So, after a very childish spitting contest last night under the bed, I told Sophie that there would be no more treats in the morning, no more Fancy Feast in the evening—not until she starts behaving like a proper young lady. Until then, she only gets dry food and water. Nothing special. I don't know how many times I've scolded from the other room, "Sophie, we don't get on kitchen counters here unless you're me!" and it doesn't seem to strike a chord.

She dragged my iPod around yesterday, and carried around my party favor from Saturday's baby shower before turning to Nick's keys—she's buried mine in her litter box in the past—but I suppose that we should be thankful that she is now leaving plants alone...although, I was waxing poetic over the bouquet of lily of the valley my aunts had given me and how much I loved the dainty little flowers (they're my favorite!!!) when Nick pointed out gently that Sophie must love them too as I spotted a helpless little stem strewn across the floor.

This morning, belatedly, she came downstairs and stared at the place on the floor where I usually set treats. It was bare. Slowly, she turned her mournful little eyes up to me and sniffed, walking towards me in a contrived, I'm-weak-with-hunger wobble. "Do you want treats, Sophie?" I asked, immediately upset with myself for letting her get so emaciated and set a sizable handful at her feet.

But, honestly, I think I made my point.