On Wednesday night, I asked Evan why Quincy wasn’t in his box in the corner of the bedroom. (He actually has a special leopard print bed in our room, but he rarely sleeps in it if there is a laundry basket or an empty cardboard box around. For awhile he was frightened of it. Maybe it, like our bed, was haunted?) He shrugged and we went to bed.
The next morning I again asked Evan if he’d seen Quincy. He mentioned that he’d heard him meowing, so he was around somewhere. (Quincy has a tendancy to stand somewhere in the house and meow until we or, ideally, Muffin, come and find him. This can get annoying and so sometime we ignore it.) I meant to look for him before we left for, but we were in a rush because Evan was hoping to find a wii at Target on the way. (No such luck.)
When we returned home after work that day, we heard Quincy crying as soon as we opened the front door. It turns out that he’d been locked in the downstair’s bathroom (where he likes to drink from the sink) for almost twenty-four hours. I felt absolutely horrible, as I was the most likely culprit for shutting him in there. But less than an hour after he had regained his freedom, where did we find him?
I’ve mentioned this before, and I’ll say it again, the bathroom must be Quincy’s natural habitat.
A post-script to all of my pregnant friends. If you let me watch your babies, I promise, promise that I will not leave them locked in the bathroom. I can’t promise, however, that Evan won’t attempt some sort of psychological experiment with (on) them, but he tried tons of these on my youngest niece and she has (so far) turned out just fine.