The Dowbrigade has been in this situation, many times. Worse, since the little wanderer in our family is an eight-year-old female honey-colored Tabby named, appropriately, Honey. She’s not supposed to go out, but does, regularly.
Early one Sunday morning last winter there we stood on our porch, just like Arlo, shivering in our bathrobe and half-blind without our glasses.
“Honey, Hunnn-eeeey,” we half-hissed in a loud stage whisper, not wanting to wake the neighbors, “Honey, c’mere, come on Honey, come to Papa…”
Norma Yvonne, who was watching out the window, hoping to get a glimpse of her “hijita” reports a look of astonishment on the face of the stout older woman, undoubtedly on her way to the nearby Armenian Orthadox Church, as she looked the Dowbrigade up and down.
“You better not be talking to me, Mister….”
Ever since, every time we call our cat at home, Norma intones, “You better not be talking to me, Mister….”