When the wife and I trudged groggy-eyed into our house last evening, we were curiously greeted by only one of our two cats. Mona, the skittish, neurotic one was there looking nervously at us, but missing was Ben Franklin, the lustful, oversized raccoon-beast who sniffs my jello. However, from somewhere deep in the recesses of our house, an earnest muffled yowling could be heard.
Like a dart, my wife shot through the kitchen and up the stairs. In an instant, she located Franklin trapped inside our bedroom closet. Some errant husband had foolishly closed the closet door that morning before searching its deepest, darkest corners for a black cat looking to gnaw on hanging shirtsleeves. What a fool that husband must be…
Once freed, Franklin expressed little interest in physical affection or tearful apologies. Mostly he just demanded to be fed and then went back to sleep.
Cats: Is there any sentimental moment they can’t ruin with their stoic dispassion?