I lost the cat. I can’t find the cat. Did i really lose her if she was never here? She should be here. Where is she? This was the job. Look after the cat. But no cat. The posibilities are racing through my mind. Cats get in suitcases, suitcases that are left for packing, packing which Dana just did to leave for the UK, leave on a plane that is. A plane with a hold. Suitcase in the hold. Cat in the hold. Cat can’t breathe. Suitcase doesn’t need to breathe but cat defo can’t breathe. Lori, Lori can help. She’s American, maybe the cat will come back for her. Fuck, what if my texts cost her because roaming. Does she use Whatsapp? No. Fuck. Maybe I call Dana, who is currently flying across the Atlantic. For fucks sake. I can’t call Iain, it’s 2am in Britain. That’s all my options spent, unless the cat has a phone, which I assume she doesn’t. I’m fucked, if I can’t find this cat i’m fucked so bad I should just jump out of these big gorgeous windows.
I found the cat hidden behind a shoe-rack at the base of a cupboard. I went through every conceivable place my brain figured a cat could climb, apologising the whole way as I did the unforgivable and snooped with the sole purpose of finding the cat. I was on all fours, head planted to the ground, looking sideways under the rack and she reached out and scratched my head. Thank the fucking lord. I sat back on the sofa, sweat dripping from my bloody brow calming myself with the bird noises Dana had left playing to calm the cat. I think the cat’s French. “You couldn’t even find me, you fucking English Pig”. Oo la la, what a night.