World, I'm Henri.

So, adopting a one year old abandoned cat from your backyard is a little like inviting an angry, hyperactive toddler into your life, feeding them a bag of Pixie Stix, and then telling them they can't watch Bob the Builder. Ever again. Now, this isn't to say that her adoption hasn't been worth it. The weekend Erica was in town, we made our way up to Cedarburg to consume so, so much wine spend a quiet day shopping, and about halfway through I got a phone call. After Dave had taken this yet un-named stray to the vet, he'd brought her home, given her a flea bath, and set up residence for her in his office. We now had a foster kitten.  Still holding out hope that we'd find a gullible senior citizen that needed a new cat, I administered her twice daily medication and allowed her to butther head into me, claiming me as her own. Days passed, operations were performed, severely swollen reproductive tubes were removed from her body, and she became ours. And as one of us, she decided it was time to put aside cute and let fly full-blown bitch. There were evenings we were unable to walk through the room without getting hissed at and attacked. Oh, she put on a show for everyone, including the vet, and we were the only ones to see her evil, she-devil side. She'd sit at the bottom of the bed every morning and glare at us, alerting us to the fact that if we dare rise, we'd live to regret our decision.  One time, I stumped my toe, squealed, and she ran over and bit me as hard as she could on the back of the leg. You know what's worse than banging your toe on a chair? Banging your toe on a chair and being bitten by a rabid, psycho cat.

                                                                       
                                                                              See? Rabid psycho.

Our vet was skeptical, but he finally gave in, diagnosing her as bi-polar. (Two jokes here folks. For those of you that prefer a little down-home local, karmic flavor:  We've got Joe Palcynski reincarnated as a cat. And those that prefer a more timely celebrity angle:  Well, I guess we know where Britney's crazy went.) So, prescription number one helped the polarity, but it created a whole new set of issues, getting the pill into her mouth. And for those of you that say "Well I've given my cat pills. You just pop open their mouths and toss it in." You are all invited over tomorrow to give her a pill.  Bring napkins though because the frothing and foaming will need to be mopped up.

                                                              
                                                                    Medicine sucks and I will not take it.

So we pursued a different, supposedly better tasting pill, that really must not be better tasting at all. Want to know the secret to getting a horrible tasting powdered anti-depressant into a cat?  Mix it with large amounts of Little Caesar's cheese sauce and let them lick if off your finger. There will be nearly a half-dozen licks before they detect the subtle difference in taste from the non-medicated cheese. 

                                                              
                                                              Cheese, you say? No one mentioned cheese.

So that's Henri's story. As many times as we looked at eachother, cowering in fear, exclaiming "This just isn't going to work," it's now working, and she's one of us, and if we were to ever find another home for her at this point, she would just hunt us down again, force her way into the house, and make us pay for our lack of good judgement.

                                           
Humans two. Cats two. Now we make our move.                                                Really, we're partners in crime.

                                                    
                                           I shall hide here, swearing my allegiance unto the NFL's best team.

For those wondering, Anais and her started on rocky ground, but he came around a lot quicker than I would have predicted. She adores him like a chubby kid might adore pie. He spends a portion of his time hiding from her, because, frankly, her incessant need for attention grows tiresome, but other times he grows tolerant and permits her to share his space. More often than not, she takes advantage of it, and he does what I imagine is akin to eye-rolling for cats, and walks away, no doubt questioning our judgement as well. And occasionally, he gets confused and tries to eat her.

                                                            
                                                                          Mmm.... catabilism!

In other news, I've officially started my own freelance business, so go look.

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