We Interrupt This Series for a Brief Message

The cat is alive. 

Two years ago I came home one summer weekend. 

What I found there was disturbing, to put it lightly. 

There were scorpions. In my house. Walking around with their tails up in the air like they were invited or something. 

When I almost stepped on a baby one while I was innocently playing some Anastasia song on the piano for the 15th time in a row, I decided it was time to take a stand. 

I marched out of the piano room and prepared my most impressive big girl voice. 

"Mom!" I squeaked. "There is ANOTHER scorpion in the house."

"Eww."

"This is getting just ridiculous," I said. "We need to do something. Bug spray is not enough anymore. It's time to pull out the big guns."

"I don't know what to do," she said. 

"I do," I said, big girl voice in full swing now. "We need to get a cat. It can be my birthday present. 

I don't care if it lives outside and eats cheap cat food. 

I just need something done about these scorpions. They're ruining my previously peaceful naps on the floor."

"Okay," she said. 

"Really?" I asked. "Are you sure? I don't want you to get cats just for me."

But I did want her to get cats just for me. Because I have nightmares about scorpions. And also, I have daymares about them.

We ended up with two kittens that day. We named them, and bought them toys, and watched them chase after a laser pen, and bought them medium-priced cat food. 

And the scorpions went away. 

And I stood on the top of the world, looking down on creation, and pondered my brilliance. Because PROBLEM SOLVED. 

But then I came home 3 months later. And everyone hated the cats. More, I think, than even the scorpions. 

And I was all, "Oops."

So the cats became outdoor cats--outdoor cats that my family rarely sees. In fact, I hadn't seen one of them for 6 months or so. 

That is, until today. 

I walked into the house carrying an armload of junk from our vacation, when I saw my mom run out of her room holding her nose. People were muttering something about a cat, and I had a flashback to the terrible garage incident of 2002. 

"Does it stink in there?" I asked, feeling sorry for the stupid cat already.

"No, it doesn't stink," my mom said, still covering her face.

"Well what's wrong then?" And why are you covering your nose?

"The carpet is all torn up. And the food is open."

From the sound of it, I was pretty sure some sort of big-foot sized monster had broken into the house, ripped  up all the carpet, and eaten all the diet food my mom had stacked in her cupboard, just before kidnapping the cat.

I was expecting disaster. 

When I finally gathered up the courage to walk in the room, I found a corner of the carpet ripped pretty well, and a half eaten box of low fat cereal torn open on the floor. 

The cat finally came out from under the bed, looking skinnier than usual. 

I have to say, two years ago at Petsmart, my family chose a fighter. 

The cat supposedly opened the bathroom door to drink from the toilet, found a box of dehydrated cheesy potatoes and licked them clean, and pooped on a blue towel in the bathtub. 

And, if you ever need proof that Nutrisystem works, you can talk to my cat. She lost 30 percent her body weight while on the diet. 

After we lured her out from under the bed, the cat ran out the door and hopped the fence into the neighbors' yard. 

They feed her there. 

My cat Abbey survived a week in my parent's bedroom. 

And then she ran away. 

See you in 6 months Cat. 

Glad to have you alive.