*Subtitled ‘This is what I will show Belle someday after she comes homes from therapy with a break through that it was losing her cat at 3 ¾ that made her have attachment problems’*
I promised Mike I was going to the SPCA to simply look at a kitten I saw online. Of course I filled out the paperwork before he even got there, in order to beat the gay couple I was staring down for the delight of owning the fluffiest, whitest little speck of fur I had ever seen. I got my act together first, lied about having permission to have a cat in a rental, or having any other roommates who were supposed to cosign with me, and walked out with a kitten. I was told she was a runt, was never going to get very big, and was sweet and laid back.
The first clue that this cat was going to cause me stress came 1 week after I got her. I came home to find that white little fur ball attempting suicide on the chain from the blinds. She had herself so tightly wrapped up, I had to get my upstairs neighbor to come downstairs to help me free her.
This had been two cries for help from Sophie in one week of owning her. (Her freedom from the mason jar came on behalf of the plumber who was working on my apartment). Nevertheless we soldiered on. After killing of many beta fish, and every single plant I tried to grow, Sophie managed to make it through her first week with me, alive.
Sophie was not happy. Sophie did not want a playmate.
Sophie got a second playmate.
Sophie started peeing on things. He litter box of choice?? Our mattress. This was the 4th suicide mission for Sophie. Once again, I saved her. I convinced Mike to let me take her to the vet because I knew (desperately hoped) something was wrong.
There was. And there was a HUGE bill to go with the problem. Let’s call that her fifth attempt at ending her life with us.
I managed to convince Mike that it was actually our fault as we left her to roam around the house while we were gone, and obviously the mattress hadn’t been carefully neutralized. Sophie negotiated herself a permanent citizenship in the basement unless we were home.
To add to the anger-induced incontinence, Sophie never warmed to anybody other than Mike, myself, and more and more, Annabelle. She scared grown men and women alike who came to visit us with her creepy-as-hell howling and screeching. When people tried to go somewhere remotely close to her food, water, litter, or whatever else she decided was off limits, Sophie let out a war cry that had even veteran animal lovers, heading for cover. We’ll chalk this up at her seventh, and eighth attempt to end her citizenship at the Klassen house. At this stage, it was only Annabelle who saved her. Sophie basically let Annabelle do whatever she wanted to her (Including feeding her like a baby with a fake bottle, and pushing her in a stroller), and in turn Mike couldn’t quite bring himself to send Sophie to live with another family.
Well, they say cats have nine lives and Sophie sealed the deal when, after years of being.. well, let’s say decent since good probably doesn’t quite seem appropriate, she started anger peeing on our bed again.
Sophie left our house yesterday with Mike and Belle to go to an acreage that takes in cats like her, and places them in homes more to their liking. After I got over the initial feeling like I failed miserably as an animal lover, my friends and family reminded me that poor Sophie would have been a goner a loooong time ago without me.
Dear Sophie, you and I tried to make it work for almost 8 years. Alas, it was not to be. I hope you find that quiet, cat lady-type home you have longed for.
An offshoot of these events has been the sense of alarm my parents feel after seeing how Mike and I dealt so swiftly with what went on:
As quoted by my dad yesterday
“We better not get old and start pissing the bed, or Brittany will send us out to ‘the farm’”.
|Sophie-- in her happier moments.|