Before we open the living room window in the evening, we always go through the following ritual with Catorze:
Me: “You know you have to be back by 10pm, don’t you?”
Me: “10pm. Is that clear? Meow once for yes, twice for no.”
Cat Daddy, without looking up from the television: “He can’t understand you. He’s French.”
Unbelievably, the little sod has made it indoors almost every night at 9:57pm.
The only exceptions were yesterday, when he rolled in at 10pm on the dot, and last weekend, when Cat Daddy allowed him a half hour weekend extension and he came in at 10:24pm on Saturday and 10:28pm on Sunday.
(And, yes, I know that a weekend extension is nonsensical since Catorze doesn’t have a working week from which he needs to wind down, nor does he even know what a weekend is.)
Other than being creeped out by the fact that notre cher ami can apparently tell the time with some precision, we are trying not to read too much into this. Anyone who was ever grounded by their parents as a teenager knows that a run of good behaviour is highly suspicious. At best, it’s a trick to get the curfewer(s) off their case and to convince them to bring forward the lifting of the curfew. And, at worst, it’s a cover for a stunt even more outrageous than the one that caused the curfew to be imposed in the first place.
And it’s a full moon next week. Merde.
Dare we wonder what horrors lurk ahead?