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) 📕

mouse, we decide to take a break. “Maybe if we sit on the step and toss tuna to him, we can lure him over?” I suggest. I’m so frustrated sitting here, knowing Odin’s so close to safety, yet being unable to bring him in.

Fletch tosses chunks of tuna down the bluestone path and Odin inches closer and closer. “Those pieces are too big! He’s going to be stuffed before we get him over here,” I say.

Then I get the genius idea to rub catnip all over myself and douse my hands with tuna juice so I’ll smell irresistible. And I am irresistible. To every biting bug in Lake County. I’m going to need my own flea collar after this.

After woofing down big chunks of tuna, Odin seems satisfied and we can’t lure him any closer.

“This isn’t working,” I cry.

“This cat is coming in this damn house right damn now,” Fletch says. [I love when he goes all General Patton.] “We’ll funnel him into the hedges and I’m going to force him down by you. Grab him and throw him in the house. Let’s do this!”

And then we do this.

Unsuccessfully.

Whole buncha times.

We’re almost three hours into the hunt when Fletch gets an idea. “Odin keeps going to the window where he escaped. What if you went inside and popped the screen to see if he wants to come in that way?”

“Couldn’t work less than what we’re currently doing,” I agree. I hurry to the bedroom and ease the window open. Gingerly I pop the screen, the whole time saying, “Odie, come! Come on, little guy, come see your mama.”

And then that little son of a bitch walks right up to the window, arches his spine, and raises the back of his neck as though he wants me to pick him up.

As though I hadn’t been trying to do exactly that for the past three hours.

I’m able to grab him and whisk the window shut and the whole time, Odin’s purring contentedly in my arms, all, “You shoulda seen the scary monsters that was chasing me!”

Two down, one to go.

After we got Odin back and I washed all the fish juice off myself, Fletch insisted we call it a night. We left the screen off the window and lined the sill with tuna in the hopes that Gus would follow suit.

In the morning, the meat’s gone but there’s no sign of Gus. I’m sure any number of animals could have eaten it, but I choose to believe it was Gus. Because he’s the most skittish of the group, we need to rethink our strategy. I feel he’s too nervous to come out on his own, so I send Fletch out to buy a cruelty free trap while I spend the day in the woods. I catch nothing, save for the possible exception of malaria.

We set the Havahart trap and cover it with a towel and I dash out the door in the morning to find the tuna gone and nothing in the trap except an enormous toad and some mouse droppings.

I really thought Gus would be back within twenty-four hours, but he’s not. What’s he doing out there? Is he hurt? Is he scared? What’s he eating, other than the possibility of windowsill tuna? It’s so hot—is he able to find a water source? Does he even want to come home?

Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’ve spent so much time anthropomorphizing him that I just assumed he loved me back and wanted to live here. I mean, he’s not a person; he’s an animal. Maybe he got out in the wild and the feral part of his brain took over. Maybe he’s been miserable here and all he’s ever wanted to do was roam free. Maybe he’s still pissed off about the time I stuck him in a pumpkin costume and put his picture on the Internet.

Yet I’m not about to give up on him. I’m scouring the Web for information when Fletch comes up behind me.

“Any news on Gus?” he asks.

“Um, so far he hasn’t checked in on Foursquare or updated his Facebook status, so, no. No news,” I reply. (Except Stacey who sent me a note saying, “He’ll come slinking home smelling of clove cigarettes and wine coolers, having made out with someone inappropriate. Oh, wait, that was me in high school. But he’ll be back, don’t worry.”)

“That’s not what I meant. Why don’t you ask your readers for help? They know everything,” he suggests.

The thing is, he’s right. I swear I have the most plugged-in readers in the world and there’s pretty much nothing they can’t resolve. They figured out when my tree was infested with Emerald Ash Borers and informed me it was Tatiana Patitz in my favorite George Michael video, and not Elaine Irwin. [Freedom ’90.] When I was hit with my second instance of those bastard ear crystals, alert fans pointed me to the Epley Maneuver and in ten minutes, I was able to fix what my primary care physician couldn’t in three months. How did I not think to ask these guys two days ago?

As soon as I post a status update, advice pours in. Those who don’t have a specific strategy offer support and I’m grateful for their kind thoughts. I’m overwhelmed with all the useful information, from setting the trap on the lightest possible setting to leaving the garage door cracked so Gus can come inside on his own. We also plan to set out baskets of dirty laundry and used cat litter, so Gus will be attracted to a familiar smell. [Fletch drew the line at the suggestion he pee in the bushes. But if the above doesn’t work, I’m not opposed to trying myself.]

Putting the suggestions into action requires a trip to Target for sardines and a baby monitor. Now it’s no secret that I’m a Target aficionado. From Archer Farms and Merona and Mossimo to Up & Up, I have intimate knowledge of almost every product and aisle. I