My friend Jessie invited me on a weekday weekend trip to Islamorada. No sane person would say no, so I asked her where and when, and I'd find a cat sitter for however long we'd be gone.
Given her love for the cat, McKenzie seemed like the ideal sitter. She hadn't left the feline alone longer than a minute to go to the bathroom (she'd sprint over and back with her pants around her ankles to reduce lag time). The cat would either hate me or really, really love me after a couple days over-cared for by lil sis while I'm soakng up the sun in the keys with my ATL BFF. Worth the risk.
"Kenzie," I said, "I need you to watch the cat. For two days."
Before she could object to responsibility, I continued with a list of rules for the cat sitter (ten or so variants of "don't sit on the cat") and asked her how it sounded.
"Sounds good," she said, patting the cat's ears back with such a heavy hand the residue-weight left poor creature's ears folded flush to her head.
"I'll pay you five dollars for the night. OK?"
Her lips pursed in efforts to conceal a smile.
"OK!"
The cat jumped out of her arms and scuttered under the table on the far side of the room.
I'll be counting on Mom and Dad to listen for any howls or shrieks coming from the East wing. Hoping everything will be OK.
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