Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never by Lancaster, Jen (e books free to read .txt) 📕

So, yeah, other than the Frog-o-caust, the power outage was fine.

After the electric kicks on, I decide against running the air-conditioning, opting to air the stink out of the joint. One of the best parts of moving out of the city is being able to open a window without encouraging unwanted visitors, be they rats or homeless people or criminals. [I’ve battled all three.]

I leave the door open between the kitchen and the screened porch so the cats can enjoy the weather, too. They’re happy to hang out on what we call their “catio” all day, lazing on the couch while glowering at chipmunks and letting the sun warm the downy fur on their bellies.

I keep the dogs inside because I don’t want them eating any more frogs. I’m surprised not to see the cats on the porch, but the dogs are out there and sometimes Libby annoys them. Although she’s gentle, she’s yet to figure out the concept of personal space, so she’s often on the receiving end of a few good swats.

A couple of hours later I come inside to shower. As I pass the spare bedroom on the way to the master, I notice something’s askew. Upon further inspection, I realize the problem. The screen’s been removed and it’s five feet away in the rosebushes.

What the…?

How did…?

Clearly no one broke in because we’re home and the dogs would have lost their minds. And I know the screen was securely attached to the window because that’s the kind of thing I’m fairly neurotic about, kind of like when I check three times to make sure the iron’s unplugged. [Solution? Never iron!]

That’s when I realize that our little family is missing three feline members.

Oh, no.

No, no.

My cats can’t get out. My cats have never gotten out. Never. Not one of the six cats I had before the Thundercats ever made an unauthorized exit. I’ve now owned cats for twenty years and nobody’s ever escaped, sort of like Stalag 13 on Hogan’s Heroes. [Whether or not the old cats had an entire secret bunker set up under the house is still in question.] I have a perfect record. If I were a factory, my sign out front would read: This Organization Has Gone 7300 Days Without an Incident. I employ Constant Vigilance™; this shit does not happen on my watch.

I immediately break into a sweat. I scream for Fletch, shut the window, and conduct a thorough whole-house search for the Thundercats. None of them are in any of their usual spots—between the tasseled curtains and the sliding glass door, inside the lining of the couch, on top of the Zombie War boxes in the basement. They’re nowhere to be found.

I throw on a pair of shorts and shoes and we spend the whole afternoon calling them and combing the woods around the house. We’re surrounded by trees on all sides except for the narrow path that winds from the road down to the house.

The road.

NO!

These guys haven’t seen any road for two years. And even though we’re tucked away behind all the trees, ours is a fairly busy street and we’re not far from the highway. What’s going to happen if they decide to cross? They don’t know to look both ways. The idea of finding one of them by the side of the road makes me feel ill. We worked so hard to get the feral out of them that now I’m afraid they can’t take care of themselves.

Also?

EVERYONE ON THIS ROAD IS DRIVING TOO FAST.

There are cats in these woods! Be careful, you assholes in your zippy cars! Give ’em a BRAKE. I stand at the end of my drive, hands on my hips, glowering at everyone going over fifteen miles an hour. It doesn’t help me find the cats, but it makes me feel a little better.

A couple of hours into our search, we spot Odin in the woods to the west of us but he runs away because he thinks we’re scary monsters. The fact that I’m sobbing hysterically probably doesn’t help.

When we finally come in, we’re covered in bug bites and we’re all slashed up from the brush. Fletch calls our vet to see what our next move is and to confirm that their microchip information is up-to-date. The vet explains that the cats will likely just come home when they’re bored or hungry and all we need to do is set out some tuna and they should turn up.

This? I paid the price of a used car on cat upkeep and this is the advice I get? For what we spent, I want the whole veterinary office up here in S.W.A.T. gear and for us to make a human chain and comb the woods inch by inch. Tuna? Come on!

We set out the tuna and then Fletch decides to retrace the cats’ steps. “We have to think like a cat,” Fletch tells me.

“Okay, would you rather bang open some cabinets or throw up in the cleaning ladies’ shoes?” I ask.

“Shh, give me a minute. I’ll figure this out,” he replies.

I don’t understand how one of them got the screen off because they’re sturdy; I test-push them all the time and they won’t budge. I’d have never opened the windows if I didn’t trust them to hold.

Fletch pores over the point of exit. “Aha!” he exclaims.

“DO YOU SEE THEM?” I shriek.

“No, but I figured out what happened. Look here.” He points at the body of a dead chipmunk and then another a few feet down, plus a stiff mouse ten feet past that.

“Oh, God.” Tears spring to my eyes when I see the furry little victims. Can every woodland creature please not DIE up here today? Hey, Bambi and Thumper! Stay away from my yard or face certain doom! Tell your friends!

He continues. “They must have seen all the rodents and it was too much. My guess is they