Sneaky kitty

“Aunt Pittycat?” Marlo called. “Oh yoohoo, Aunt Pittycat?”

“She’s nowhere to be found!” Phil said., clenching his buttcheeks. Nothing was worse than being forced to hold a fart, especially when it’d be so sweet, stinking up Marlo’s snooty little black cocktail dress.

“Okay, what were you doing? I waited downstairs in the car ten minutes while you putzed upstairs, doing God-knows-what with your hair and your jewelry,” Marlo said.

“Look in the closets. Look under the bed. Look under the furniture. She’s got to be here somewhere. I know,” Phil said, elongating his vowels in that Grace Kelly-esque way that just had him salivating during screenings of To Catch a Thief. “I know she’s in here somewhere.”

Ten minutes later, Aunt Pittycat had yet to surface.

“Always were the irresponsible one,” Marlo muttered under her breath, but loud enough that Phil heard her. She’d scoured every closet, crawled under every bed, craned her neck under every antique they owned. No cat – sore lower back, yes.

Phil forced out a cutting laugh while ricocheting from kitchen cabinet to kitchen cabinet. No Aunt Pittycat. “Hey, who’s had the at-fault car accidents, Ms. Mario Andretti? Not!”

“Never you mind. If you hadn’t been calling me on the cell – the bedroom!”

“Whaddaya mean, the bedroom?” Phil said.

“Your dresser drawers?” Marlo said, groaning.

Fifteen seconds later, Phil heard it from Marlo.

“Oh, Phil …” Marlo said, and then heard the little meow – “guess where I found Aunt Pittycat?”

He’d have to eat crow for two weeks. Damn. She won every time.