Nick approached on hyper legs the other night. "Dear, I think we need to change our lifestyle." He pulls out, with a barely concealed lip quiver, a rechargeable battery and two gnawed golf tees—found, supposedly, in places they don't belong. I suppress a laugh as it's obvious that it isn't my things that Sophie (who absolutely has the sharpest monster-teeth I've ever felt—lord save me from ever having to pill her again) finds and does God knows what with before depositing in the center of the bed or behind the toilet.

But I understand his pain, that rawness of having your things tampered with and your trusting nature abused. I know to lock away knickknacks. Gee, I wonder why? Clem was once the greatest irritation in my life, and oh how he has a soft spot in my heart! But even so, nothing was safe. I don't know how many times I plotted to kill the stinker, sell him on the black market, or (at the very least) sit down and give a stern talking to the male kitten who I believe was fixed a leeeeeeeetle too early with his fascination with my undergarments and makeup.



I support the thievery. Builds character.

Even so, Nick...I understand your frustration, but we don't need to change our lifestyle...but, rather, you need to come to terms with the fact that we are now living with a thief that eats us out of house and home, fills her litter box daily (leaving me to wonder how all that crap came from one little kitten), and generally isn't fond of human affection. At least she hasn't peed on your pillow for a good month now.

Redeeming qualities indeed.