Cuchulainn was moved to tears by the story of Mr. Goobers, who had been lost for days and was probably very scared. If anyone saw him, they were not to approach him! There was a number to call on the Lost Cat notice, which Cuchulainn had volunteered to post in the surrounding neighborhoods. When no one called after 24 hours, he took initiative and began a search.
He had actually never met Mr. Goobers, so it was challenging trying to think like him, yet he felt a connection to this runaway. When he finally spotted him, it dawned on Cuchulainn that whether this cat was lost or carelessly adventuring, the onus really fell on his guardian, old Mrs. Hamilton, and no one saw her marching the streets, spyglass in hand, devoted to rescuing her beloved pet. No! It was only Cuchulainn out there, knocking on doors and trespassing through basement windows. There was no one for miles that had not been trained by Cuchulainn in pet first aid. His lips had spoken the tale of Mr. Goobers to a thousand ears, and his peeled eyes no doubt aged a decade from overwork. Where was Mrs. Hamilton? At home, fawning over her other cat, the fat and happy Cornelius! Did she really love Mr. Goobers or was this some wild skulduggery to collect insurance?
“She is wicked,” said Cuchulainn. “It is my love and care he needs.”
He disobeyed the prime directive of his expedition, approached the cat, and gently abducted him.
He arrived home with a plan. “Uncle!” he said. “Where is your camera? We must send the Hamilton woman a message. We must send the world a message.”
“Oh, she just stopped by,” said the uncle. “She wanted to thank you for helping get Mr. Goobers home this morning. She brought a quiche.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What happened to you? You smell like piss.”