“Il est superb! ” exclaimed one delighted French matron in a high-necked Chanel suit.[10] A construction worker gravely examined and lightly prodded him,[11] then declared that “he must be Spanish.” Chuck even developed a nodding friendship with a nightingale that sang its song each evening from on top of a nearby hotel.[12] And he made us realize, seeing his round, fluffy shape up on one of our many windowsills[13], that we were not, in fact, alone.
We soon found out, however, that the French windows Chuck loved so much could swing wide during a windy night, as could the French doors that led to our minuscule balcony.[14] When my wife awoke for work one morning and saw those doors banging in the wind, she instinctively began to search the apartment. Chuck wasn’t in any of his usual hiding places, and since the drop from our balcony was probably a fatal one, we feared the worst.
The sidewalk below held no clues, nor did the neighbors we questioned in nervous, flailing bursts of English and French.[15] We taped cardboard signs with a crayon drawing[16] of Chuck and our phone number up and down rue St. Didier, but as the day passed by, we felt more and more hopeless. An indoor cat who had had his claws taken out by a previous owner, Chuck wouldn’t have known what to do or where to turn if he had found himself without a roof over his head. And now it was nighttime. “Bon courage,” said our concierge, clasping her tortoiseshell cat, Violette, in strong arms.[17]
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