Her nose was running and she seemed awfully puffed out—even for an already puffy cat. Was she totally swollen up by an allergen other than dandruff?

I knelt and stroked the side of her cheek with the back of my fingers, ran my hands over her body, looking for the mass of giant hives I was sure I’d find.

Nothing. She was simply all bloated fur and loud purrs.

“I am truly sorry for leaving you overnight. Are you telling me you have feline separation anxiety?”

Chablis blinked slowly, opened her mouth and squeaked. How pitiful. She’d lost her voice. She had to be sick. With a virus? Or leukemia? Cats do get leukemia.

Quit it, Jillian. Call the vet.

When I stood to pull my phone from my jeans pocket, I heard Merlot’s deep, loud meow and saw him perched on the seat cushions that line the dining area’s bay window—a spot that provides a spectacular view of Mercy Lake. He knows the entire lake belongs to him, despite never having been closer than the window. But he hadn’t been sitting there when I first came in, and he wasn’t gazing out on the water. No, Merlot was looking right at me and his fur was all wild and big, too.

Since he isn’t allergic to anything, dumb me finally realized that they were both scared.

And then I saw why.

Broken glass glittered near Merlot’s paws—paws that could each substitute for a Swiffer duster.

My heart skipped. Broken glass . . . a broken window. “Merlot! Be careful.” Fear escaped with my words. I attempted to mask my distress by smiling as I walked over to him.

Yeah, like Mr. Brainiac Cat would buy this fakery.

I petted his broad orange and white tiger-striped head while making sure none of his paws was bleeding. He seemed fine other than that he reminded me more than ever of one of those huge, shaggy stuffed animals at a carnival.