Before my last name was changed and I became this person who lives in Alabama and works in an office, I was a competitive rifle shooter. It was something I started when I was 8 and was used to describe me every day after that. Shooting was the glue that held me together. It was also the bond between my dad, who was my coach, and I.  He sat beside me as a young BB gun shooter and taught me where the fun was in sports. It was fun to travel somewhere I’d never been and meet new young shooters and coaches. It was fun to sit on the line with my dad and laugh before the match started. It was fun to work harder and do better, it was fun to win, and it was fun to make my dad proud.

By the time I was 16 rifle was what I knew. I picked a University to attend based on the rifle program, because if I was going to go somewhere and compete, it was go big or go home. When I graduated high school the valedictorian called out achievements of our class, and Division I Rifle Team definitely sounded the most impressive to me.

Somewhere between then and now I lost the drive to continue competing at the level I had reached. 20 hours a week wasn’t just exhausting to me, it was draining me emotionally. It wasn’t fun to get down and pull the trigger anymore, seeing tens and center shots show up on the screen, it was just discouraging to see all the other shots. So when I graduated, got married and moved, I packed up my rifles in cases and put everything in a box. It was time to put it away. I’d been competing for more than half my life, and I had finally burnt out.

Ironically, I work for a company that sells guns and promotes youth rifle programs. Running the matches as work instead of competing became what I enjoyed. I learned the tricks of the computers and watched everyone else struggle on the line. Every once in awhile I’d miss competing, but the fear of putting myself back in that situation where I could feel so low, kept me from unpacking my bags. I couldn’t remember what it felt like to have fun on the line anymore, just what it felt like to be let down.

During this time my brother in law went to the 2012 Olympics. My company hired him and another shooter to compete full time and represent the company as brand ambassadors. They had landed a dream job, and were incredibly lucky for it. At one time I was confident that I could compete at any level, but after a few years of struggling and getting beat down, but more importantly beating myself down in my head, I didn’t think I could ever do it again.

Yet somehow here I am. In a place I’ve never been, dragging behind me a bag of heavy equipment and a rifle case. I’m not sure how I ended up here again, setting up the many familiar screws to assemble a butt hook and wearing layers of spandex and canvas. But maybe this second time around can begin like the first time did, with a little fun and some laughs.

While J was living with GaterBait in Alabama I was living with Wally Cat in Kentucky. Wally deserves a post as well.

If there was an opposite to GB, it was Wally. Wally was a transplanted Nebraska cat driven to Lexington to live with me. He was the sweetest cat I’ve ever known. He always wanted to sit on your lap, lay with you, cuddle on you, follow you around, etc.  I’m sure I didn’t help the situation by carrying him anytime I was at home when he was a kitten, but he learned to be smothered, and liked it. Wally would sleep under my arms at night like he was the little spoon. In fact he hardly ever cried unless he was locked out of the room where people were.

When Wallys mom got married and moved to Alabama he moved too, and quickly tried to bond with his step-sister (or maybe brother?) GaterBait. Although Wally would also follow her around and try to make friends, GB never gave in.

For 4 months I was unemployed with Wally. I am completely guilty of treating Wally like a child during that time (as if I didn’t before). He was my companion during the day while J went to work, and the only friend I had in the state.

Unfortunately GB was a bad influence and taught Wally of the wonderful outdoors, where Wally liked laying in the sun. He also caught a huge woodrat one day, so even though he was spoiled, he was a pretty accomplished hunter too.

September 2011 Wally was hit on the road. I was devastated. I was heartbroken and alone. Although J allowed me to keep the cats inside, he didn’t care for either of them. So even though I knew he was sad for me, he wasn’t sad for Wally. We buried him in the backyard and my grandma sent flowers.

I only had Wally for about a year, and I know I sound like a crazy cat person talking about my cat like he was a child, but he was my first pet. He was all mine, and only mine. I cared for him all by myself in KY, when he got neuter, when he cut his paw on broken glass, and even in AL when GB would chase him around the house. My camera from November 2010 to August 2011 is nothing but black and white kitty pictures. I took a picture of him before I left the house the day he died. I feel like I failed him as a mommy-cat by letting him go outside where I knew it was dangerous.

