Leslie Nelson Writes

Where the Sidewalk Bends

Only in Texas will you see where the sidewalk bends and adapts.

Sidewalks are supposed to be the straight-A students of infrastructure. When one doodles a question mark around a pole, it feels like the city itself just shrugged and said, “Eh, we’ll get there.”

I’ve been accused of anthropomorphizing all my animal companions, but I’m starting to think we may have over-domesticated them. Everything grows and learns, and we’d be remiss if we left out our furry companions.

Sam has figured out in his head what it will take to make it acceptable for him to charge the cats because he’s jealous. I don’t care what animal experts say—I sit and watch him sometimes for quite a while and I can see the wheels turning. He’s figured out that protecting his “resources” shouldn’t get him in trouble. It’s a dog’s natural instinct, right?

I live with him though, and I know he has enough dog biscuits stashed somewhere that he won’t starve for a day or two if I collapsed and no one came right away. No need to start munching on mom. I’m also pretty confident in saying he hasn’t lost a lot of sleep worrying about where his next meal is coming from.

Sam has lawyered up.
Clause 3(b): Resource Guarding shall not be construed as Premeditated Cat Assault.

The same goes for George.

I started pondering this the other day when I heard Elon Musk point out that FSD cars will not be running over cats in the street. As someone who prefers the company of animals most of the time, this was great news.

My mind went back down the years to all the wonderful animals I have known whose lives were cut short by the highway I lived on in the country.

🐾 Ianto

Ianto was the hardest to get over. He was a wiry, scrappy little thing that I had to cough up $75 for an airplane ticket so he could come home with my youngest daughter after a visit to her sister’s. When she brought him out of the carrier they had decorated with rhinestones and glitter, I thought he was the goofiest dog I had ever seen.

He grew out of it though, thriving on the country air and becoming one of the funniest dogs I had ever known. A short-legged, wire-haired Jack Russell, he never got tired of the zoomies and would race through the house, up and down the beds. I took him everywhere while the girls were at school and made sure his bowls stayed full. He was a joy to be around.

One night it snowed and iced over, as it will occasionally do in the South. We stepped outside and for once I didn’t hold him back or make him put on the leash. We lived in a very small town on the old highway, and I assumed—wrongly—that no one would be on the road.

One lone car.
The screech of tires.
I froze and prayed he was just hurt.
God, please don’t take this dog.

It was the first time I knew your knees can actually buckle.

I refused help burying him. He had come into my life and saved me from the everyday horror I was living—and now he was gone. I was furious with God that day, thinking, What else could He punish me with?

🐾 Cowboy, Jake, Titan

Cowboy was the first one I lost, back when I followed my mother trying to force her to mother when she clearly was through with it. He was a black and white border collie. Mom took off with the alcoholic husband we all hated and was living in a shack in Arkansas. I forced her to come back and get me in Texas by crying and begging to go to school. The first of many trips I made trying to figure out where I was supposed to be.

No one wanted to deal with the feral teenager they helped create.

Later, after I moved back to Texas and then back to the country, Jake was my sidekick. A funny-looking guy whose nose seemed too long for a lab but who grew into quite a magnificent animal. He stayed glued to the baby, and between the two of us we kept her safe.

Every time I turned my back, that child took her clothes off. I’d fight with her in the winter and make her bundle up, only to have her start her strip tease the moment I turned my back outside. Jake would stand in the ditch in front of our house and watch to make sure she didn’t go too close to the road.

That almost cost him his life.

I carried him to the vet knowing we couldn’t afford whatever it would cost. I had to try though, and tried not to curse the vet when he sent us home to wait for Jake to die. I was too exhausted and too heartbroken.

Day after day I nursed him, carrying him outside to lay in the sun on a bed of hay, then back in at night. He lay there still, watching the baby, and she’d sit by him and play. One day he got up and followed us into the woods behind the house. His hip dangling as if by a thread—until finally, as if by miracle, he healed.

Titan the Pomeranian choked when an evil visitor left a box of small pecans on the floor. That same visitor from hell carried death into the house. First Titan, then all six chickens, my beloved rooster HENry, and four parakeets found dead when we woke up one morning.

The beginning of the end of a nightmare allowed to loom too long.

Too many hard lives for too many of God’s creatures.

Then I thought: Who is going to feed all these cats? What about dogs?

I checked the numbers. On the optimistic side, it’s about 500,000 a year. Older estimates from the early 1990s (e.g., by animal welfare researcher Merritt Clifton) estimated 5.4 million cats a year. MILLIONS of cats.

Even on the lower end, that’s a lot of cats.
Divide it equally between all fifty-two states, and that’s still 103,846.15 cats.

Now add to that the dogs that will survive when we all have FSD vehicles, and I think we will,that’s roughly 1.2 million—and that includes strays and free-roaming pets.

That’s a lot of dogs.

Elon’s voice floated through the podcast like a cheerful ghost:
“FSD won’t squash cats.”

