So I bought a house.
I mean, really, what could be more stressful than juggling a full-time job, taking two classes, raising a son, trying to maintain some momentum in poetry, and being part of a relationship? I decided that wasn’t enough, so I threw the house in for good measure. But clearly, the universe decided that still wasn’t enough, because the day after I settled on the house, the house ate my cat.
This is my boyfriend:
His name is Duncan. He’s fat. He’s cuddly. We’re best buddies. He has another girlfriend named Cocoa, who is cute, but not nearly as fat or cuddly.
On Saturday night, Donna and I left the new house and headed back to the condo for the night. On Sunday morning, we couldn’t find Duncan. But we did find that the access panel in the bathroom was dislodged – clearly the work of Smart Evil Kittehs.
Cocoa ambled out of the access panel after about an hour. Duncan, however, remained inside. For four days. During the course of those four days, he didn’t make a damn sound. Clearly, he was pissed about the move, and was hiding. But I was convinced that he either a) got stuck in a small space because of his fatness and couldn’t get out; b) fell inside a wall and died (seriously); or c) ate something terrible inside the wall and was dying. At various time over the four days, I lined up animal control, pest control, and someone to cut open my walls. I also visited Lowe’s for a flashlight, and came home with a crowbar, too – I was ready to open that shit up myself.
Last night, Duncan finally came out of the wall, and we sealed up the hole. But sheesh, people. Kittehs are good at making me worried.