pet person has their own specific Firsts or can identify with all or some of the above, each person also may react differently. Today I faced another one of my own worst Firsts. One I'd faced before after my first cat, Mister, passed. Not so when my second cat, Tyler, passed because we had Sandy at that point already for two years. This First happened in the supermarket. For weeks before Sandy's passing, I wouldn't leave her side for longer than absolutely necessary so I hadn't ventured out very much at all. Going to the supermarket was one of those routine tasks that seemed almost pointless to waste time upon. But food and other household sundries were of some basic importance and, after all, my husband had to eat and Sandy needed food and litter. (I'm sure my husband would readily say that the former wasn't one-tenth as important as the later reason to go shopping.) So I'd write up a cursory list and he'd go to the supermarket for all of us. That routine went on for three or four weeks; that period of time I was most concerned about her every move and felt I needed to be present at all times to interpret any difference in her behavior or appearance.

During the week after she passed, neither of us went to the supermarket. Neither of us were concerned with anything other than somehow getting through the day. We managed to physically get by with whatever we had stocked in the house.

Finally, we began running out of true necessities and 'relatively' healthy food. So in my determination to get out and away from the house, the empty shell that it now was without her, I journeyed off to the supermarket for the first time in over a month.

I was all right as I wheeled up and down the aisles in the usual fog that hovered over me wherever I go now. Until - as if the store had just set up an entire new section since I'd last been there - I wheeled my cart down the next aisle unaware it was the pet supply aisle. Despite the fact that the food she ate wasn't even sold at a supermarket and her litter brand could only be found in specific pet supply stores, there in front of me was shelf upon shelf and an aisle that seemed to elongate the more I stared at it, was another First. From now on I would always have to make a point to avoid that aisle.

It was a good thing I had the cart to hold onto. I grasped the handles till my knuckles turned bluish white like an afraid-of-flying passenger on their first flight. It steadied me because I felt my knees begin to buckle. The fog was blurring even more at that moment. I've had anxiety attacks in my life and this gave all the indications of one. Of course, as with any anxiety or pseudo-anxiety attack, one of the first feelings is that of embarrassment. The last thing you want is someone to come over and ask if there was anything wrong or try to scoop your limp body off the aisle floor along with the boxes of whatever you may have knocked off the shelf as you fell. Ask anyone who's had such a feeling and they'll tell you that's exactly what they go through.

The only way I could maneuver out of there with any safety and some semblance of dignity was to literally close my eyes and let the cart maneuver me away sort of on auto pilot. I opened my eyes when could feel I was turned in the other direction, making no eye contact with anyone, quickly grabbed whatever else I thought I needed at the moment and settled for coming back another day when at least I would be somewhat more prepared and plot my shopping cart course out more carefully.

The supermarket story was a means of expanding on one of the worst Firsts of all for me: The First time I realized, as I did after my first cat's death, that I was no longer one of the fortunate who, along with jotting down milk, toilet paper, bread, etc. on their shopping lists, could include "litter" or "cat food".