Last weekend I was cat-sitting in an adorable cosy home in Portland. I brought a few baking ingredients with me because my pals have a great kitchen and, as much as I love store ready brownies, I like eating the batter out of the bowl more.
I carefully put the key in an obvious place so that I would not forget where I put it. I made banana bread brownies with chocolate chips – bloody lush in case you’re wondering. The cats and I watched a couple of episodes of Gotham (we are all heartily impressed by McKenzie’s transition from OC heart-throb to growling, slightly maniacal, ex cop Jim Gordon, and frankly think he is a good match for the gloriously warped Barbara Keene, instead of ethical, sweetheart Leigh ….. the cats are very advanced at communicating their opinions). Then I slept happily to a twee background of cats playing spiritedly.
The fekking sneaky cats stole the key and hid it!
I spent a good 6 hours searching every inch of the floor boards, under rugs, behind shelves, beneath dishwashers, fridges, washing machines, and sifting the kitty litter. No key.
After a week of rain the sun was shining brightly on the golden trees outside. The forested path invited me to go for a long walk, the corner pub screamed my name at around 8pm, but I stayed put. Me and the sniggering cats were trapped in the house. We baked more brownies, and chocolate chip cookies, and another banana/chocolate chip creation; ate way too much raw batter, washed it all down with beer (me, not the cats, those two can just bugger off if they think I’m sharing my brownie batter and beer with them after this!); played ukulele; watched and listened aghast to the tape of Trump and Billy Bush (thanks to which I am stuck with the lasting image of Trump sucking on a tic tac before puckering up); and watched many, many hours of Netflix. I feel at this point the cats regretted their thieving ways, we agree on Gotham, but curiously they do not share my fervent addiction to Supernatural and did not appreciate seven back to back episodes of the brothers Winchester. Philistine felines.
I did point out to them that we could end all of this if they would just return the sodding key, but to no avail. I kept hoping for one of them to break, and reveal the hiding spot with an insouciant flick of its tail and a sarcastic, “Ta daaah!” It was not to be, we were awash with insouciant tail flicks, but not a single Ta daaah! moment.
To be fair, none of this was a hardship. There have been plentiful weekends in my life where I’ve chosen to do all of this as a treat for myself, minus sifting through kitty litter.