Lost Things

So, since the writing is going horribly slow today, I thought I’d do that last load of laundry I’ve been putting off.

And then I can’t find my mesh lingerie bag, which I wash my bras in.

As I’m searching the apartment (really, it’s not that big–there aren’t that many places to look), I realize that I haven’t seen the cat for a while. I think he probably slipped into one of the closets when I was searching, and I probably closed the door without noticing him in there.

In the closets: no cat.

Under the bed: no cat.

Under the coffee table.: no cat.

In the bathtub (yes, this has happened): no cat.

I was starting to freak out a little bit. I mean, there’s not really any way for him to get out, but when I can’t find him, I worry. He’s managed to slip into a few weird places–the top drawer of our dresser, for example. I’m calling his name, interspersed with a few “Here, kitty kitty”s for good measure. Nada.

Then I nearly trip over an empty case of beer. It’s quite a bit too heavy, for an empty box.

There’s the cat. First place I should’ve looked, since we specifically leave a few empty cases out for him to play in.*

I still can’t wash my damn bras, but at least the cat didn’t fall out a window. There’s a bright side to everything.

*Hey, it’s cheaper than toys. He’s still young, and he needs to play a lot.

One thought on “Lost Things

  1. The last time I couldn’t find our cat, she was sleeping behind all the clothes in our bedroom closet. But she does like the big boxes we have stored upstairs, too.

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