L Jawor - Aug. 13, 2017, 9:54 a.m.
Quite a lot of them. Indoors.
My husband and I awoke to find that our spare bedroom had been inundated with a massive, winged horde of black and yellow kamikazes. They darted about the room loudly, as unhappy with their travel guide as we were with their destination.
Husband texted the landlord, whose droll response was “they’re just bees.” Having two fairly stupid felines traipsing around the house, and seeing meme images of cats with giant red noses in my head, I emphatically disagreed. After some back-and-forth, the landlord agreed to send someone by.
The hapless recipient of the landlord’s request showed up later that day, and endured quite a few painful handshakes upon meeting the aforementioned visitors. Husband and Samaritan located the breach in the fortress that is our spare room, and proceeded to flank the offenders – husband safely inside, Samaritan hanging precariously out of the second-story window. Somehow, the two managed to keep the invaders at bay long enough to seal the hole, and Samaritan landed safely indoors.
Later that night, Husband spent the night on the computer in the spare room. He’d opened the same window to get some air in, and hopefully lead the remaining troops back out into the wide world whence they came.
The next morning, it appeared that the multi-pronged attack was successful. A few lifeless bodies remained, but the living majority had retreated to safety. Husband left for work, and I sat down to work from home at the computer beside the Bee Window. I realized that the window was still open, and that husband had never put the screen back down. Making a mental note to issue a firm and irritating lecture on the topic of unsupervised open screens, I went downstairs to feed the cats.
But alas, only one of two appeared for breakfast. I live with cats whose entire lives revolve around their morning feeding time, and only one appeared. I instantly knew something was amiss. Racing through the house, I checked under every object and rummaged through every cabinet and drawer until I came upon the Bee Window. The window that had been missing a screen overnight.
From outside, I heard a young girl’s voice calling to someone. It began at the front of the row of apartments and faded towards the back before disappearing back inside. Grabbing a hoodie, I ran out the front door and looked up. Nothing.
I walked around the complex, eyes searching the vaulted rooftops of each apartment. Nothing, not a single movement, caught my eye. Upon reaching the parking lot in the back, I walked backwards to my car until I spotted a tiny face in the sunlight. A tiny, furry, pointy-eared little face.
Lasagna was on the roof.
He looked serene, but in a creepy way. Like he’d backed himself up to a chimney and simply accepted his fate, which was to live as a Roof Cat until he slowly starved like a tiny Cat Martyr for some secret cause. I raced up two flights of stairs, grabbing his food bowl away from his greedy brother Snickers, and ran to the window. Throwing it open, I called to him with the sounds that only a cat owner understands, and shook his bowl frantically. The Pavlovian rattling of his beloved processed cat food would certainly woo him, right? Wrong. He mewled pathetically, acknowledging my request for his return, but did not budge.
I called Husband at work in utter panic. He was kind enough to hold his tongue and not laugh as I babbled incoherently and cursed him for leaving the screen up. And, excellent husband that he is, he came home. I found out later that his entire office was in hysterics when he explained why he had to leave mid-day, but he was also kind enough not to share that information during my time of duress.
The daring rescue took only minutes, but it felt like hours. To be fair, Husband was crawling across a rather steep roof – so while I am arguably a card-carrying member of the oft-maligned Crazy Cat Lady Club, I was very afraid that I was about to lose two of my favorite creatures on Earth.
The bees would have their revenge.
I breathed again as Husband appeared at the window with the face of a man who’d just scaled Everest without enough rope. He handed me a rather pathetic, floppy mess of a cat, and hauled himself breathlessly through the window.
Cats: 0 too, because what kind of idiot thinks it’s a good idea to go somewhere he’s never been and give up in exhausted fear upon arrival? Even the bees were smarter than that.
Gotta give credit where credit is due.