I got home around just before midnight to find the cats hidden. They were tucked in their kitty rooms, unwilling to come out even for eats. I brought their bowls of tuna to them so they wouldn’t starve. Then I went back to the kitchen, tossed the cans in the metal recycling bin, and flashed the nine-inch kitchen knife I had casually picked up during my first trip. I picked up my cell from the counter, ready to speed-dial 911. I was two-fisted danger and ready to rock-and-roll. There was only one reason the cats would refuse to come out for their nightly stroll: an intruder. Didn’t necessarily have to be someone inside the house; the cats were known to hide when my neighbor in New York came for the mail I’d picked up or because she’d left her keys in the apartment. I first gave the house a quick once-over before turning to the backyard. As I went to the door to check, the front bell rang. I went over, flipped on the outside light, and cracked the door slightly. The chain was latched; for New Yorkers, that was as natural an act as flipping a red-light runner the finger.
What do You think about One Foot In The Gravy (2011)?
