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.
If you don't feel that you are possibly on the edge of humiliating yourself, of losing control of the whole thing, then possibly what you are doing isn't very vital. If you don't feel like you are writing somewhat over your head, why do it? If you don't have some doubt of your authority to tell this story, then you are not trying to tell enough. --John Irving