**Editor’s Note: The cat has been found, alive.**

By Mandi Donohue

Across the interwebs, you’ll find a great deal of prophecies warning couples to schedule as many date nights as possible during your second trimester. “It’s the last time you’ll ever have the chance to again! Babysitters are a myth! It’s the end of the world!”

While I know my honey and I will have our “toukases”  handed to us once we move and our priorities, sleep and lifestyle will be wildly different, we choose to remain cautiously hopeful that life will, in fact, go on. And despite this foolhardy courage? We still gotta eat.

After a stressful few weeks (moving is an exhausting process), it was a treat to head over to the Freestone Inn where previous co-worker and friend, Amy Days, bartends. She told me earlier that there was a new chef in town and that we would love the new menu.  With a bit left on a gift certificate and last-minute reservations, we made our way.

Despite a huge rehearsal dinner happening (we were warned), the meal came out hot and on time. Lliam had a yummy burger that was sky-high with “tobacco onions.” I had the “Mountain Fried Chicken” that was more like a “chicken fried chicken” than fried chicken. Pounded thin until flattened, boneless like chicken marsala, it was crispy and covered in a delicious gravy.

For sides, Lliam got the pesto pasta and I enjoyed the smoked cheddar mashed potatoes.  They had lumps! (I was grateful. When mashers are whipped to baby food perfection, they remind me of, well
baby food). We finished the night off with a Ghirardelli brownie sundae, which was perfect. We left happy and stuffed to the gills.

If you get the chance, be sure to stop in. Dinner is definitely pricier but a smaller happy hour menu is always served from 3-5 p.m. Thursday though Sunday and 3-8 p.m. on Wednesdays.

Photo by Mandi Donohue
News bulletin: Sophie, left, who disappeared from the Donohue household last weekend, leaving Thomas alone without his best buddy, was found alive late Tuesday.

Aside from a good night out on the town, there is also a bit of sadness to report from Lost River. Saturday night, our little baby girl cat, Sophie, never came home. When this happens, living where we do, there is a tacit understanding among locals, that your beloved fur baby is not coming home. We rescued Thomas and Sophie, brother and sister, over a year ago and they are bosom buddies. There is never a time where they are not snuggled up together, their paws intertwined like a braid.  

To be without our little Sophatilla is utterly heartbreaking.  Thomas meows at the door. I know, I know, I know — it’s the way of the woods, the natural order. We let our pets outside so they can live fully and be adventurous — for the opportunity to live a more exciting life than what we can give them in 742 square feet. But more often than not, living in the woods (whether or not you’re good about bringing them in at night), it ends up being a shorter existence as well.

Foolishly, I am not ready to give up hope yet. So, please keep our Tilla Beans (not to mention the rest of us) in your prayers. She’s a scrapper (and the street smarts of the two) so keep an eye out, Lost River. Thomas is our “moo cat,” a white cat with a black tail, three black cow spots and a spot by his right ear. Sophie is all white with a black tail and one black legging. She has a small black kiss by her right ear. All good vibes, prayers, sanskrit mantras are appreciated. Sniff, sniff. We are so sad.