Have cat. Will travel.

It was a hot summer day. One of those days where walking ten blocks to my therapist’s office is an act of sheer will. I was waiting to cross the street when a young frenchman said to me, “Have you ever run away to Paris?” He was obviously a mover, dressed in his company’s shirt, but without one of those waist trusses. He was young and lithe, like a greyhound-the type of guy who I could wrap my legs around and squeeze for days. I hadn’t made it to Paris yet, and told him so. “Would you like to run away there with me? I could show you the whole city. I’m from there.” And as much as I wanted to, wanted to skip out on my therapist and my job and my apartment and my friends and just go to Paris there was only one thing that kept me from going.

My cat.

Who would take care of my cat?

He asked for my number so that we could meet up for a drink later and never called. I’ve been prepared ever since that day for the next time a hot French guy asks me to go to Paris so I can say,“Have cat. Will travel.”