After work today, I was unpacking my bookbag while Pete and Drusy looked on. Slowly, he said, “Which of the little black cats is that?”
“It’s Drusy,” I said, annoyed that he didn’t recognize the tiny cat that often sleeps on his chest. “Of course.”
He scratched her neck.
“Where,” he asked her, “is your little necklace?” Panicked, I searched the house and didn’t find it. Did she decide to change her jewelry when it clashed with her summer fur? Did she get caught on something and the collar snapped open? Did she and her sister tussle over whose Justin Bieber posters would decorate the door? Did Drusy and Alexis Carrington ruin their designer outfits after a fight that ended in a pool? We don’t know and the cats aren’t telling.