"Where's the cat?" She asked, setting down her bag.
I pretended I hadn't heard her; she wouldn't like the answer.
"Honey, did you hear me?" she pressed, standing over me as I fiddled around on my laptop.
She'd had the cat for fourteen years, and the truth would break her; I didn't see him when I came in, and my work boots are so heavy.
A careless shrug told my lie for me.
"Weird. He usually meets me at the door."
The shovel was cleaned and stored in the basement; I hoped I'd be able to weather this particular storm.
shaun about 3 years ago
This could make an interesting, macabre fairy tale. Puss Under Boots.