The next cats became prisoner cats, who have never been outside. They don’t even know what grass is. In fact opening the door scares them and they turn and run. That’s exactly how it should be.

Because this blog is in fact named after our dearest kitty GaterBait, there should be a kitty post every once in awhile. In fairness to the hierarchy of kitties, I should first tell you about GaterBait.

The story of GB goes back even before she was found, when J was a kid living in Florida. He had a few (probably questionable) friends, who invited him gator hunting. To start the trip they went to Walmart where they found an abandoned kitten hanging around the dumpster. The kitten, a baseball bat, and .22 pistol went out into the airboat with (a probably scared) J. In order to get a gator you must first lure them to your boat, which is where the kitten comes in. They tied a piece of string around it and threw it out into the water. The kitten starts to cry and wail and flail around in the water, attracting the alligators. Then you pull the kitten back towards the boat, and “git yer gator!”. This traumatic, but memorable experience is something J only did once.

When GaterBait was found in the attic, J said she was good for nothing but “gater bait” and it stuck. Poor thing turned out to be a girl (we think, although never truly confirmed) and had to suffer through living in a bachelor pad. Regardless, she adored J. He saved her and fed her through an eye dropper, bonding them for life.

This bond did not include me. At all. GB would hide around corners and latch onto my legs trying to kill me, or possible gnaw my leg off, she hated me so much. Even though I tried to hug her, and squeeze her and carry her around. We never really saw eye to eye.

But I still did enjoy some good GB time. She was a funny cat to live with. First of all she liked water. On hot Alabama days she’d sit on the pool steps up to her neck to cool off and then come in the house looking like a wet lion. She was a normally fluffy cat, except that J shaved her to a short hair. Which was probably good since it is hot down here and she liked to be outside. She liked to be outside so much she broke through the locked plastic kitty door and we had to buy another one. I didn’t know a small cat could be so strong.

GB also enjoy laying on her back in a strange twisted position throwing her legs in one direction and her front paws in the other. She liked chewing on J’s toothbrush, staring into space for an abnormal amount of time, pooping in the bathtub (or sink if that was her only option) and sitting in the big red pickup (although being an actual passenger is questionable as she threw up in her cage once traveling to KY, or maybe she did it cause she hates me and knew where she was headed.)

She did not like being held, people besides J, chasing laser pointers (I think she figured them out and wouldn’t amuse me anymore) or other cats. She also did not like pickled eggs, which we know because J used to feed her strange things, and although she gobbled it down, she puked it back up shortly after.

And then one day in the spring of 2012 GaterMcBaitus disappeared. She did not die… that we know of. And I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if she randomly breaks back through the locked kitty door. I’m not in denial that our cat is still alive, it’s most likely she got hurt, or hit by a car and died. But GB was also smart, and she could have just found someone she liked to torture better than us.

It is absolutely gorgeous outside. Alabama is not my place, but I do love how quickly spring comes and how mild winter is. I think winter feels colder inside our house than it actually is outside. The weather makes me want to leave work early and go do something fun. My desk faces away from the window, so I can tell it’s sunny outside, but I can’t see how nice it looks. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or bad thing. Maybe it’s good so I don’t get super discouraged about being stuck at a desk while it’s so summery out, or maybe it’s bad that I can’t enjoy seeing the sunny day.

Days like this would be a great time to take out my motorcycle and actually learn how to ride. Even though I have a license (something that J doesn’t have…) I’m not comfortable enough to ride on my own. I know I just need more practice, and now I have a shiny blue bike sitting outside the house calling to me. Maybe if we ever had a free weekend when we weren’t working I’d be able to get in some riding time.

And eventually you start writing something without even thinking about it. Something great and wonderful that really reflects how you’re feeling.

So that’s what I do here, I write for my own sake. Even if it’s terrible and random and makes no sense to anyone but me. Because the more I do it, the more therapeutic it is.

But sometimes it’s total shit.