Cats in the Attic

I don’t know if that’s akin to “Bats in the Belfry” but it seems about right. This morning, while I was busy trying to get ready for our trip to Iowa to see my family for Thanksgiving, my cat Huckleberry came down the hall crying at the top of his lungs. His paws were black and dirty, so I knew exactly what the problem was; he’d been in the attic. And if he (the modern-day cowardly lion) had been up there, so were the girl cats. So I went to the other room, and sure enough, the attic door was standing open. Huckleberry led me into the attic, crying the whole way, and as soon as I got up there, he turned tail and ran back downstairs. Turns out that Drusilla was stuck behind a wall, also crying. I managed to get her out, falling and getting dirty in the process. Annabelle was downstairs playing innocent, but I’m not fooled. She was probably the one who opened the door in the first place. Thanks, kids!! I needed that.
So, Spike is going to the Good Dog Hotel, and Stephanie and I are going to Iowa. We’ll be back Saturday.
Remind me to tell you the story about the falling squirrel when I get back. It was pretty funny.

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