No Rest for the Wicked

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Since our trip to Suburbia last weekend I have not had much of a chance to relax. The day after our return I started my work week, which is always extremely hectic and busy then Thursday after work my husband and I attended a Christmas party for our Lion’s Club and last night found us at another, more impromptu party at the local wine bar. We were invited to yet another party tonight…but I was craving some me time so I opted out.

My plan was to curl up with my Kindle and some New York blueberry wine but as I was getting ready to climb into bed with my wine and Kindle I realized that Hemingway, my cat, was AWOL. He had gone outside earlier in late afternoon and had not come home.

It was not a huge deal, our cats are pretty self sufficient but Twice now they have been bitten by something when they were out past dark…and it was nearly 9pm and no sign of him.

So I did what any overprotective mother would do and pull clothes on over my PJ’s and walked around a bit in the hopes of him coming home…and, to give me a distraction to keep from worrying too much I brought along my camera to try my hand at night time photography…which I quickly found out I completely suck at. But hey, when I finally trudged home in defeat Hemingway was standing by the door begging to come in.

Bastard.

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12 thoughts on “No Rest for the Wicked

  1. Dear Catskill–the transplant!
    Having been a cat lover for most of my adult life, I have, like you, gotten out of bed at times, pulled something warm on over my nightgown, taken a flashlight in hand, and gone out into the elements to search for a missing and beloved feline. The worse time was back in 1974 when Bartleby, a champagne-colored, long-haired love, went out into the night and a blizzard came pelting into Stillwater, Minnesota.

    I went outside, couldn’t find him, and worried myself into nausea. All the next day I walked in the snow and called and cried too. Then in late evening of that second night, one of the young men in an adjoining apartment knocked on my door and said that he thought one of my cats was underneath the front porch of the Victorian house in which we lived.

    Sure enough, there was Bartleby, shivering, his fur matted with burrs, ice between his paws. HIs eyes seemed dull with fright, but he cuddled close as soon as I was able to crawl under the porch and gather him in my arms.

    Your posting so recalled this incident that happened nearly 40 years ago. Thank you for the memory. And thank you also for stopping by my blog this week. Peace.

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