Last night, we toured a couple houses. During one visit, the kids and I were checking out the deck. I left the back door slightly ajar because it was drizzly and I had no intention of staying outside long. Wrong move.
A streak of grayish-black fur darted between the kids and I into the house. I screamed, sure it was a raccoon. Grace screamed. Gavin said, “What the heck was that!?” (I didn’t correct him for being fresh because, in his defense, it was pretty scary. I am actually quite thankful that “heck” was his word of choice here.)
I poked my head into the house to see what it was. Not a raccoon. Just a cat – with his tail high in the air, sauntering through the kitchen like he owned the place. For all I know, maybe he did.
Still. I let a cat into someone’s house and had no idea if it lived there. What if we couldn’t get it back out? That almost forces us into making an offer, doesn’t it?!
Kenny and the realtor were in another part of the house. Because the kids were a little scared and still standing on the back porch, I yelled – “Uhhhh – I let a cat in the house.” Crickets. “KENNY. I let a CAT into THIS HOUSE WE ARE IN RIGHT NOW.” Kenny: “What?” Me: “Look around – there should be a cat running past you – get him! Get him!” Kenny flung the front door open. Nice try, buddy. The cat ignored that and ran upstairs.
Gavin and Grace were cowering behind me, now in the kitchen. The realtor tried shooing it out the front door with a piece of paper. Didn’t work. Kenny tried to scoop it up. Swing and a miss. That cat was bouncy. He tried again and luckily caught him. He was a friendly cat and let Kenny carry him through the house to the back door. Thank goodness. I don’t have to make an offer on that house now.