The smells of burnt strawberry filling and toasted microwave were everywhere, but it looked like the soot was pretty much cleaned up. Ducking my head in guilt, I headed out the front door in search of the cat.
“Here Bandit, here kitty,” I yelled, looking all over the front yard. “Kittykittykitty!” Nothing. I saw Mr. Warren outside across the street and went to ask if he’d seen Bandit. “Hey, Mr. Warren, have you seen our cat? He ran off a little while ago.”
“What does he look like?” he asked as he sniffed the smoky air around me and wrinkled his nose.
“He’s white with black across his face and on his paws.”
“Well,” he sniffed the air again, as he pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. “I think I saw him playing with that little tabby kitten over there at the Peterson house.” He pointed to a yard a couple doors down and covered his nose.
“Thanks. I’ll look over there.” As I headed to the Petersons’ yard, I searched under every single bush. “Here, kittykitty,” I called. I found Bandit sitting calmly on a paint can licking his paws and swishing his tail by the side of the house. “There you are,” I said to him. “Time to go home.” I made a grab for him. He was faster than me, and once again I lost my balance as he ran. Then he sat, swishing his long couldn’t-care-less tail, and ...