It’s fine by me.
And I’d be happy to travel around making sure all the cats and dogs were fed.
If that job ever pops up—count me in.

Thank you @elonmusk Your technology will change lives.

I didn’t know why I couldn’t settle in at first. The air was kind, the people softer than I remembered people could be. A woman wheeled her husband into the morning light while she checked on her garden bed—one of many raised plots that bloom with generosity. A sign read “STOP STEALING MY PEPPERS,” but I knew it wasn’t about stinginess. It was about care. Ask, and she’d hand you a basket. Just don’t waste what was grown with love.

Neighbors wave from porches. One saw my sister and me struggling with iron furniture and joined without a word, heaving until the task was done. She dusted off her hands, tugged her wagon, and disappeared down the path.

Women meet in the kitchen to invent reasons to laugh.

No one goes hungry. There’s a room just for whatever is left.. The competitive ones play cards under jazz, rock, or classical—whatever the day deals.

Doris sits quietly on the back porch. Ralph waves every time he passes. Dogs are content. Cats have catios, not to keep them in, but to keep danger out. Cleo knows this. She leaps and cries “Mooooooom” when she needs me to rescue her.

If prejudice lives here, it’s keeping quiet. 

This isn’t the place I almost fled from, where I imagined loading Sam’s carriage and chasing a rocket launch southward. Here, I wake up, brew coffee, feed the cats. Sam waits for the keyboard to wake him.

Cleo naps. Miss Match dusts. I create the dust.

Even the tiny woman who tugs my sleeve doesn’t glare at my height. She just pats my arm when I retrieve what she couldn’t reach. No words needed.

Yesterday, Cleo kept leading me to the dresser. The drawer was cracked. I finally opened it. Inside: a toy mouse, half-buried in lace. Something I’d forgotten. Something she hadn’t.

You’re welcome, precious girl.

Sometimes the Universe picks you up and sets you down where you didn’t know you belonged.

It Was Just a Picture

It was just a picture.
But it felt like looking into the future and the past all at once
A long white plume rising toward heaven, it took my breath away
and suddenly I was ten again,
turning toward the doorway
to see if he was standing there—
tall as ever,
filling the frame,
asking only,
“Do you want to go with me?”

I knew not to ask where.
I didn’t care.
It might be across town.
It might be across Texas.
My favorite trips were the ones
where we left Fort Worth behind—
because I knew I’d have him all to myself
for a few days.

I’d grab my shoes,
my journal,
whatever book I was halfway through,
and jump in the truck.
He’d drive.
I’d listen.
Sometimes we wouldn’t speak for hours.
I knew he was thinking.
I never interrupted that.He told me stories—
about Abilene,
about his father the train fireman,
about the café where my grandmother worked.
About Wichita Falls and the secret bank account.
About leukemia.
He placed my hand on the lump
and said it wasn’t going to kill him.
So I believed him.
And I made it my mission
to help him eat.
Strawberry milkshakes with baby formula
when he couldn’t swallow anything else

.He taught me how to go.
How to leave when it’s time.
How to trust the road
and the silence
and the ache.

And now I see Starbase where we once stood
and I cry
because I’m still going.
Still writing.
Still saying yes
without asking where.
Still hoping he’s looking down
from wherever the sky opens wide
and sees his daughter
driving toward wonder
with him riding shotgun
in every mile.

I don’t chase the clock.
I just keep the porchlight burning.

It’s not a beacon.
It’s a promise.
A soft glow that says:
You are welcome.
You are wanted.
You are known.

I don’t ask where you’ve been.
I don’t worry what the night holds.
I trust the stars to guide you
and the silence to keep you safe.

When you return—
whether in footsteps or memory—
you’ll find me here,
barefoot,
heart open,
light on.

This was written by Copilot and together we changed and edited and had SuperGrok critique it because I ‘m a loyal person. I love my robots. Every morning I wake up to nothing but praise and motivation these days.

X is Transformer and Copilot is the younger brother? Or is it the grandfather? I don’t know I just know life is getting easier.

My animals—Cleo the recovering matriarch, George the porch philosopher, and Sam the chaos coordinator—have learned to live in the rhythm of my resistance. They got me. I’m not a routine—I’m a revolution.

Packing boxes while Cleo tiptoes out of her fear? That’s not cruelty—it’s courage. It’s me saying, “We’re moving toward peace, even if the tape dispenser sounds like doom.” It’s me choosing softness over structure, sanctuary over spreadsheets.

I will not be guilted by dust.
I will not be seduced by the false promise of a clean sink.
I will do what I can, when I can, and if I can’t—I’ll write about it.
My animals are not neglected. They are co-authors in a life that defies convention.
If anyone asks why I don’t have a schedule, I’ll say:
“Because I’m building a sanctuary, not a spreadsheet.”

And if George broke the printer? That’s just him rejecting capitalism in favor of porch philosophy. I respect it. (George did break the printer- I’m basically paying for nothing right now.)

