The Story of How Our Christmas Eve Kinda Blew

Some parents give their kids a puppy for Christmas.  Mr. Candy and I…?  We took away a cat.

I am behind in sharing this with you, mostly because it is still painful for me to discuss.  The truth is, it wasn’t the most stellar of Christmas Eves around here, as we stood in line waiting for Santa forever, with me on the verge of tears because I knew that when we got home, Sophie’s foster mom would be swinging by to shuttle her to a new home.  Thankfully, the sight of a tearful, overwhelmed mother at Christmastime is not uncommon.  Passersby just assumed I was devastated that all of the Justin Bieber Singing Dolls were sold out.  And, to be honest, I was heartbroken about that, too.  Because that meant I was going to have a VERY disappointed girl on my hands.  (Again, sorry about that, Grandma.  There’s always your birthday.)

Sophie, as you may remember, is the cat we adopted soon after Matty passed away.  She’d had a traumatic first year of life, having suffered neglect and bad experiences with aggressive, horny tomcats (many of us girls can relate), and as a result, would defensively charge Marcy or any other cat who crossed her path.  With Mr. Candy, Skye and me, however, she was as sweet as they come — I would wake up to find Sophie’s head lying on the pillow with me, her paw resting gently on my arm.  And as soon as I woke up, she purred.  I mean, seriously.  The only way it could have been any more endearing is if Sophie had been spooning a baby panda wearing a bonnet.  We fell head over heels for this girl.  Which is why we tried every trick we could google to help her assimilate with the other cats… to no avail.  It was like trying to get Leonardo DiCaprio to date a woman who doesn’t pose in lingerie for a living.  Just ain’t gonna happen.  Even laid-back Lucy was like, whoa.  This chick has issues.  So we eventually resigned ourselves to the reality that it was in ALL of the cats’ best interests to find Sophie another home, one that didn’t have other cats — and we would have to find one before we left for the East Coast because I didn’t want her locked up in our bedroom, her “safe place,” the entire time we were away.

I cried pretty much nonstop on Christmas Eve, and may or may not have sobbed when the foster kitty mom walked out the door with Sophie in the carrier.  Thanks, pregnancy hormones!  You made me look like a total goon.

Now that I have totally depressed you, I should share the silver lining:  Sophie’s new home, a man who was mourning the recent loss of his beloved Persian cat, has apparently fallen head over heels for her, too, and told the foster mom that he “can’t live without her.”  So suffice it to say she has finally found a deserving home where she is queen.  He has renamed her Tish Tish.  Yes, as in Tish squared.

And that’s all I’ll, um, say about that.

But the important thing is, he loves her!  And she loves him!  A happy ending.

Well, okay, it will be once I get Grandma that Bieber doll.  (Chicks, I tell ya.)