Close Call

I had a minor heart attack the other day. As a lazy sloth-like creature, one of my least favorite chores is taking out the garbage. This is mainly due to the fact that it involves walking what I consider to be an extended distance - out the door in my kitchen, down the back stairway, out the back door across the yard, and through the gate to where the garbage cans are. It just seems like an incredible distance. As such, I've taken to throwing any non-food related trash into the hallway, where it piles up until I have too much food-related trash to ignore, and then it all goes out at once.

So my hallway had reached maximum capacity and I had to take the trash out. As I opened the door, Kristen, my fragile kitty-egg, the angel of my heart, my most precious possession, came out of nowhere and ran past me out the door. This would not have been that bad - the hallway leads up to an attic only I have access to and down to my back door, so she'd just wander around until she got hungry and then mosey back in, no worse for the wear - EXCEPT that my back door does not stay closed too well, and it had blown wide open since the last time I'd gone out.

Kristen skipped down the stairs, saw the open door and went right out.

My cat does not go outside. I'm afraid that she would not come back, which is probably irrational because she loves me, but also there are dogs and raccoons and diseases and sharp things she could step on and people who hate cats and like to punt or eat them...outside is a black hole of kitty danger and it is my job to guard the gate. I have failed.

Fortunately, since she never goes outside, as soon as she was through the door, she was so awed that she stopped dead in her tracks. She didn't even resist when I snatched her up and ran back up the stairs with her. So, I still have my cat, and she is safely back in my apartment.

Screw waiting for the landlord, that very night I went back outside and fixed the damn kitty-portal-of-hell door myself. All quiet on the western front.