Twelve years of Sunshine

A sweater drying rack sits next to the end of the couch, though it scarcely sees a sweater, and never on the topmost tier.

If you were to visit our house, even in the steamiest most miserable days of Alabama summer, you would likely find the garage door cracked open five or six inches.

The bottom shelf of the bathroom closet contains two small stacks of towels which we've not used for a decade.

And at the foot of our bed stands a five-foot-tall contraption of carpeted platforms, tunnels, and scratching posts, marketed as a "Kitty Condo."

These are signs of Sunshine.  

Sunshine came to us a scared and scrawny mess.  Her tail was bloody, the fur having been sheared off by some accident I supposed, or worse, an act of cruelty.

That first night, I patched it up with some paper towels and Scotch tape; and put a cardboard box with a towel inside on the back patio so she might have a place to sleep.  I hope she doesn't remember those times.

I recall looking out one of those early days and realizing she must have gone over the fence.  Even though pets were not allowed in the apartment, I hoped she would return.  She did.

After a couple of tepid attempts to find her a home, it turns out she had already found one.

Next came a trip to the vet.  She had ear mites, was terribly constipated (originally diagnosed as pregnant), and would need surgery to amputate her tail.  They kept her for a week.

We talked about her lots in those seven days, hoping she would be ok, wondering how we would manage to hide a kitten from a landlord who unlocked the apartment once a month to let in pest control.

The vet said they tried to give her a bowl of food, but Sunshine turned it over to use as a pillow.  She still likes to have some sort of pillow, be it a stuffed animal, folded towel, or one of her people's hands.

Back home, she had to wear a collar of shame for ten days to keep her from picking at her stitches.  She was not a fan, and let us know frequently and vociferously.

Originally, I kept her in the bathroom at night and when we were at work.  I hate thinking about that now, but she never seemed all that affected by it.  She simply cried at the top of her lungs as soon as I came through the door to remind me she was upstairs.

The house was for her.  It may seem a ridiculous thing to say, even more so to do, but it is the God's honest truth.

Nowadays, she meets us at the door every single time we come home.  She has a large fenced-in backyard.  And at night -- every night -- she sleeps on (what used to be) her mommy's pillow.  Mrs. Bone sleeps scooted down a bit in the bed to make room.

No longer scrawny, she is shiny and healthy.  To show her gratitude she has brought into the house, in no particular order: numerous chipmunks, a frog, a snake, and multiple birds, all very much alive.

Not long after I started working thirds at the 911 Center, Mrs. B went out of town for a weekend, leaving Sunshine to spend her first night alone.  We have security cameras inside the house, kitty cams we call them, bought for the specific purpose of checking on her when we're gone.

That night I left her sitting on the back of the love seat looking out the front window.  And there she sat, the entire night, nine solid hours, watching and waiting for me.

She loves her people, and we very much love her. 

One of my favorite photos of Sunshine is from when we were getting Luke's room ready in the weeks before he was born.  She is lying contentedly in the otherwise empty baby bed.  I'm almost certain she thought we had bought the bed and were furnishing an entire room just for her.  

The kids came along and Sunshine has gradually adjusted.  She no longer scampers out of the room if one of them walks in.  She lets them pick her up, pet and brush her, and she has never once clawed either child.  

Last week marked twelve years since Sunshine came into our lives.  The vet said she was between six and nine months old when she found us, but we don't really count that time.

She still hunts.  This past Saturday, she royally pranced through the kitchen with a live chipmunk in her mouth.  Still meets us at the door.  Still sleeps on her mommy's pillow at night, naps on her shelf in the bathroom, and on the sweater rack in the living room next to a pillow that reads, "Reserved for the Cat."

Many a night after we get the kids to bed, she will hop onto my lap in the recliner, almost inevitably putting me to sleep.

It's hard to remember what we did before her.  But I am certain we were a little less happy.

And no matter how many days I come home to that gray, white, and gold calico sitting in the doorway or looking out the front window, they will always be too few.