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一只在巴黎的美国猫

The hours dragged on that night before my wife and I came to terms with the simple fact that we had lost our best friend.[18] “It’s my fault,” I said again and again. “I should have put in locks or something so he couldn’t get out.” “No, it’s both our faults,” said my wife. “We should have let Chuck stay in Rhode Island where he would have been safe.”

The apartment seemed to hold nothing but useless Friskies boxes, sweaters with orange-and-white hair on them, and cat toys that jingled as we accidentally brushed past them.[19] My wife tried taking a bath, but it wasn’t a real bath without Chuck there to jump up on the bidet and watch the water foam and gurgle as it swirled down the drain.[20] I tried flipping through Paris Match,[21] but what was the point without the fat, furry body that always inserted itself if you spread open a magazine or book.

It was early the next morning when the telephone jangled[22] us out of sleep. “I think I have your cat,” said the voice, and proceeded to give an address at the far end of our block. Though I didn’t believe it could possibly be Chuck, I grabbed his basket and ran.

I can’t remember now what the building looked like or the elevator that took me to the seventh floor. All I can recall is the image of our chubby, longhaired pet lounging casually in the corner of this stranger’s bedroom and looking pompous.[23]