Dennis the Menace

It’s 11:55. Do you know where your cat is? For us, we thought Dennis was safe and sound under the couch or in a closet. After scurrying through the apartment with flashlight in hand illuminating every nook and cranny, we soon realized around 10:45 this evening was he was gone. And the only place to go was out.

I grabbed my jacket and keys and headed outside to start the hunt. If he did indeed escape through the open window on the 3rd floor, I knew he had to be on a nearby terrace. As I crossed the street sounding my special catcall, I looked up to see Dennis stranded next door. His little white head appeared from behind a ceramic planter. I could hear his whining meow through the traffic noise and flowing fountain across the street. He was scared and so was I. “How will we get him down?”

I ran back upstairs. Chris and I began devising ways to bring him home. Fortunately, the terrace was only a few feet away. The problem was Dennis wouldn't jump over and across. He needed a bridge. So I tried a pile of sticks from IKEA. We haven't found a use for them over the past four years. They just sit in the corner waiting for an display urn. Maybe tonight would be different. Dennis thought otherwise. So with all our resources exhausted, I thought, “There’s only one place to go – and that’s out.”

After a quick costume change, I was ready for my balcony debut. With Chris fretting from behind, I climbed out on the ledge. Trying not to look down, I slowly stepped to the left side. With my hands firmly grasping the porcelain drainpipe, I placed my right foot on the neighboring terrace railing. Knowing one foot was secure; I crouched on the ledge followed by a quick shuffle over to join Dennis. With a slight hop, I was safe for the moment.

Dennis darted to my side. He was ready to go home. The weather and charcoal grey coat he now sported apparently didn’t agree with him. So I nervously picked him up and handed him to Chris. I was concerned at any moment he would squirm and squiggle and find himself on the street below. But Chris held tight as Dennis found himself back indoors where he belonged. Now it was my turn.

I asked Chris to find a bed sheet to wrap around my waste. This way, in case I started to fall, he could hoist me up or at least dangle me like Michael Jackson’s baby until someone came to my rescue. But as he searched for the perfect wrap, I decided to move forward with my own rescue.

With back to the railing, I hoisted myself up and over onto the ledge. I placed one hand again on the drainpipe as I wrapped the other around the iron window decoration in front of our guest bedroom. “This way,” I thought, “If one gives, the other should hold.” When Chris returned, I decided there was no time like the present. Up and over I went landing safely in the bedroom. But our adventure wasn’t over. It was time to give Dennis a bath.

“Consider it punishment,” I said to Dennis as the water soaked his fur. As I held firmly his neck, Chris applied a bit of soap to combat the pigeon poop Dennis had acquired on his outdoor excursion. I was surprised Dennis wasn’t more aggressive. Maybe he knew I was on the verge of throwing him back out the window. That, or he was beyond traumatized. Either way, bath time was short.

With a quick fluff and dry, Dennis was left to his own devices to complete the grooming process. As I watched him lick his paws, I could only hope he vividly recalls his chilly evening on the Lido deck. Because if it happens again, I’ll think twice about risking my life to save his. After all, he has nine. I only have one.