For my tenth birthday, I was invited to pick out a tree of my choice from the local nursery. Walking, sometimes running through the rows and rows of trees, small bushes and made up outdoor garden scenarios, I was giddy at the prospect. A tree could live longer than me. Be around after I am. At last, I was torn between a pine tree and... a ficus. The former offered a pleasing bed of pine needles that could pad my feet when they fell in the backyard. The latter was by far more practical as it could be enjoyed indoors and would never grow so immense that it could not be transported.

Being the '80s, ficus trees were just coming into fashion as the "it" plant for yuppies. When one of my friends gave me a luggage tag in neon blue plastic, I attached it to one of the plant's burgeoning branches and dubbed the ficus, Mr. Ficus. I was 10 after all.

Flash forward, 2000 and I'm heading off to graduate school in the Northeast. Mr. Ficus, glowing from the results of over a decade of sunshine, water, space and attention lavished on him, was now full of bright green leaves and some 3 feet taller. It was the perfect time to bring Mr. Ficus to brighten up my new apartment. Enter, my housemate and honorary college graduate of then two years, Dora, a 12 pound one and a half year old kitten. A feline bruiser! The plot thickens.

So year two of my graduate program passes successfully. I've passed my comprehensive examinations and I've just sat down to start writing my thesis. Out of the corner of my eye I notice a funny pale brown glint. It's a section of my ficus tree that, unbeknownst to me, seems to be suffering from some sort of ailment. No bugs on the tree. No overwatering as I first thought. Instead the pest was a much more formidable foe a cat armed with the notion that roots and potting soil make a perfect alternative litter box!

Learn more about this author, Sarah Wheeler.
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