There are many unexpected moments in life for the not-quite-caffeinated. I'm about to tell you all a tale I probably will regret sharing. But never let it be said that I don't give my all for the sake of this humor blog.
It started with my two young cats, Harry and Alice, who have this morbid fascination with my spidery, cluttered, musty, dusty basement.
It is a hotbed of excitement for them down there, where multi-legged waterbugs and arachnids duke it out for total house domination...
Where clothes are stored that are so out-of-style they're right on the cusp of a comeback...
And where paints and tiny eye-screws are just waiting for some curious paws to rattle them around and potentially ingest them, meriting a nice emergency trip to Mr. Vet.
I do not let my cats go down there. So naturally, this is the place they want to be the mostest in the entire world.
True to the cat dominance found in most human-feline relationships, I've found the only time I'm able to successfully slip down there without fending off unwanted furry accompaniment is when they're engaged in their second favorite activity: stuffing themselves with catfood like they were ravenous tigers at an all-you-can-eat gazelle bar.
I tell you all this because I had done a load of laundry and thought this morning's kibblefest would be the perfect time to duck into the basement to pick it up. It happened to be a load of underwear.
But when I came upstairs, the cats had decided to ignore their previous gorgetime protocol and wait at the door for an opportunity to sneak into the basement, choosing that over even the joys of Salmon-Tuna Fusion flavor.
It was as I bolted the door (I have to bolt it since Alice has figured out how to open the door on her own) and I entered the livingroom with my arms full, when a single pair of bikinis fell from my arms...
And promptly disappeared. Blink. Poof.
Now the laws of physics said they really should have been lying right there at my feet, and yet, in a split second they were gone, vanished into the ether. I hadn't had coffee yet and simply couldn't make sense of the thing.
Until I glanced into the kitchen. Because there, in the kitchen, at his bowl, munching away happy as can be, possibly humming a purry little tune to himself, was my boy Harry... with a pair of pink bikinis around his neck and waist like some demented Elizabethan collar and one-piece swimsuit ensemble.
Maybe I need to watch fewer episodes of Project: Runway. The cats, I think, are getting ideas.