I couldn't believe it. This was a cataclysmic catastrophe. I'd thought my plan foolproof. Things had started out beautifully: the morning had come on little cat's feet, and the trash, including the dangly thing, had gone out with it. Mission accomplished, I'd thought. But this evening, when Mama had discovered the dangly thing missing, at first it'd been like the cat had gotten her tongue, but then she'd sniffed around and said she'd deduced that I was the second-story worker! Well, third-story, in this case. I'd been sure she had absolutely no proof whatsoever and so in catspeak had tried to point out there were other possibilities – I wasn't the one with the shady past, after all. I reluctantly conceded the possibility that maybe that mutt was a better prowler than I'd allowed and had gotten past me last night and stolen the dangly thing. Mama pulled out some damning evidence – hairs she said she'd found on her dressing table, the scene of the crime. I protested that maybe the hairs belonged to that one – his hair was dark. Mama said she certainly knew the difference between cat hairs and human hairs. She also said she'd found the clasp, whatever that was, of the dangly thing near my cat bed, and a greasy paw print near the kitchen cabinet. She'd told me her theory of what had happened, and she'd been right on! I'd pleaded the fifth.

Rats! She was good! No wonder she was the cat's pajamas in the PI biz. Mama was very mad at me. Plus, she'd said she was going to continue to see that stray. Well, she'd made her choice. She'd made him top dog, and I wasn't going to stick around any longer and play second fiddle. The open road was beckoning, and I was going to take it up on the invitation. Mama was going to be sorry about whom she'd awarded best of show: though I'd been reluctant to admit any kinship to that one, it was clear he was part alley cat, and one day he would heed the call of the open road, too. Unless she got him fixed.

I eyed the window Mama had left open and catapulted up to its ledge. The gap was narrow, but I made it through by a cat's whisker. I hesitated, almost turned around, then resolutely cat-footed away.

I never looked back.

The End

A few notes. For those of you not familiar with the term, "sitting in the catbird seat" means to be in a position of power or prominence. My first introduction to the term was in high school, when we read the wonderful, funny, sarcastic short story, "The Catbird Seat," by James Thurber. I encourage you to read it if you haven't. "The Cat in the Hat" is a famous children's book by Dr. Seuss. The phrase "The morning had come on little cat's feet" probably rang a bell if you've read any Carl Sandburg. His poem, "Fog," reads as follows:

The fog comes on little cat's feet.

It sits looking over harbor and city

On silent haunches,

And then moves on.