The downstairs people have come looking for their newspaper. Again. Earlier in the week, I could honestly say I didn’t know where it was; but this morning, I’ve been forced to lie.
“No, sorry. I can’t imagine what’s happened to it.”
Except I can imagine what’s happened to it. As a matter of fact, I know what’s happened to it.
It’s that damn cat again.
Ever since the scuffle over the catnip the other day, wherein Liza Bean and Dolly Gee came to blows over who got the last of it, things have been oddly quiet.
Then yesterday, while digging through Liza Bean’s yoga bag, I found a note: emploi de recherché.
That little S.O.B.!! You know, it’s not the fact that she is looking for a job – I mean, there’s no call to scribble in “shrimp cocktail” on the grocery list every week unless you’re going to help pay for it! – it’s the fact she’s attempting to keep it a secret by writing the reminder to herself in French!
Of course, now I see it. Now, the signs are everywhere. It's not just the rolled-up want ad section on the floor of the bathroom this morning. It's the incessant grooming, the new boots, the way she runs to the door when the mailman comes. She hasn’t shown this much sparkly-eyed enthusiasm since I found that fish in my coat pocket.
She claims to not know anything about that, by the way. I’m pretty sure it was her, though. Dolly is more of a I-Left-a-Hairball-in-Your-Shoes kind of cat, while Liza Bean Bitey is more subtle, preferring to hide in the shadows while watching the bewildered expression on your face as you pull, say, a fish from your pocket…
Ah, well, if it will keep her busy and help pay for that trip to the Mayan Riviera she’s been yowling about, I’m all for it.
Wait’ll the gang on the bus gets a load of Miss Bitey.
Terms of Endearment
34 minutes ago