So, I know it has been years since I've had a Sophie Sunday. I started them shortly after we adopted our sweet kitten for a few reasons, but mostly because we had a lot of growing pains with her. I have known for a very long time that I wanted a Maine Coon one day for their looks, personality, and temperament. I entertained the notion of buying a pure bred from a local breeder in 2006—then my health issues exploded and adding a pet to our lives was the last thing we were thinking about. Meanwhile, taking a step back gave me time to think about the choice of buying a pure bred.

I had not become a member of the ASPCA yet, but the pull to rescue an animal was so strong that I could no longer ignore what I really wanted to do. I was still interested in the breed, but I wanted to save an animal's life more. Nick (he likes to take all the credit…which he should, because I was searching only for male Maine Coon rescues) found Sophie, who had been given the name "Bambi" by her foster home in Iowa. This kitten was close to six month old. Someone dropped off her and her siblings at a farm one day and sped off. The farmer took care of the litter in his barn over the winter and then took them to a pet rescue organization in the spring of 2007.

Let me just say for a second here that people who drop off animals at farms really suck. I wish they would be responsible and either try to find a home for the animals themselves or take them to a no kill shelter. Instead, many just leave them somewhere dangerous because they figure that if someone discovers them, they'll be in good hands. They pull over their cars and leave new litters in the ditch, hoping baby kittens will figure out to walk to the barn. More often than not, they die on the road. IT'S CRUEL.

I will get off my soapbox now.

Fortunately, at least Sophie and her sister made it to the barn and the care of a kindhearted farmer. I am not sure if she had any other siblings. I just know that she made it through six months relatively healthy when her sister was all kinds of sick and not up for adoption. She had almost six months of being feral, instinct telling her that humans were mean and to avoid them, one week at a foster home, and then we came and uprooted her yet again. This time she didn't even have other foster animals there. It was just me an Nick: the scary humans.

There were definitely times during those initial months that I regretted our decision to rescue such an unpolished animal. We never saw her, and she had so much anxiety and outright fear around us. I started doing Sophie Sundays because for a snapshot in time, I saw a glimpse of the sweet little cat that she might be one day. I say "little" lightly, of course. She is a Maine Coon. She started coming out for me more often, but she was still very skittish.

It took about six whole months before we were fully acclimated to each other. Today, Nick and I will both swear that she is the sweetest, most loving cat that either of us have ever been around. She is funny and curious, maintaining her kitten-like playfulness. She runs to the door when we come home from work and cuddles with us on the couch. She likes to be involved in whatever activity we are doing—making the bed is a particular favorite—and she starts purring if I just blink slowly at her. True, a lot of these are just plain, old, everyday Maine Coon traits.

Yet, there is a special closeness there. Sophie came into our lives not long after I found out that having children was not possible. She filled a void for both of us (and she is a pampered kitty, let me tell you). There seems to be a love there because we rescued each other.

The above picture was taken yesterday. She had a lion cut about six weeks ago, so her coat hasn't quite grown back to its usual Snuffleupagus state yet. She's so funny after she gets her summer crew cut: suddenly she is rubbing against and rolling on every surface because it feels so good without those layers of fuzz. We may try to squeeze in one more full cut in before the cold weather sets in. She really is spoiled—but so are we.

We adopted Sophie when she was six month old, long enough for her to have been trained as a feral cat. It was several months before she trusted us as humans, but she has never shaken the "I have to eat as much as I can because I don't know when I'll get my next meal" instinct. She has had her share of medical issues since we got her, and she will be on prescription cat food for the rest of her life (read: $$$) which has a higher fat content than most. After gaining three pounds at her 2009 exam, the vet hinted that maybe she needs a little help on the diet front.

The vet suggested that we hide little piles of food throughout the house to simulate her natural urge to hunt. Okay, first of all, who has the time? Secondly, besides the fact that she's still a scavenger, Sophie is totally down with the domesticated lifestyle. Seriously, have I mentioned that she rare expends the energy to eat sitting up?



We ignored the issue for awhile, but then I saw a news story about a cat that was taken away from its home because it had grown to 30 pounds and this was seen as a sign of neglect. (More like over-loving, if you ask me.) Sophie is no where near 30 pounds…yet. Instead of hiding food around the house, I started rationing how much dry food she got in the morning, and then I give her a second round of dry food after work, with a partial can of wet food. She is less than happy with me, and usually has her food dish cleaned out within 15 minutes.

She breaks into the squirrels' peanuts when she can get the cover loose, and will even get the top off of her food canister when she finds that it isn't sealed securely. While we eat, her eyes follow the path of the fork from our plates to our mouths. Sophie has not learned moderation in all the months that she's been dieting. Even though she's still very active, she always looks hungry, and I didn't rescue a cat just so she could feel deprived.

Yet, she ISN'T. This cat does not want for anything other than gluttony. Nick was awarded a gift certificate at work, and he has decided to use the money to buy an electric cat feeder. You fill five compartments with food and then set the timer to reveal a new compartment at specific interval. Man, and I thought that dieting for myself was difficult! I didn't have to deal with a pair of limpid eyes speaking ala Oliver Twist, "More, please?"



The night of and morning after my surgery, all I could hear was a cat puking. If you've ever owned a cat, you know the sound. Being in the post anesthesia gloom that always consumes me, I kept thinking, "Great. Now I'm sterile and my cat is dying." Typically, Sophie never has tummy issues, so we are thinking that she found something to eat that she shouldn't have. Was it the orchid that she literally deflowered, or the cinnamon-scented pine cones on the table? Was it a piece of rubber from a shoe or something she dragged out of a garage basket? Hard to say with this cat, eating will be her demise.

