If you know me at all, you know I have a cat named Sprocket. He's energetic, a little crazy, and spoiled rotten. He has been known to jump six feet in the air, and on two occasions has successfully opened the door of his room. Nothing stands between him and the cords he wants to chew. Except a loaded water gun, which unfortunately I am forced to use on occasion.

We first met on April 12, 2002. He was smaller then, but not a kitten. He still possessed his kitten energy, but had no tolerance for much affection. I remember following him around my apartment as he investigated every corner and closet, and I wondered if he'd ever feel comfortable in his new surroundings. I gave him his own room (what had previously served as my office), bought him a new litter box, and gave him toys.

Time passed. The furniture in the office was moved to another room to prevent him from chewing it. I had to take all of my houseplants to work so he wouldn't eat them. The entertainment center had to be blockaded so he couldn't get behind it and chew the cords. All breakables had to be moved out of reach of the rambunctious kitty (he still managed to break my blue ceramic soapdish shaped like an old-fashioned bathtub-- a Target purchase.) I yelled at him, I screamed at him, but I learned to deal with it. And he learned to deal with me.

He would sit across the room and stare at me, but was oblivious to my repeated calls to come and sit in my lap. If I rubbed him and wasn't careful to watch where his teeth were, he'd bite me. Then every once in a while he'd sit with me and purr. Not enough for it to be a habit, though. I brought home a boyfriend. At first Sprocket seemed to like him-- he even curled up in said boyfriend's lap once. But the biting began soon after. Turns out Sprocket was a better judge of character than I. The boyfriend is long gone, but the kitty reigns victorious.

At one point, I thought he would never calm down. The first time I took him to the vet, the doctor recommended Prozac (in all seriousness). It took two vet techs to hold him down and give him his shots. He was not a happy camper. Loud noises would propel him into nervous fits of zooming through the house and running into things. Once I started designing flyers that advertised "Free Cat to Loving Home."

It's been almost two years, and Sprocket is grown up now. He is large and fat, too fat to jump six feet in the air. Everytime I sit down on the couch, he's right there. When I curl up to read a book, he's my lap warmer. When I pull into my parking place at my apartment, he jumps up in the window and greets me-- he knows the sound of my car. He loves Friskies Ocean Fish cat food and thinks every can in the world has tuna inside of it. He kills spiders and crickets for me and cleans out my dishes after I finish eating (he's particularly fond of oatmeal). He has successfully hidden all but two of my writing pens.

Some of my friends dislike him, but no one knows him like I do. When it's just me and him, when it's late at night and I'm engrossed in a book, he's the best kind of companion a girl could ask for. Snuggled up beside him, I'll pause as I turn the page, rub his head, look into his big golden eyes, and tell him that I love him. And I know that he will never break my heart.