He looked at me. I looked at him. He looked at me again. And then he jumped.
My cat's leash and harness, I realized then, were conveniently in my hand instead of on his small furry frame (yes, I said cat leash), crappy flip-flops were on my feet, and I was flying through the air over six brownstone steps, certain of several things including the incredulous stares from our neighbors and the likelihood of a sprained ankle in my very near future. But above all, I was sure of one thing: my fiancée would become my ex and they'd never find my body if I let our cat run away during one of our thrice-weekly