This is Chester. He was looking very benign before he left.
Now I can’t find him.
He’s in none of the usual hiding spots.
He’s not hiding under any of the beds.
He’s not hiding in any of the cupboards.
He’s planning something. It might be my demise. I’m still trying to figure out what he could gain from my death. Not having to listen to me reading chapters of my books?
That, to him, might be a blessing.
I found a magazine on the floor open at an article entitled, ‘Ways to check if your spouse is trying to kill you’.
It’s got me doubly worried now.
I saw him on the kitchen bench near my coffee cup.
How hard could it be for him to dip his paw into some poison or other and then put it in my coffee cup?
That expressionless expression gives him away.
It’s what he’s not saying that’s telling me everything.
Behind that bland face, there’s the heart of a plotter, plotting something bigger than blowing up parliament by Guy Faulks.
I’m going to keep a very close eye on him. Very, very close.
When I find where he’s hiding.