That Cat, by Stephen Leroux

The cat went missing. Little Jan cried. Blocking out that it had crawled on my head while I slept, I did my due diligence. I looked under all the beds. I opened the closet doors. I looked suspiciously at porches of my neighbors for damning saucers of milk. My wife, well, she tried to console Jan, but afterwards cried too. We mounted posters and talked to those same neighbors I suspected. I’d do anything to ease the pain of Jan and my wife–well, just about. I don’t know if the cat will ever return. I hate that darn thing.

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