True Story

On Monday night, I took the trash out. The bins are right in front of my building, so all I did was toss on my slippers and a blue hoodie and schlep it out. I opened the door to my apartment and automically placed my keys on the hook beside the door which is their habitual resting place. I can always find my keys.

At that EXACT SAME TIME that I did this, Blue (my fluffy white cat) decided it would be fun to see what's outside. He slid out past me and started walking toward the front door of the building.

Now, the front door of the building was locked. And closed. But that didn't stop my one moment of blinding panic - my OMGMYCATMYCAT moment - so I ran after him to scoop him up and put him back in my apartment. What is the problem with that, you ask? MY KEYS WERE NEXT TO MY DOOR. INSIDE MY STUDIO APARTMENT. THAT I LIVE IN ALONE.

So, what did I do? I walked the six blocks to my friend's apartment who has a spare set of my keys. I walked there in my slippers carrying 17 pounds of angry cat. Blue meowed the entire way there and the entire way back. People kept looking at me like I was a horrible person for torturing my cat, and I kept telling Blue that all of this was HIS FAULT. I was so scared he would twist just right and get away from me and run into the street and get hit by a car and DIE.

But he didn't. And my friend accompanied me back to my apartment just in case I needed the cat back-up, which was good because it's hard to open a door when you're carying SEVENTEEN POUNDS OF ANGRY CAT.

And that was Monday.