The Gazebo

When the front door opened, that stupid cat ran out. He crossed the front porch, the front deck, and the side deck without ever taking a breath or looking back. Norris showed no sign of slowing down. At the mouth of the back deck, he took a quick right, glancing over his right shoulder to make sure he got the attention he sought. I was hot on his trail, but not nearly hot enough. He hopped, he looked like a crazed rabbit, as fast as his feline legs could carry him, all the way up the hill to the gazebo. 

That hill was steep and slick as goose shit from rain. Cold bare feet don’t get a lot of traction climbing after a gloating cat that’s taking a bath on the big old swing. 

Hatred blooms bright in the human heart when dealing with a jerk of a cat on frigid wet ground. I wished very unhappy thoughts upon Norris, very unhappy thoughts. 

Norris waited until I was within a hair’s breadth before I  picked him up and hauled him back to the house, when he leapt off of the swing. He did a quick zig-zag to the zebra grass, then shot down the hill to the back door. He  cried to get back into the warmth of the house. I glared down at the damned cat wishing even more than ever for laser vision. I could think of no better living being to turn into a pile of ash with one of Superman’s best tricks. I started down the hill. 

My feet were unsteady. Although sliding down to the back porch on my ass would have been the quickest, most efficient, and possibly the most painless route to the house, my pride wouldn’t allow the indignity. I chose instead to trip over my feet and slide down the hill on my stomach, gaining speed near the bottom and landing in the flower bed.

Unscathed by my plight, the cat sat bathed in porch light, licking his back casually, waiting for me to open the door and give him treats because he returned so promptly to the house. He was such a good cat.