It's Sunday. Four o'clock in the morning, actually. All the boy and I wanted to do was wind down and prepare for our last day of the four day weekend. He gets in the bed and I head to the porch to check on our fiercely pawed feline. Oh crap, I can't see him! Oh super crap! I found him. Our Tux is ON THE ROOF (dammit!). I gasped in ultimate horror and must've looked about like this. Seriously, I am surprised I was able to refrain from screaming and fainting.
So now we (aka my half-naked fiance' in a ratty robe and clunky tennis shoes) have to try coaxing the kitty down before he falls to his death. It's dark and cold and we're on the third floor. Fuck.
This must be what parenthood is like. You want your progeny to explore, but you know they might overstep their bounds and get hurt at some point. That, and it scares the shit out of you.
Of course just asking Tux to come down and having him, I don't know...do it, would be too simple. The boy has one chair and the last time he had to stand on it to retrieve Sir Tuxenstiegel (damn cat) he almost died. That chair, it swivels. Not good for standing. So what does he drag out to the porch? An empty cooler. This did not instill me with any more confidence than the chair, but whattaya gonna do?
Tux is meowing mournfully now, he clearly knows he's out of his element. But will he just let the boy grab him? No. He has to start clawing and move away from the edge of the roof so we can't get to him. I'm behind the boy, spotting him and praying that neither of them falls off the building to the concrete-of-death below.
It probably only took 10 minutes to fish him down, but it felt like forever and almost killed me.
Damn that cat.
*God, I'm so clever.