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.