I currently have four children: Carson, Cameron, Caroline, and Reagan. They were all rescued, Carson from the woods in my backyard 6 years ago, Caroline from a parking lot 5 years ago, Cameron from a tree (like a really, really tall tree) 4 years ago, and Reagan from a parking lot 7 months ago. At this point you realize that I am not discussing human children, but pet children (cats to be specific), and are undoubtedly calling me a crazy cat lady in your head. Unfortunately with my track record I have no formidable evidence to prove otherwise, so for time’s sake I shall continue on and disregard your brash and extremely unhelpful opinion.
Due to my often hectic and inconsistent schedule, all of my children in the past have had to reside at their grandparent’s house (my parent’s house if you refuse to stoop to my “cat lady” level). But on a recent visit to the Beck abode, it became apparent that Caroline was unable to welcome Reagan into the fold (who could blame her, he is like the rambunctious 10 year old brother that likes to play freeze tag with you when you never, under any circumstances, agreed to playing freeze tag with him) and should move in with her initial guardian.
Well, here we are a couple of months in and the transition has been quite smooth. I was concerned over the move at first because ole Carol (tell me calling a cat Carol does not make you laugh out loud and I will not believe you) had been an outside cat for a while and I was not convinced that she would be fond of apartment-style living. My concerns were in vain (as they typically are) however, as Caroline quite quickly became a proponent of hanging out in the AC and being an only child. She spends most of her free time lounging on the window sills and staring at me while purring like a drunken tomcat. So with Caroline doing so well and not perpetually hating me for making her wear a collar that matches her eyes, I thought it only necessary to reward her with a new freedom.
I like to think of myself as a trusting parent. I have rescued many a stray cats and have learned over the years that allowing them their independence is a crucial component in acclimating them to their new way of sheltered life. So when I decided to take my highly adventurous middle child outside after weeks of not being able to feel the breeze on her whiskers, I thought it best to let her do her thang; I opened the door, did a brief walk around the premises with her, then retreated back inside so as to allow her to best enjoy her previous kingdom.
With a week or so under our belt, she has done exceptionally well, reporting back to my third -story door (impressive, I know) once she has had her fair share of frolicking in the wild. Upon each return home seeming to hold a spunk and zeal for life that only affirms my belief that she is a rampant bully to the local lizards, a character flaw that surely needs to be addressed. Nonetheless, the accomplishment is one to be celebrated. I now know that Caroline can be content in this stage of life living the high-life in the city (literally, three stories up remember), with occasional outside rendezvous.
Caroline has demonstrated that she can be independent, obedient, and trusted and I am very pleased.
Now readers, I take you on a journey. A disappointing journey. A journey to the past. A journey to Friday, May 29th at 1:02 a.m. when Caroline obliterated every ounce of trust and confidence I had ever placed in her.
I was posted up on my couch, painting my toenails and watching Netflix, when it rather suddenly hit me that Caroline had been outside for a really long time. I begrudgingly arose, opened my door and called her name. After a few moments she responded, but did not seem to be nearing my presence. I became worried/intrigued/confused. I threw my shoes on and ventured outside and alas, I found Carol.
Carol was on a ledge.
A very high ledge.
A ledge that was three stories from the ground and three feet from my grasp.
A ledge that quite literally had no purpose in life other than to trick household cats into thinking that they were members of Crossfit.
Let me remind everyone that I am 5’4.75″ on a really good day. I am not an acrobat, nor a mountain climber. I am incredibly unathletic and have quite stubby limbs. I exercise and lift weights so that I can carry all of my groceries up three flights of stairs in one trip, not so that I can remove cats from murderous ledges.
After Lord knows how many minutes/hours/days of me stretching every muscle in my body (which mind you is not many) and managing to convince Caroline that I could indeed save her from Mount Everest, I achieved the impossible and retrieved my idiotic reckless, wanna-be-ninja-warrior-princess-child from the very high ledge. Upon arrival back into our home, I promptly grounded her for eternity and informed her that she would never feel a cool breeze on her cheeks or the rush of adrenaline from a good lizard chase ever, ever again.
Today I write to you with three morals to this story.
1. Cats cannot be trusted.
2. Cats are selfish, always seeking thrill and adventure over the safety and well-being of their sole companion and provider.
3. I really need to improve my stretching habits because I am pretty sure my reaching capabilities are similar to that of a 3 year old toddler attempting to gain access to a cookie jar that is completely and utterly out of their reach.
Cats, Politics, & Jesus 
