We returned from a three-day business trip expecting to swim in our new pool for the first time. Instead, our cat planted himself at the back door and refused to cross the threshold. Then Glenn spotted something floating near the deep end, froze, and quietly told me to get the security footage.
Musk had never been afraid of the backyard.
He had spent the entire summer supervising the pool construction from behind the glass, glaring at every contractor who dared operate machinery without consulting him.
Now he sat in the hallway with his tail wrapped around his paws.
“Musk,” I called.
He looked at me. Then at the patio. Then he turned around and walked upstairs.
Glenn frowned.
“That cat just warned us.”
“This felt different, Bes,” Glenn said, worried.
I opened the sliding door.
The smell reached me first.
Warm soda.
Wet paper.
Chlorine fighting a battle it had already lost.
Our brand-new pool, the pool we had saved 14 months to build, looked like somebody had emptied a convenience store into it.
Juice boxes floated beside pizza crusts. Paper plates drifted near the shallow end, carrying swollen hot dog buns like tiny life rafts.
One lounge chair had a cracked leg.
The other had collapsed completely.
Cupcake frosting decorated the paving stones.
A plastic fork stuck out of my lavender bed.
Glenn stood behind me in complete silence.
He was a patient man. But when he saw a soda can resting inside the new skimmer basket, his left eye twitched.
“That chair cost $400.”
“Why does the flower bed have nachos in it?”
“I don’t know.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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