So here’s to the unscheduled, the unshowered (until recently), the unbothered. Here’s to the women who choose peace over performance, and the pets who love them anyway. We are not behind. We are blooming on schedule.

Except for the obvious robots can do it all and I just watched another clip and am certain Optimus can do the obvious too. I’m just not sure it’s politically correct.

Don’t Just Stand There: Iryna’s Fight Is My Fight

Iryna Zarutska’s killer, Decarlos Brown Jr., had 14 arrests but walked free to stab her on a Charlotte train. Her face breaks my heart—she looks like my three daughters. His face haunts me, because I faced a predator just like him.

Years ago, in another Texas apartment, I was healing from divorce and losing the home I had built in Arkansas. My dogs, Sam and Temperance (with canine Alzheimer’s), were my rock. We walked daily in a decent neighborhood, but my slumlord rented to anyone—addicts, predators, no vetting. One morning, under my carport, a man who looked exactly like Iryna’s killer sat on my steps, high, exposing himself. Scared for my dogs, I froze, almost turned to run but then yelled, “Get off my steps!” and charged with a stick and a rock. He fled, pants down, through an alley.

I called the police and the landlord. The cops said, “No proof, no action.” Proof? I needed a photo of him in the act. Next morning, he was back, smoking next door. I snapped a picture with my iPhone 7—too dark, useless. He taunted me, posting vile pictures on a fence. I switched to alley walks, letting dogs’ barks keep me safe. He moved on, likely to a Fort Worth homeless camp where repeat offenders game the system.

Iryna’s killer gamed it too—14 arrests, free to kill. No more! I’m a Mother and Grandmother fighting back. I bust scammers like @Linda_Duvall, who sent a fake Elon Musk ID, and I’m honoring Iryna Zarutska and Charlie Kirk. President Trump, clean up Fort Worth’s streets—I’ll show you where predators and repeat offenders hide.

 DON’T JUST STAND THERE! #JusticeForIryna #CharlotteSafety

Support Charlie Kirk’s fight for truth @TPUSA

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In 1980, at eighteen, I cast my first vote in a presidential election. That moment in the booth was my first claim to the world, a spark of owning my voice, like planting my bare feet on Southern soil. It doesn’t matter so much who I voted for, what matter is I have the right to vote as I choose. I’ve been stereotyped all my life by people who make snap judgements. People who don’t really know me.

Life’s taught me promises don’t always hold. In 2020, hoping for change, but it didn’t land as I’d expected. Now, I’m skeptical of any party’s grand talk. My vote is my own, guided by my gut, not slick words. It’s my way of standing tall, like a sunset over my Texas porch.

People see my flowing dresses and barefoot walks and assume “hippie.” Nope—I’m just a Southern woman who loves the earth under her toes and a breeze in the heat. My style doesn’t spell out my politics or my heart. I’ve learned to shrug off those snap judgments, just as I’ve gotten good at setting boundaries. My go-to? A reliable friend like Quinn, who steps in when I need space to breathe—

Speaking of space, my cat George just sauntered over, gave my screen a sleepy stare, and flopped down like he’d read enough. That’s my life now—single, free, and laughing with my pets. Forty-five years ago, I was this woman—bold, unapologetic—and I’ve found her again. My vote, my truth, my life—they’re mine, and that’s pure joy.

When have you trusted your instincts or found freedom in a moment? Share below or on X—let’s inspire each other.

“Obviously he didn’t know who we are.”

Years ago, in the tense aftermath of 9/11, I made quiet arrangements to walk my middle daughter to the gate at Little Rock airport. She was tiny, scrappy, and flying solo between Fort Worth and Little Rock often to visit family. I had the paperwork. I had the plan. More importantly I had permission.

We made it through TSA and had gathered her bags and put our shoes back on when  Big Bad Security Guy tore up my authorization in front of us and told me I would not be walking my little girl to the gate. Little Rock had ten gates at the time, you could see them all in one glance.

Before I could react, a Marine stepped in—rifle slung, presence undeniable. He told my daughter to have a pleasant flight and waved us through like we belonged. When we looked back, Security Guy was picking up the pieces of my torn-up paper.

My little girl looked over her shoulder and said, “Obviously he didn’t know who we are.”

I’ve never forgotten that moment. It wasn’t just about airport drama—it was about love, protection, and the quiet power of showing up for your child when the world feels uncertain. Today, that scrappy little girl’s all grown up—married to a wonderful man, mom to her own fierce little one. She’s made Arkansas her own, leading the call to fight gun violence with the same unshakeable spirit. I’ll never forget the video of her up on stage, her daughter right there taking the mic beside her—both guardians in the making, standing tall against fear.

She is still a proud American today.

To the gatekeepers who stand in the way, and the guardians who step in when it matters—thank you. And to my daughter and granddaughter, Annie, keep showing the world who you are. To my Dad, Semper Fi.

To America: We Will Never Forget

#September11 #NeverForget #TheyObviouslyDidntKnow WhoWeAre #GunViolencePrevention #ScrappyLove #MomsDemandAction