I came home early this evening to watch Supernatural and drink wine.
Yes, I drink wine out of my TARDIS mug. Anyway, when I got back, one of my cats was missing. Not the one in the above picture: My other roommate found her roaming and stuck her back in my bedroom while I was gone. No, this one was my oldest, my most difficult cat: Milla.
Milla normally sleeps under the covers, under the bed, or on one of the red cushions I keep on my feet to keep my toes warm. Only instead of being in any of those perfectly good places, she was upstairs, in one of the two bedrooms that are always open.
My cats never roam the house. Correction: They roamed the house when my roommates were gone for winter break, but now that my roommates are back, it’s not good to let them roam.
Now, it doesn’t seem very polite to search your roommate’s bedroom. Neither does it seem polite to let your cat nest in your roommate’s bedroom. So I went to my first-floor roommate – they all know one another pretty well – and she volunteered to help me find Milla.
And we did. In the boxspring of the only other housemate who has a cat. A cat who doesn’t like other cats.
And my cat, my Milla…trying to get her to do anything is like pulling teeth.
I knew I should have left her alone. She would come down eventually, the way she did before my roommates returned. But now my first-floor roommate was involved, and the two of us ended up in second-floor roommate’s room, sprawled on the floor, trying to wrench a cat from a boxspring.
I didn’t take pictures because it seemed unseemly to take photos of your roommate’s bedroom. On a side note: I have no connection with my roommates, we speak very rarely, and we have nothing in common, but tonight I rolled around on the floor with first-floor roommate while wearing nothing but a tank, a robe, and last night’s pajama bottoms. On a more positive side note: Milla finally returned, after I cursed her for hissing and (possibly) for breaking second-floor roommate’s wine glass, and each of my five roommates is so friendly and “chill” that she doesn’t mind the rest of us wallowing in their bedroom floor. She doesn’t even mind the broken wine glass. I’m not very social and it’s impossible for me to hold a conversation with these girls unless I’m drunk or talking about cats (the only thing I have in common with any one of them), so I call that a win.