My Shocking Infidelity Story

My husband was away with the children this weekend. I was home alone with two buckets of periwinkle paint and all my bedroom furniture shoved away from the wall, covered in plastic. On Sunday morning, I awoke in my daughter’s twin bed to the sound of a walloping bang that echoed through the house.

My cat Sydney was in the room. She growled at the bang and took off for the stairs. I stayed. If she wanted to battle the huge, terrifying housebreakers I was envisioning, so be it. You go girl. But I don’t think she had the same vision. She thought it was her nemesis, the dark one, Mistoffelees. Which reminds me of a piece I wrote last winter.



I did it again, yesterday. He showed up—short, dark, and oh so handsome. I’m married with two beautiful—but loud—children and two beautiful—usually quiet—felines. But I couldn’t resist. In front of two members of my family, I traipsed out in the snow wearing my house shoes, no less, got down on my knees and sank my hands into the luxurious fur of a huge black, tuxedoed cat we call Mr. Mistoffelees.

Oh my GAWWD, he is soooo cute! I rubbed him from head to tail while my two fur-babies sat stunned in the window. The outrage! Whenever this dark fellow shows up at our domicile, my creampuff, the Fabulous Miss Sydney, will shriek like someone is disemboweling her.

The first time I heard such a caterwauling, it was in the dead of the night. I knew, without a doubt, that an ax-murderer had entered the house and stomped her good. No, it was just Mistoffelees. He is a little devil. He’ll just sit, nose pressed to the sliding glass door, and stare at Miss Sydney with his huge yellow eyes as my poor fluff-muffin yowls, spits, and attacks the window.

Mistoffelees is working the neighborhood. Rumor has it our neighbor is similarly smitten with this lothario and is attempting to adopt him. I heard he calls the cat Jasper. But you, my dark prince, who poops in my peonies and gets my kitten’s knickers in such a twist, you will always be Mistoffelees to me.



So after cowering in my daughter’s bed for a few minutes, I decided the only way to get back to sleep was to go downstairs and verify that no thieves were silently ransacking the house. First I had to get my glasses. And downstairs I crept, wishing for a baseball bat or some sort of weapon, when I realized that Sydney was right. The danger wasn’t inside; it was out. The newspaper delivery person had hurled Sunday’s fat wad of news and advertisements at our plastic storm door with all the vigor of a major league pitcher. At five a.m. There goes your Christmas bonus, dude.