Erasmus, the black cat that had turned up on my doorstep one day and decided to stay despite my efforts to get rid of it, twined around my legs as I stepped into the foyer and hung my light jacket on a hook near the door. I turned on the light to the living room and admired the half-finished space. It was coming along nicely.
“Hey, buddy,” I said, bending to pet my spoiled rotten feline, then heading to the kitchen to get some kitty food. I poured his dinner in a bowl and gave him some water. “Here ya go, Mussy.” The cat ignored me, as was typical, and focused on the chow. I rolled my eyes. “You’re welcome.”
I put my keys and cell phone on the table, then got the day-old casserole from the refrigerator and heated it while I took a quick shower. Cleaned and dressed in sweats and an old T-shirt, I grabbed a beer and ate my food.
Halfway through my meal in the kitchen, my cell phone rang. I sighed. There could be only one person calling me after eight on a Friday night.