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from Lula's Luck by Michele L. Medlyn

Copyright © 2020 Michele L. Medlyn

Chapter 8
Lock the Crate

You would’ve thought that one day of disaster was plenty. But for me? Apparently not. I was worn out from Saturday, but Mom woke me up at 8:00 Sunday morning with the promise of going out for breakfast. She wanted me to go with her to take Bandit to the groomers to see if they could get the Tahitian Blue paint out of his fur. She was afraid the paint might hurt him. Mom likes this groomer because they’re open on Sundays. Really, I think she just wanted me out of the house because the carpet cleaners were coming, and she didn’t want Dad to be reminded of why they were there. Parents.

 

I dragged myself out of bed, pulled on the shorts and t-shirt I wore babysitting (I didn’t really care that there was some drool on my shoulder) and went into the bathroom to wash my face. I stuck my tongue out at the mirror when I remembered the hair incident from yesterday, and ran my pick through my tangles, using my new combs to hold it out of my face. Bandit peeked his head in to watch me. Using the promise of some kitty snuggles (he loves belly rubs and ear scratches), I was able to scoop him up and take him downstairs to slip him into his carrier. We have to put him in a carrier in the car or he tears up the seats.

 

“Mom, we’re ready,” I yelled.

 

“Coming!” she shouted back. I put the carrier into the backseat, slid into the front, and we were off. First stop, breakfast. We went to Country Egg, City Egg Restaurant (or CECE’s, as we like to call it—get it?) to eat. We found a booth close to the front door so we could see the car. Of course, we left Bandit in his crate in the backseat. For some stupid reason, restaurants won’t let you bring cats in. Dumb if you ask me. I wonder if they’d believe me if I told them he was a service cat? As we slid into our booth, Mom made a face and groaned.

 

“What’s the matter, Mom?”

 

“Oh nothing, dear. I’m just a little sore from doing the splits yesterday. I’ll be fine.” I ducked my head down. It was all my fault she was sore. Come to think of it, I was a little sore today, too. Probably from falling out the window. Or was it from wrestling Little Beau into his pj’s. Who knows? Today had to be a better day, right?

 

“Sorry, Mom. It’s my fault.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry about it, honey. I’m fine.” We each grabbed a menu that was standing between the syrup and ketchup bottles.

 

“Do you want pancakes?” Mom asked as she looked over her menu. I gave her that look. You know, the Are you kidding me? look. “Oh, that’s right. Sorry, Lula. I forgot about that.”

 

“I think I want runny-yolk eggs, bacon, hash browns and some toast,” I told her a...






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