Fezzik In Paris

Two Americans, three cats, and too many places named "de Gaulle"

The water leak of nearly three years ago finally caught up with us, so we spent nearly the entirety of what should have been a lazy three day weekend for Victoire 1945 packing the cats up and shuffling the contents of our apartment around so as to make way for the repair work to be conducted on the paint and plaster.

Fezzik and crew, expensive thorns in our side that they are, could not accompany us to the Airbnb in which we’re waiting out the repairs. No, the fuzzy ones now find themselves in a luxurious hipster cat hotel. In a fit of guilt (no, the Purrito and I have not been telling each other how nice it is to have an apartment which stays clean, describing the joy of being able to leave one’s headphones out without finding the cord severed upon one’s return, or reveling in not having to clean the litter box, not at all), we visited them this past weekend; apparently this both assuaged our guilt and emboldened the furry bastards, who are now, as per the hotel’s email reports, acting like they own the place.

We would never have known it from the faces he was making, but even Fezzik missed us.

Maybe.

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