The Escape Artist

By Gordon Hopkins Okay, what did you do with him? I demanded.My cats just sat on the sofa and stared at me with what I can only assume was a nonplussed expression. I'm not sure. It's hard to tell when cats are nonplussed.I'd put Harper in the cage while I was gone to protect him from the other two cats. Now the cage sat empty and I had no clue where Harper might be.I simply couldn't believe he had somehow escaped. I know cats are famous for being flexible and squishy but they aren't Silly Putty. They still have skeletons and internal organs, I assume. There was no way he could fit between those bars.Then I heard a crunching sound coming from the laundry room, which is where I keep the cat food. Sure enough, there was Harper, having a snack.Archie (the orange one) and Groucho (the black one) are not fans of the new cat, so I'm assuming they didn't collaborate in some kitty version of “The Great Escape.” The only explanation is that I hadn't latched the cage door properly. Well, I wouldn't make that mistake again.As the cats spent more time around each other, they were certainly not buddies but there wasn't the imminent threat of caticide. Still, I didn't feel comfortable leaving them alone together for any length of time. If I had to leave the house, I stuck Harper in the cage.Somehow, he got out. Three times I left my house with Harper firmly incarcerated and three times, I came home to an empty cage.I never figured out how he did it. “Escape from Alcatraz,” “The Shawshank Redemption,” “Papillon,” “Escape Plan 2,” none of them offered a clue.Pretty soon, I got comfortable with leaving him alone with the other cats. They still weren't pals but I didn't need them to be. After all, I was not keeping Harper. I just needed to find his owner.Then, one day, I got a message on social media. Someone had seen my post and asked, “Is this the cat you were asking about?”They sent me a picture of a black cat. It looked like a shadow with eyes, which is what Harper looked like.Okay, I admit it. I felt a little bad. In spite of myself, I had grown attached to the little black fuzzball, who climbed into my lap every evening, purring and cuddling.Still, it was for the best. I absolutely could not have another cat.I was told Harper had escaped on New Year's Eve, possibly frightened by the fireworks, much as I had surmised, while he was being taken to the cat shelter.Wait, I thought. The cat shelter? I asked, “So, you don't want him back?”Nope. I was informed Harper's previous owner had decided not to keep him.Well, this was a complication I was unprepared for. I absolutely was not going to keep him. So what was I going to do with him? Yes, I could send him to the shelter. I know they do a great job and treat the cats very well but I also know they are overwhelmed with cats. I guess I'd have to find another home for him. But how long would that take?As I sat on the sofa, trying to decide what to do, Harper climbed into my lap. He stood up on his hind legs, put his front legs on my chest and started rubbing his chin on my cheek, purring like a Evinrude outboard motor all the time.Damn.

LeRoy Prellwitz

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