Back when we lived in the loft, Gallagher always used to rush the door and run about half way up the stairs and then turn around and look back at us. She’s always been a drama queen, wanting to be chased, needing her alone time and hiding places… the usual. This ritual usually meant I would follow her, she would go up one more flight and then she would “let me catch her”. This happened almost nightly (and was actually occasionally fun if I was stoned).

One night she had apparently gotten out in to hallway unnoticed. It was kind of late, maybe around midnight, and the phone rings. Phone ringing in general makes The Lady nervous, but late night phone ringing is outer limits.

We’re screeners so I let the machine get it. It’s our nice upstairs neighbor muttering something about one of our cats getting out. Always good in a crisis, The Lady reacts: “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god… which one, which one, which one?”. I pick up the phone and find out she’s just in the hallway. The Lady then trims her mantra to just “Which one?” so I ask the nice neighbor (like he knows the names of our, at the time, 8 cats). “Uuuuhhhhh, the pretty one?”

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