My family is not huge on pets. My first pet was a beta fish named Rainbow, who was mercilessly killed by my best friend and her family while my family went on vacation when I was in sixth grade. By my undeniable mercy, she is still my best friend. In fact, I sit in her kitchen right now.
Fast forward to current day, and my family owns a dog. That's it. The only pet in the Pinkston residence. One count 'em puppy.
This is important knowledge to have stored in your cranium when you read what I heard come out of the mouths of my siblings earlier:
"There's a cat in the house!"
Crying from the family room, my frightened brother and sister scampered away, my brother displaying a face composed 50% of disgust and 50% of terror from the kitchen. It's times like these when we realize how many irrational fears may exist in our families, lurking under the tough eleven-year-old athlete facade. House cats. Terrifying, apparently.
We open the door so the cat could escape, and my unsuspecting, intellectually challenged dog waltzes right out of it without a care in the world. I walked into the room of the feline sighting, and sho nuff, there was a cat. Chilling in our house.
That is what I love about cats. It doesn't matter where they are. They walk around like they own the place. For all I know, they might. I wouldn't be surprised. I only love cats secretly, mind you. To own up to this would make me a hipster, which we all know I am not. Secretly, however, I am preparing myself for a lonely future where I name each of my pet cats after something I am lacking: Intimacy, Love, Affection, Warmth, Income, etc.
This particular cat had gotten a little too attached to our family on Easter, taking a liking especially to my cousin. However, I never thought it would come back, much less pop up in our home about a month later. Who knows how long it had been in there.
We shooed it away gently and the cat left our home. I'm inclined to say he left it a little better than he found it, and really, that's all I can ask.