9 Lives...and counting

While we were in Missouri (pictures coming soon!), our cats almost gave our pet-sitter, Julia, a heart attack because they escaped and ran away. I think the scene of the crime was the bathroom window between midnight and 7 am on Sunday. We sort of hosted a going away party (by proxy) for some dear friends while we were gone and the party organizers last saw the cats before they headed out late Saturday night. When Julia arrived early Sunday morning to take Mia for a walk, she found Alley on the front stoop, meowing to get in. Alley happens to be the one who always escapes, but also happens to be obese, so I'm not surprised her stomach brought her home. Julia called us in a panic because she couldn't find Dexter when she immediately raced inside to look for him. I told her not to worry, that he always hides when I'm not home, that he's really, really good at it, that he's never one to escape.

Well, fast forward 15 hours to when we finally make it home, and sure enough, he's gone. Lickity split gone. Ben and I go outside and call for him (as loud as we could at 1 am), to no avail. I put food out on the stoop and look up the number to the humane society to call in the morning, in case he got picked up. I make a mental checklist of what we need to do to create LOST CAT posters, but stop short of looking for a picture because that was just too sad. My heart always breaks when I see those posters in our neighborhood and I couldn't bare to think of the statistics of how many of those lost pets are actually found. So, using my favorite coping mechanism (denial), I told myself it would all be fine and we'd find him in the morning. I was getting ready for bed, accompanied by Alley, who likes to drink from the bathroom sink as I wash my face and brush my teeth, when I heard a distinct meow. I looked at Alley. She looked at me blankly (she never has been the brightest animal). Then I heard it again and it was definitely not coming from her, but rather, outside the bathroom window. HallelujaPraiseTheLord! Dexter was home! I rushed outside and he came running to me. I scooped him up in my arms and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

I plopped him on the bed next to Ben, who had long ago gone to sleep and told him the good news. Then I said, "The funny thing is that Alley is acting like she's never seen him before - she keeps growling and hissing at him." (I secretly wondered if I DID find a strange cat and brought it into my home thinking it was another cat. This wouldn't be the first time it's happened, right Bethany?!)

And Ben said, "Well, there you have it. Alley wanted to be an only cat. She probably pushed him out the window." Then he rolled over and went back to sleep, Dexter purring by his side.

Case closed. And we lived happily ever after.

Doesn't he look happy? Why do our cats keep insisting on escaping? This is a GREAT place to live!

PS: I'm sure a lot of you out there were secretly hoping you'd never see Dexter again. But trust me, he doesn't ALWAYS draw blood!