My Old Partner in Crime

It’s been almost a year since my little partner in crime passed away.  Her name was Sarah, and she was usually the one behind any mischief going on at my house.

She had many nicknames:  Faticus Caticus, F. C. (image it being said in a frat boy voice), Demon Cat, Cheese Puff, Snuffleupagus, and Algae Butt (Trust me, you don’t want to ask why).


  • Knowing which cabinets have pots, pans, or china
  • Infiltrating these cabinets for the heck of it
  • Making everything orange (Hint:  She uses her fur.)
  • Getting her humans to pet her whether they want to or not
  • Highly educated (She is sitting on my Statistics book.)


  • Sudden movements/noises (There are some really funny stories with this.  I’ll have to remember to write about them some day.)
  • Vacuums and fans
  • Cat shampoo wipes
  • Socks.  They weigh her down.  Seriously, she would sink down to the ground with a sock on her back.  It was like she was crawling and struggling with the extra weight she was suddenly packing.
  • Plastic Fisher Price tables (Another funny story about her.)
  • Cat treats.  They just hit her in the head all the time.  (Actually, she puts her head in the way.)

Her Story:

In case you haven’t guessed from the pictures, Sarah is a little bit on the heavy-side weighing in at 17 pounds.  She didn’t use to be overweight.  I’ll never forget how my older brother and I first met our awkward looking kitten almost ten years ago.

He and I came home from school all excited because we were going to pick up our dachshund puppy Eve from the breeder.  Anyways, we came home and heard noises coming from our guest bathroom.  After walking down the hallway to investigate, we came across a sign taped to the bathroom door:  “Do NOT open until your dad or I get home.”

Being the well-behaved child I was, I started to open the door when my brother stopped me.

“Maybe there is a reason Mom and Dad wanted us to wait.  Maybe they locked a person inside.”

I gave my brother the you-idiot look, “You do realize the lock is on the other side of the door, right?”

You could see the lightbulb turn on over his head, “It must not be a person then!”  That’s my brother, a modern day Sherlock Holmes.

I opened the door and looked for what was causing the noises.  In the bathtub was the puniest orange tabby cat.  She had this big head and ears, but her body looked like it could barely support her skull.  Fortunately, she grew into her cranium.  Haha.

Anyways, my brother and I sat there petting our unnamed kitten while working in our surprise faces for when our parents came home.

“What do you think we should name her?” my brother asked.  We assumed she was a female because our mom didn’t like how male cats mark their territory.

“I like Cheese Puff or Cheeto.”  In my defense, I was ten, and she was an orange ball of fur.

“Those are stupid names.  What about Sarah?”

“Is it because she looks like the Sahara Desert?”  I could see how her darker stripes looked like sand dunes.

“Sure,” it was obviously not my brothers reasoning, but he never said why he thought of the name Sarah.

After we had Sarah for a month or two (enough to get her fixed), we noticed something odd.  She had, what looked like, extra skin hanging from her belly.  We took her to the vet to make sure everything was okay.

“Nothing to worry about.  It’s just a fat pouch,” he informed us as he felt her belly.  Turns out, fat pouches usually develop on cats who were malnourished before they get adopted.  The shelter my parents adopted her from was over-crowded.  Plus, she was so tiny that trying to get food along with the other cats couldn’t have been easy.

That wraps up the early years of Sarah.  She and I weren’t buds until my brother went to college.  She would have been about four years old.  

I really started warming up to her when I was sick as a dog.  I don’t remember what bug I had, but that’s not the important part.

I was asleep on the couch when I felt something hop onto my back.  I slowly looked, and it was Sarah.  She just made herself comfortable and started purring.  I felt like I had a heating pad on my back, so I let her be.  However, anytime my mom would try to check my fever, Sarah would do one of her barkish meows.  She was not going to let anything or anyone disturb me until I was done with my nap.  It’s weird how she can always tell when I’m ill or just upset.  

Sarah was almost as reliable as the two best men in my life:  Ben and Jerry.  That was, if she didn’t get to their ice cream first.  Haha.

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