Winston the brave

I woke this morning quietly. No meowing. No nudging. As I lay there pondering the complexities of the day, I heard Sarah tromping up the stairs. She was carrying Winston and asking if there were any of his treats left from the night before. Lo and behold, there were. She set him down so he could eat them and then asked me, “Do you know where he spent the night?”

“No. Where?”

And then with tears rolling down her cheeks she cried, “In the closet. And there was that big thunderstorm last night too. I’m horrible. I lock my baby in a closet all night. I went downstairs and there was this tiny little whimper of a meow, but I couldn’t see Winston. And then I checked the closet and all the shoes were pushed away from the door because he was trying to get out all night.”

Sarah was more traumatized than Winston. He was in good spirits, though I’m sure he didn’t mind the guilt-given extra large helping of food this morning or the chance to explore outside a little. In the end, Sarah will have to accept that her cat has grown up and is no longer Winston the baby, but rather Winston the brave under-stairs cave explorer.