HOW DO YOU SPELL TROUBLE? 

L-I-Z-Z-I-E  

I never intended to adopt a cat.  

I thought our daughter Abby would be happy with Splash the Beta fish. But as she grew older,  Abby said she needed a pet she could hug.  So, when she was ten, she and I visited the Humane Society.  We fell in love with a tabby called Ollie.  

As time flew by, Abby went off to college and the house grew quiet.  Being that my husband Jim worked, it was nice having a furry companion around.  Ollie and I grew close, so you can imagine how heartbroken I felt when he was diagnosed with kidney disease.  Within three months, I had to make the difficult decision to put him down.  Ollie only lived to be eight.  

After months of mourning his loss, I felt ready to have another cat.  At the Humane Society, I found Ozzie, a beautiful tabby with one green eye and one amber eye.  Ozzie was well-behaved and gentle, but way too curious and one Thanksgiving, he snuck out.  When we discovered he was missing, I totally freaked out.  Ozzie was an indoor cat.  He didn't know how to hunt for food, how to find shelter, or how to defend himself against predators.  He would never survive outside.

Jim and I posted his picture on Face Book and on Next Door and taped flyers to lamp posts.  We walked the neighborhood every day calling for him.  Jim searched the woods behind our house.  After 19 days I was beginning to lose hope.  By now it was December and the temperatures were below freezing.

Can you believe this cutie causes so much trouble?

Still, we hoped someone had found Ozzie and had dropped him off at the Humane Society, but when we visited, he wasn't in the room of lost pets.  While we were at the adoption center, I decided to hold some kittens, thinking a new cat would cheer me up.  But they were sickly and sad-looking and none could replace Ozzie.  Then on the way back home, we drove past Pet Smart and decided to step in to look at the kittens.  I had no intention of adopting that day, but one of them was named Abby—an obvious sign this was meant to be.  And just like that, we had ourselves a new cat and I decided to call her Lizzie.     

So, here we had a kitten and my husband and I knew nothing about caring for a young cat.  We had adopted Ozzie as an adolescent.  In no time, we learned that this kitten was a handful.  She'd sneak into closets or the pantry and get accidently trapped inside, scratch furniture and audio speakers, bite our toes, leap three feet up to the top of the refrigerator door to swat my hand, and the list goes on. 

The worst thing was, Lizzie didn't know anything about litter boxes (which surprised me because I though all cats no matter how young knew where to potty).  She did her business wherever she wanted.  A gal at Pet Smart advised me to place three litter boxes by Lizzie's favorite bathroom spots, and every few days gradually move them closer to the designated litter box area and then leave just one.  (This worked:)

Now look at her face.  Who can believe something so cute can be such a rascal?  We call her Little Bit, You With The Face, and A-lizzabet.  Sometimes, Sweetheart.  The most-fitting name is Trouble.  A year later she nibbles floral arrangements (silk and real flowers), tries to catch paper coming out of the printer, shreds window sheers, steals guitar picks, and uses my husband's favorite chair as a scratching post.  

Lizzie's latest habits include banging on the bedroom door during the middle of the night or walking on my back as I sleep.  The famous cat whisperer, Jackson Galaxy would say, distract her to stop bad behavior.  Yeh, right.  I'm going to get out of bed at 4 a.m. and distract her. 

Despite her mischievous behavior, Lizzie slowly helped me get over the loss of Ozzie.  But I wondered, what if Ozzie wasn't lost?  What if he found his way back home?  Would Lizzie and Ozzie get along? We were about to find out.  

Six weeks after adopting Lizzie, a neighbor who lived about one and a half miles away posted a picture on Facebook of a cat he had found.  The photo was fuzzy, but the cat resembled Ozzie.  Jim and I jumped into the car and raced to his house.  The neighbor led us to the basement where he kept the foundling, and lo and behold, there was Ozzie, minus his collar, fur matted, so skinny you could see his back bones.  He was literally starving and could barely hold his head up.  I cradled my sweet boy.  How had he survived?  And equally amazing, how could it be that we were reunited? 

The following day after meeting with veterinarian Dr. Vice, I found out Ozzie had no broken bones or cuts.  As Dr. V. put it, Ozzie just went on a walkabout.  Knowing Oz was unharmed was a relief.  But in order for him to rest and gain weight, we kept him separated from Lizzie.  Two weeks later he had regained his strength and we allowed the two of them to meet.   

At first, I wasn't sure if they'd get along.  They seemed suspicious of one another.  Ozzie and Lizzie tested each another and chased through the house.  But their interactions were harmless—no crying or fur flying.  Just pure joyous cat play.  

As I watch the two wrestle, I can't believe we have two cats. TWO!  And they are as different as night and day.  One is calm (and happy to be home) and one is well, not calm.  By now, you know which is which.  Which makes it fun and interesting.  We love 'em both.  Even if one caused us worry and heartache.  Even if one can be nothing but trouble.   

Bonne année!