Risky

Risky

I was Shoveling Snow off the sidewalk in front of my shop on West 3rd St. and Dixon when, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a red scarf buried near the concrete curb. Curious I reached out to secure the vibrant linen. As I felt it’s silk like texture I was startled by a mangy feline that ran across my foot and grabbed the fabric in a haste. Slipping and struggling to keep my footing I leaned onto my shovel and braced for certain impact. Luckily, the shovel bore the full weight of my momentum and I was spared certain death. As I gathered my senses I gazed at the malnourished beast running away with the red scarf in tow. “What the hell?” I stammered as the white stray disappeared behind a pile of snow. Not paying much attention I continued my duties and removed the 6 inches of fresh powder that the gods delivered the night before. Once completed I walked into the shop where my wife greeted me with a cup of coffee. As we prepared our opening and completed our normal morning routine. I casually mentioned my near death experience. With absolute zero concern for my wellbeing my wife ran to the window and asked if I had seen where it had went. When I confusingly pointed in a general direction she immediately threw on her jacket and ran outside without an explanation. So I sat down and continued drinking my coffee. The morning chores were complete and we had an hour before the shop opened. Puzzled by my wife’s reaction but not overly concerned I sat and enjoyed the silence. With a loud commotion and a sharp cold breeze my wife came crashing in the front door. Her clothes now oil stained and wet; her excitement was unmistakable as she declared “I got it”! What she had got was still a mystery to me until she removed that wretched beast from beneath her jacket. I can’t tell you what caused the flea ridden brute to jump but, as soon as it saw the faintest glint of freedom, it tore out of my wife’s arms. Scratched and unfazed my wife’s determination was impressive. Matching the cat step for step she dove into the back room pouncing on and restraining the misfit cat. I found an empty cardboard box capable of retaining the brute. Once secured I looked at my wife and wondered if the local mental asylum allowed conjugal visits. Rolling her eyes she explained how there are posters around the town square. Puzzled I received the scolding glare of a woman that wished I’d pay more attention to my surroundings. She explained these posters had been posted by a child who had lost her best friend, a snow white Feline and was in dire straights. She exclaimed in her poster that failure to find her cat could mean the demise of her life in its entirety. My wife contacted the family who explained how thrilled their daughter would be. They also mentioned the cat had received its precarious name from the child’s inability to pronounce the word Frisky. Once the pickup arrangements were complete and my wife hung up the phone I was sent to retrieve Satan’s spawn from the back room where I had left him secured in his makeshift prison cell. I picked up the box and my heart sunk. Opening the box I cringed to find what I could already tell. My wife came running into the room as I blurted my obscenities and threw the box across the room. We searched every crevice, dark hole, cabinet, closet and drawer. To this day there is no trace that the cat ever existed. Besides the trinket he left in the bottom of the box. A scratched up name tag dangling from a dirty light blue collar. Engraved across the front in cursive letters “Risky”