It’s 12:30 and I’m sitting here in the silence of my sleeping house, listening for the slightest sound that may tell me where my cats are.
I picked them up from the vet this morning. They were fixed yesterday, so I’ve been urging everybody to leave them alone and give them quiet time. Now I can’t find them, and it’s been hours since anybody saw them and I want to check their sutures…
I’ve totally tossed every room in the house. I looked in the secretest secret sleeping spot behind the wicker rocker in my bedroom. I’ve checked both of the boys’ rooms twice, and the tall kid’s a light sleeper and a wee bit ticked off at me. I ripped apart my den and checked in the very dark recesses of under-the-futon. I tossed the train room thoroughly—twice—because the short kid’s not allowed in there, so they occasionally take refuge there. I’ve done all the things that make them come and visit me. I even have my fleecy blanket out, because they both knit so enthusiastically in it that they’ll steal it away and we have to have a tug-of-war.
And I know that if I lay…or lie…down on this couch and close my eyes, they’ll come out, but I can’t bring myself to do it. So I’m listening for them…
This is just one more reason I’ve always wanted a King Shepherd. Pretty freakin’ hard to hide one of them.
Update: 2:00—I’m so tired, but I’m worried about my lil wounded pets.
6:25—Oh look, there’s my cats. Sitting in the middle of the floor staring at me. So far they’re refusing to tell me where they were.