12/12/2025
𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℂ𝕙𝕣𝕠𝕟𝕚𝕔𝕝𝕖𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕐𝕦𝕜𝕚: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔼𝕤𝕔𝕒𝕡𝕖 (𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕠𝕨𝕟𝕨𝕒𝕣𝕕 𝔻𝕠𝕘 𝕠𝕗 𝔻𝕠𝕠𝕞)
Move over, Harry Houdini! There is a new master of evasion in town, a feline escape artist of such cunning that no front door can hold him. His name is Yuki, the Phantom of Meow Mews. Only 6 months old.
The drama began not once, but twice in the last 24 hours. My "carers"—lovely souls sent to aid me in my delicate, post-operative state — have unwittingly become accomplices to the crime of the century. They opened the door, and p**f! The eagle had landed... on the driveway.
Now, a normal human sees an escaped cat and thinks, "Soft voice, slow movements." Not my team. Oh no. They decided the best strategy was to initiate a frantic tribal war dance. They ran! They stomped! They flapped their arms like flightless birds attempting unauthorized takeoff!
Naturally, Yuki—a cat who usually possesses the chill of a Zen monk—was horrified. He wasn't being retrieved; he was being hunted by flailing giants.
𝔼𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℍ𝕖𝕣𝕠 (𝕄𝕖).
Picture the scene: Here I am, 7 weeks out from the surgeon’s table. I am clad in nothing but pajamas and determination. I am barefoot on the cold, unforgiving asphalt. I am wielding crutches like a wounded gladiator.
I hobble after the chaos, shouting tactical commands into the wind: "Grab a twig! Wiggle some grass! Seduce him, for the love of God, don't charge at him!"
Ignoring my cries, they chase my poor baby under a parked car. My maternal instincts override my medical restrictions. I realize there is only one option. I abandon my crutches. I abandon my dignity. I hit the deck.
There I was, lying prone in the middle of the street, belly-flopped on the tarmac like a beached seal. I snatched a sprig of lavender from the garden earlier —my weapon of choice—and wiggled it into the darkness beneath the chassis.
"Come to Mama," I whispered.
And lo! He came. I snatched the fuzzy fugitive. Victory!
...Except, I was now a woman with two non-functioning legs, lying flat on her stomach in the road, holding a cat.
I summoned the carer. "Take the prisoner!" I commanded, handing off the kitten. Now, I faced my Everest: Standing up.
My knees do not bend much following surgery, yet! My legs are on strike. But my waist? My waist is still in the game.
Summoning the spirit of a pretzel, I pushed myself up into the world’s most agonizing Yoga 'Downward Dog.' Using the car back door handle as a hoist, I clawed my way back to a vertical position and reclaimed my crutches.
I finally dragged myself back inside to survey the aftermath. There sat the carer—a lad in his prime, late 20s—trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. His hand was shaking; fresh battle scars (Yuki’s autograph) adorned his skin.
I think the message was received loud and clear. It is safe to say that young man will never, ever open a door in this house again.
Picture of the offender attached.
