Me: “Hello, K, I’ve lost Pattie’s cat.”
K: “What? You ate Pattie’s fat?”
Me: “No, I lost her cat. I’ve been all over her apartment and I can’t find the damned cat.”
K: “You’re cat sitting?”
Me: “Yeah. Cats don’t get stuck behind things, do they?”
K: “No. They only go into places they can get out of, like closets and under beds. You may want to look there.”
Me: “Hmmmm…okay. I’m just worried that I’m going to find the gruesome remains of this cat stuck head-first behind a dresser or something. She came out to play the last time I was here, she even let me pet her, and now she’s gone!”
K: “That cat is anti-social, if I recall. You may want to shake the cat food or call for her. You didn’t lose the cat.”
Me: “Yeah, I’ve tried all that. I’m telling you, this cat is gone…and she’s not a small cat, either. I’m a horrible, horrible cat sitter…oh wait.”
K: “What?”
Me: “She came out while we were talking. She just wanted to hear me berate my cat sitting abilities. She’s sitting in the next room, listening.”
K: “See, told you the cat wasn’t dead.”
Me: “Okay, but if I kill one cat, I’ll never be asked to cat sit again. I can’t be too careful. Thanks for getting me through the moment.”
K: “Your cat anxiety is justified. I’m glad I was here to help.”
