It’s been years in coming. Years of cats peeing in basements and throwing up on my daughter’s toys.
That was upsetting, sure, but never enough to put me over the edge. Until now.
Until I was forced to pull up first carpet, then old tile, then a layer of decades-old stick-um for old tile and finally the wooden slats that make up the floor of my daughter’s closet.
A sane person would blame themselves for this predicament, for the late night desperation that put two average, relatively even-keeled adults through the floorboards. It was me, after all, who decided the fight with the cat wasn’t worth it and left him alone in the attic.
It was through the unfinished attic that the cat – once my favorite in the world – gained access to the space beneath the floorboards of our second floor, through the finished attic that my dear, sweet loving cat got himself stuck.
Or so we thought.
Because listening to your furry little friend yowling from underneath you doesn’t inspire a whole lot of deep thought so much as it spurs you to act.
Our little buddy was in pain.
And so we found ourselves near midnight tearing every item of clothing out of our daughter’s closet and throwing it cross the room onto the bed where our three- almost four-year-old should have been sleeping.
Armed with a crowbar and a hammer, we got to work.
And with each bang of the hammer, the yowling got louder.
With each layer pulled up, we got closer to the noise.
Until we were through.
And then it stopped.
Pulling our daughter’s monkey flashlight (note to self: hit Callicoon Supply and stock up on real flashlights with non-dead batteries) off that pile on the bed, I shined the light first this way and then that way, whispering sweet nothings all the while.
“George, come here kitty, kitty. Here Georgie, Georgie, Georgie.”
Until I heard a scrabbling in the attic.
I flew out of the closet, round the corner and threw open the door.
And there he was. Covered in dust and cobwebs. If he’d skittered across the room with some sort of embarrassment all might have been forgiven.
But he came at me purring up a storm.
“See lady, I’m just fine and dandy. I can take care of myself.”
So take my club card.
And if you’re in the mood, how about a cat . . . or four?
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