Kitty prison

Yesterday, while the gentleman was replacing the front window, I shut the cats in the bathroom to avoid stray cats roaming the highway. I’m sure that, like me, you were expecting loud name calling, fisticuffs and general mayhem with the two cats shut together in such a small space. And that is what happened: for the first 14 seconds. Then, the two cats entered competition mode. Which fuzzy feline could escape the evil vortex of the closed door first?

They were both standing at my feet before I could analyze the grammatical correctness of the previous sentence.

So, I stooped to that age old trick of tying the door knob to something. This is the same ploy used by my sisters when I was little. I never got out, there is no way those little balls of fur are getting out. If it held me, it sure will hold those little hairy little bastards… what the hell is Max doing out here?

Well, I’ll be hornswaggled!

No more mister nice guy. I tied that door knob to the chimney and the pantry and the wood stove and anything else that could be tied to. This time it is fool proof. There is no chance that those two cats were finding freedom. (There is also no way I was getting into the living room, but that is a small sacrifice.)

I admit I should have known better than loaning a Tom Dad’s old slide rule. And carting the chop saw up for their use was over the top. But I was certain; I had no question in my mind. I was the victor: Tom and Max were the losers. As I was double knotting the final piece of cord, I glanced down.

Tom shocked me when he looked up with those big, innocent eyes and said, “Got milk?”

I submit. They are smarter than I am. I shut myself in the bathroom.