Second Story Banana Box

The light blue filing cabinet I found in the garbage on Saturday was better than the broken black filing cabinet I pulled out of the garbage a year ago. In the blazing 4 pm heat, I carried it home, the scratches and crankiness building apace.

The rest of the afternoon I spent culling and transferring my files. Do I need this article on seasoning cast iron? Yes. Do I need these five articles about stretching after running? No. Do I need all these records of how I pledged my allegiance to the Goob as my primary caregiver six months before I gave her the ol’ heave ho? Really really no.

At some point during this process, I heard some scrabbling in the boxes behind me. Anyone who’s had a cat and boxes in the same room knows that cat fur on cardboard makes a very distinctive sound.

I stood up, stretched my spine out, and went to find my cat. Seemed a pretty easy proposition. She’s not a small cat. There are not so many boxes. But I couldn’t find her. I looked in all the boxes I’d seen her in so far: the small one on the far right in the back, on top of the ones behind the Lovely Box Meghan B. brought me. In the banana boxes stacked three high on the left. Nowhere cat.

Again, the noise. She had to be in the banana box on the far left. Though I was sure I'd looked there.

I looked again. Further down. The top box was not to her liking, apparently. My cat, she is a banana box connoisseur.