that darn cat
No sign of Bebe this morning. We searched the house and looked glumly at the twelve-foot trellises around the terrace. We just had a catflap put in the French doors so that Bebe could visit her litter tray al fresco. It looked like our fat, middle-aged feline had scaled the trellises in search of adventure.
Cut to: Rachel and Jeremy knocking on doors all round the block, interrupting at least one boink, begging the neighbours to keep an eye out, but if they see her not to pick her up. “She bites.”
Cut to: Jeremy printing out “Lost cat” flyers, Rachel weeping piteously and going off to put Claire’s laundry away.
Bebe was curled up in Claire’s pants drawer.
I lay on the floor of Claire’s bedroom and laughed till I cried some more.
Now we have a stack of “Lost cat” flyers for the cat who is contentedly sleeping on my bed.
