"Got her!" said Chris. "Alfred blocked ... under the crib. Put her in the big Tupperware ... holes in the top, don't worry. Anyway I'll ...OK, I'm driving tonight ... city ... straight through. Call me in the morn— ..."
About 20 hours later, I was reunited with my cat. Her wet fur stood out in jagged spikes—she'd upset the water bowl in her storage bin—and she gave me a sort of baleful, Queen Victoria look. Otherwise she seemed OK. I let her out of the bin and her head bobbed at the faint smell of wood smoke, the first whiff of autumn. She wandered outside and took a long, pensive piss; then, with a shudder, she trotted back and threw herself against my ankles. She wanted to go home, wherever that was.
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