When I lived in Saint Louis, I was alone with three cats in an apartment building erected in 1929. (Yes, I giggled at that word too.) I slept on my futon without pulling it into a bed. I didn’t even have pillows.
I worked second shift so I got off at 11 p.m., went home, or went drinking and went home, or went drinking, found a boy and EVENTUALLY went home, slept until 2 p.m. and went back work at 3.
Once a day my phone would ring. Now this is back in 2001. I was cheap and single and had dial-up. So it was my HOME PHONE with NO CALLER ID and often NOT at my designated periods of wakefulness of 2-3 p.m. and 2-3 a.m..
The calls were rarely HEY COME OUT WITH US YOU ARE SO AWESOME. But I was hopeful. And hungover. And too stupid to unplug my phone.
Instead I gave a weak: hello?
The EVERY SINGLE TIME my apartment manager replied: Is your cat in the stairwell?
Me: NO. Which one?
Apartment manager: Two of them.
Me: NO! They are ALL right here with me.
And then I would spend thirty minutes trying to find my three cats in four-hundred square foot studio apartment.
When enough time had passed (or the phone rang AGAIN), I would peek out my front door. If the hallway was clear, I would tiptoe like a ballerina on speed to the stairwell.
Two cats would look up at me. And the third one would be around the corner.
Me: Sorry guys.
And I’d tiptoe them home.
Thanks to Where Hot Comes To Die for reminding me of the awesomeness that is this story. Or at least reminding me that I was probably in someone’s blog as they listened to my cats meow down the hallway AGAIN.