Meow. Hit. You.

My little Sophie, like many one-year-olds, loves animals. Imagine the thrill it would be for her, then, upon arriving at my parents' house to discover that not only does she get to spend time with Nannie and Opa, but she gets to enjoy the company of two cats to boot. And so, while we were home, Sophie enjoyed many afternoons of searching for the cats (Twinkie and Oreo), laughing at the cats, attempting to pet the cats, and talking about the cats.

On one particular afternoon, Sophie and I were alone in the house. She had just woken up from her nap with the request and demand, "Meow." Which, interpreted, means "let's find the cats." So we began our search and were soon pestering poor Twinkie who was enjoying one of her many naps in the afternoon sunlight. I must also add that of the two kitties, Twinkie is highly suspicious of children; she becomes skittish and agitated very quickly. Whenever possible, we would steer Sophie towards Oreo - ever the more tolerant and wise one. And so, I kept a close eye on Sophie and Twinkie - but apparently not close enough. In the moment that I turned my back (why must I always turn my back, will I never learn?) something happened which caused Sophie to startle Twinkie, who, in trademark feline fashion, hissed violently and batted at Sophie. My poor sweet, sensitive Sophie was even more startled and though she didn't cry, she whimpered as if she had been betrayed by her best friend. Her big blue eyes were pools of confusion, her brow was wrinkled in bewilderment, her voice wavered, and she said with great sadness and conviction, "Meow. Hit. You." (She hasn't quite mastered her pronouns yet. "You" in this case meant "me.") She repeated again, "Meow. Hit. You," and then added, "Nigh-night."

Sophie is not typically a screamer. When she is out of sorts, she asks to go to bed and she pouts. So I took her to the comforts of her bed, sat on a chair beside her per her instructions, "Mommy - SIT," and listened as she recounted her tale of woe over and over again. "Meow. Hit. You. Meow. Hit. You. Meow. Hit. You." It became her mantra - although instead of enterering into a peaceful, meditative state, she become more and more disturbed as she relived how the cat had lashed out at her.

Finally, I lured her out of her bed, with the promise that we would tell Nannie what that cat did. And so her story was repeated to Nannie. Again and again. If only you could hear the tremor of her voice and see her sad eyes.

A few weeks later, I was telling Matt the whole story, and Sophie chimed right in, "Meow. Hit. You," with the passionate addition of, "Don't. Do-dat, Meow. Don't. Do-dat, Meow."

How we love our girl, and how we love seeing how she makes sense of her world.