Sigh…

Yes, I know I've been neglecting you again, dear blog. I've been at this thing for over five years now. I remember hard-coding everything in the first several versions, but then the archives just got too cumbersome to handle manually. In a time when I was more "techie" than I am now (I don't think I will ever forget the hyphen's HTML entity code), and married to a PHP programmer, I found an open source weblog system called Serendipity. The site basically runs itself now—so much so, I can go weeks without even updating! Whoa. Actually, I really do love weblogging, and I hope that one of these days things will settle down enough for me to write for fun again.

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I am officially "sterile" now (unofficially, before). I had surgery two weeks ago, and while I was confident that I was making the most unselfish and ethical choice, the day before surgery was very emotional for me. I returned home from work to find a clean home scented with cinnamon, my favorite meal, and a fresh pumpkin pie…these are a few of my favorite things. Nick left work early to put together the surprise for me. The day of surgery, I was given a gown that fills with hot air—heavenly! After I came out of the anesthesia, I had a bag of ice in a place that wasn't all that heavenly.

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I am having difficulties finding time to run with my current class. I ran the first time post-op last week and it went relatively well (though I was in no mood to push it with speed). With daylight savings time, I'm rather ready for bed by the time I get home from work, too! It's dark enough!

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Tuesday after work, we stopped at Great Dane for one last happy hour with one of my favorite beers: pumpkin spice ale. The tap was not working properly, spitting and sputtering and making a downright mess of our pint glasses. So, the bartender poured a pitcher to let the head settle and charged us for pints—sweet. See all these plans that interfere with my running schedule!?

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Sophie got her bum shaved today. I love long-haired cats. They are so beautiful, but oh so much work! She got two lion cuts last summer, and it was the first summer that she didn't spend panting as she crossed the room. We'll let her keep her hair for the colder months, but something has to be done about that butt.

Poor thing wet herself in her carrier during the ride to the groomer's. I lifted her out of the carrier (the groomer wanted no part of it, understandably) and walked her to her "suite". I couldn't stand the smell of myself in the car (again, understandably), and Nick took off his sweatshirt so that I could strip off the soiled clothing without riding in the car naked. Besides issues with decency, it's frickin' cold!

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Well, I guess I have put off writing my essay on Wal-Mart's initiatives as outlined in their 2009 financial statement long enough. I'm a hobbyist writer and find distance education too writing intensive. How do normal people survive? If only essays could be on things that interest me (like the evolution of foods on a stick, for instance), and I could use the word "it" without caring about number agreement—and run-on sentences should be allowable expressions of a thought that just does not want to die. Really, proper grammar is overdone. Now someone who is a little hyphen-heavy (and even knows the HTML entity code!), now that someone is interesting—someone I'd like to know!

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Over and out.

So I forgot my cell phone this morning as I left for work. No big deal. Nonetheless, my primary mission after arriving home was to move it from the end table to my purse.

Nick and I do not have a land line. Really, the whole concept seems rather silly seeing as how we have decent cell reception and the people that want to talk to me or him already know how to contact me or him. Anyway, moving on.

Blindly, I reached my hand over the end table as I read through my personal email. My fingers met the surface of the table: no phone. I proceeded to look in every place where I typically leave my phone. I retraced all of my steps last night and even felt through icky sweaty exercise clothes to see if it had fallen in the laundry pile.

No dice.

Nick was not home. I could not even call my cell phone to see if I could hear it ringing. Hurriedly, I looked everywhere all over again to the same end: no cell phone to be found. Like I want to pay for a new cell phone right now! Mine is only a year old!

Finally, at the end of my wits, I downloaded Skype. I am sure it will only ever be used that one time, but I dialed my cell number. I heard Norah Jones singing "Turn Me On". The sound was coming from the kitchen.

Before I go much further with this altogether thrilling tale (these are the happenings that I find exciting enough to blog about, mind you), I should give you some updates about Sophie. She has grown into a big big kitty. She is intimidatingly strong, and I have no doubt that she could put me in a headlock if I ever dawdled too much in the dishing out of the evening canned food.

A few weeks ago, Nick swore that she carried up one of his shoes from the basement. I did not really believe him. Carrying a shoe almost the same height as her would have been cumbersome going up stairs, no? Well, just last night I discovered one of my one-pound wrist weights deposited neatly on the living room floor when it belonged by my other weights downstairs. I guess maybe she could carry a shoe, then.

So, getting back to the story…no phone, no land line, Skype, "Turn Me On", the kitchen. I looked over every surface of the counter top, and I even looked in a few cupboards and the refrigerator (I can be absentminded with the best of 'em). Finally, I went lower. I looked in the crevices next to the refrigerator and the ledge under the bottom cupboards. Meanwhile, I've redialed my number in Skype.

Finally, I noticed a reddish light flashing from beneath the oven. Sure enough, there it was...LODGED to the point where I had to lever the appliance up to get it out.

The whole incident, oddly, reminded me of my mom. Dad would always prepare himself a cup of coffee and then forget it on the counter or kitchen table; eventually, he would come back looking for it. Well, my mother, being the impish sort, took to hiding his coffee every time he forgot it. She'd stick it in cupboards, the oven, or the breadbox. Oh, it was great sport… we know how to make our fun living out in the middle of nowhere.

So, the unsettling prospect remains…is my impish cat my impish mother reincarnate? I am just grateful that my Faith negates the mere possibility…or I would be downright embarrassed at the things my cat has seen me do that I wouldn't want my mother to see me do.