I mean, what could go wrong? I thought about it when I volunteered to cat-sit for my friend Karen. After all, how tough can it be to spend a weekend babysitting some furry feline? Underestimating the ingenuity of a cat named Mr. Whiskers was my first mistake. The second was taking for granted that everything that weekend would go according to plan. Spoiler alert: it didn't.
A big orange tabby, with a penchant for chaos, Mr. Whiskers met me upon entry into Karen's apartment with a dismissive flick of his tail. He perched on the back of the couch, eyes half-closed, in that cat-like way to suggest he was plotting something but didn't care enough to put it into action—yet.
Karen's instructions were simple: feed him twice daily and change litter; not let him outdoors. "He's an indoor cat," she said several times. "He has never been outside, and I don't want him to start now."
"No problem," I'd said, oblivious to the adventure ahead.
Things started innocently enough. I poured Mr. Whiskers a bowl of gourmet cat food, which he sniffed at disdainfully before taking a few bites. I settled in with a book, congratulating myself on a job well done.
That first sign of trouble came that evening. I'd been lying on the couch, watching TV, when I heard a strange scratching sound. I looked over to find Mr. Whiskers standing at the front door, pawing at the handle with a most determined look in his eyes. I kind of laughed it off and thought it was cute. "Sorry, buddy," I said, getting up to shoo him away. "No outdoor adventures for you.
He stared at me with those big green eyes, and I could've sworn I saw a flicker of irritation. But then he turned and strutted off, tail held high, and I figured that was that.
The next morning, I woke up with Mr. Whiskers sitting on my chest and right in my face. I practically fell out of bed, I was so startled. He winked at me, real slow, like the picture of cat innocence, but I wasn't having it. This cat was up to something.
I got up, refreshed, and prepared to take on the day. Walking into the living room, something was off. The window by the couch swung open. Panic bled into my face as I raced to check on the rest of the apartment. Everything looked normal, yet I could not shake this feeling that something was very wrong.
Mr. Whiskers regarded me with a self-satisfied smirk as I shut the window. I glared at him through narrowed eyes. "You didn't… did you?"
Silence.
Well, it turned from bad to worse when I discovered that the cat had been outside. I knew this from the muddy paw prints leading from the window to the kitchen, where he left a trail of half-eaten cat food cans.
I could tell Mr. Whiskers had plotted his great escape and now was back, gloatingly, before I had even woken up. I wasn't quite sure if I was impressed or terrified. In any case, I was doomed.
I spent the next hour cleaning up the mess, all the while trying to figure out how I was going to explain this to Karen. The cat's okay, but who knew what he'd been up to outside? What if he'd met another animal? My mind races with worst-case scenarios.
That evening, I decided to keep a closer eye on Mr. Whiskers. He had other plans. While I was cooking dinner, I heard a crash from the living room. I rushed in to find that the cat had knocked over a vase, sending water and flowers everywhere.
"Seriously?" I groaned, grabbing a towel to clean up. Mr. Whiskers watched me from his perch on the bookshelf, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Oh, well, after breaking that stupid vase, I figured things couldn't get much worse. But then came the Great Tuna Disaster.
Karen left a can of tuna in the pantry as a treat for Mr. Whiskers. I was feeling generous, so I gave that to him for dinner. I opened the can and set it on the floor, waiting for him to dive in. Instead, he sniffed it, looked up at me, and walked away.
"Picky, huh?" I muttered, reaching down to pick up the can.
But before I could do that, Mr. Whiskers pounced. He knocked over the can, with tuna juice spreading on the floor and a smell that knocked me over.
"Why?" I cried as the cat dashed off, leaving me to clean up the mess.
It took an hour to air out the smell from the apartment, and by then, I was questioning my life choices. Cat-sitting was supposed to be easy. What had I ever done to deserve this?
That night I locked every window and double-checked the doors before locking myself in the bedroom. Poor Mr. Whiskers was innocently sleeping on the bed, curled into a ball of orange fluff, looking as angelic as an angel. I wasn't buying it.
The next morning, I woke up to find that Mr. Whiskers had somehow finagled his way into the pantry and knocked over a bag of flour. He had a floor full of white paw prints in the kitchen and sat in the middle, licking his paws.
When sweeping the flour, I couldn't help giggling. It had been a disastrous weekend in so many ways. Naturally, Mr. Whiskers was a pest; however, he was just about the most diverting cat I had ever met.
When Karen came home, I told her everything. She laughed so hard she cried that I realized that despite the chaos, I had a good time. Maybe things hadn't gone according to plan, but sometimes it's those times when the best stories happen.
Well, what could go wrong? When dealing with a cat like Mr. Whiskers, your answer will be "everything." Sometimes, that is exactly what makes life interesting.