Dirtbag

A couple days ago, my cat Zoe went missing.

I searched high and low around my apartment. Looked in all the usual snuggle spots and hideaways. Not under the bed. Not in the armchair. Not on my clean laundry. Not in her kennel. Not under my covers. Not hiding in the shower curtain. Not noshing on lunch. Not sleeping in the sun on the balcony. Where was this cat?

I got a little nervous. Maybe she finally fell off the balcony railing like a cat behaviorist once scolded me for risking. Maybe she was lost somewhere. Maybe another cat beat her up (Not likely. Last time she met a neighbor's cat, Zoe beat the proverbial stuffing out of the other beast).

Then I remembered the last time she really seriously disappeared. It was when we were in Brazil. She had found a new closet to sleep in, and had gotten herself shut in, where she settled down for a cozy nap. After 2 hours of searching every other closet and cranny of the large luxury apartment, taking the elevator to every single floor of the 22-story building, and going up and down the entire stairwell of said 22-story building, I was in tears, convinced she had fallen off the slippery 11th-floor balcony into the rainy night and was dead. The relief was incredible when she finally answered my frantic calling.

So this time I called. "Zoe!" As I stood on the balcony calling, just in case she'd fallen off, I was startled as a plastic bag rustled in the corner. Lo and behold, golden eyes blinking elegantly as if to say, "You rang?" and looking very pleased with herself, Zoe emerged out of a small bag of dirt.

Yes, dirt.

Now, granted, it was just good clean potting soil, and the bag was in the sunshine. So it made sense to sleep there. It's warm, it's cozy, no breeze, it's cushy, it's a hiding place. All perfect for a little cat to take a nap.

No wonder she came in to the house filthy dirty several times in the last week or so. I thought it was from rolling on the balcony.

Let's just say that bag is wrapped up a bit more securely now.