Now came a bad time in the house. No peace in the daytimes. Builders tramped past all day, talking and laughing when I scurried for my water bowl or my litter box in the laundry.
They took over the garage and used it as their base. I watched them stormy-eyed as they trekked in and out through the screen-door with tools and materials.
I blinked. Didn’t hear the click of the lock that time. Started watching carefully. Listening too. The men grumbled.
The pernickety old woman came in with an armful of dry washing. “What’s the problem?” she said.
“We’re spending too much time looking out for that animal,” said one of them. “It’s maddening having to open and close that damned screen door every trip.”
“Can’t you board her somewhere?” said the other.
I didn’t wait for my human’s answer. Nipped to the screendoor …
Rita de Heer 