The other night, while I was getting ready for bed, I heard some noises. They sounded like they were coming from the attic. My first thought was, "what sort of small critter is up there?". My second thought was, "where are the cats?".
Their curiosity is always peaked whenever Bill or I go up there. We call it Narnia, which I've blogged about before, here.
So there I am, wondering what could possibly be up there; even though I called out to Bill he had not moved from our bedroom. "Damsel in distress? I'll just keep reading my car magazine."
Before we were overrun with skunks, squirrels or worse, raccoons I took matters into my own hands and bravely looked around the bedroom corner toward the attic door. It was ajar. And there in the middle of the room, looking as guilty as a cat possibly can, stood Juliette. That meant Atticus was most definitely in the attic.
At that point I yelled out to Bill again, making it sound more urgent (because it was but I was not going up there; I did turn the light on for him). He finally came to my rescue and saved us all from certain danger, or what turned out to be just the cat in the attic.
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