I’ll be honest.
I love our cat.
Butterscotch.
Reginald.
Baby.
He answers to all three.
And I know I love him because I clean his litter box.
We have our little routines with him.
We expect certain behaviors from him,
he expects us to reciprocate.
For instance, every night within five minutes of climbing into bed,
Butterscotch hops up with us.
Sometimes he plops down contentedly.
Other times he likes to walk all over us,
pushing his feet rhythmically into our ribcages, until we feel like moving him.
When I’m finally settled, he typically comes up and lays on my belly.
It’s nice, this snuggle time of ours.
And typically, during the night, I sense him walking around a bit.
And around 5 or 6 am he likes to meander up to the head of the bed where he promptly sticks his nose in my face.
WAKE UP, MOM!
This morning, as I rolled out of bed, I instantly realized something was wrong.
There was not kitty at the food of our bed.
Odd.
I began calling him, searching in all of his usual hiding places.
Being the small camper that it is, I quickly exhausted his options.
Butterscotch was no where to be found,
and I was panicking.
“KEVIN! WAKE UP! I CAN’T FIND THE CAT!”
Groaning, Kevin crawled out of bed, trying to reassure him.
“What if he got out?” I said, as I remembered the door creeping open late last night before we went to bed.
“He’ll be fine. He knows this is his home; he wouldn’t go far,” Kevin calmly replied.
“But he’s never be outside!!” I shrieked.
I threw on my clothes and ran outside.
Calling his name left and right, keeping an eye out for a large mass of butter fur.
Nothing.
Then, from underneath our makeshift porch (which is probably 3 or 4 inches high), my baby appeared.
He walked inside like nothing had happened.
“Don’t you EVER do that to me again, you hear me!” I chided him.
Tears were welling up in my eyes.
“I’m the worst mom ever!”
“No, you’re not,” Kevin said. “He’s perfectly fine, he had an adventure. And I think he rather enjoyed himself.”
We both agreed it would appear even Butterscotch is ready to go home.
I guess Debbie was right.
I should have had tags made for him.
You know, in case he escaped at camp.
