All day long I’d had this feeling that he was going to try something. And I was right. Unable to go after me because of my safe deposit box threat, he decided to intimidate me by kidnapping my cat.

I checked the apartment for signs of forced entry. All the windows were locked, just as I’d left them when I went to Shalom. And then I remembered. The bathroom window. I always leave the bathroom window open. There’s no ventilation fan in my 1940s bathroom, and if the room doesn’t get any air, it’s fungus central in there. I’d run around the apartment that afternoon locking my windows, but I hadn’t bothered with the one in the bathroom. It was a small window, and I figured no one would be able to squeeze through it.

But I’d obviously been wrong. Marty had somehow managed to maneuver his bulk through the frame.

What a fool I’d been. Why the hell couldn’t I have shut the damn window? Wasn’t Prozac’s life worth a little fungus?

My heart pounding, I raced to the phone and, for the second time in less than a week, called 911.

“I want to report a kidnapping!” I wailed, trying not to think of what Marty might be doing to my beloved kitty with those ghastly dental instruments of his.

A sympathetic operator told me to be calm and took down my name and address.

“How old is the victim?” she asked.

“Seven.”

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

“Height and weight?”

“About eight inches tall, and sixteen pounds, but she’s on a diet and any day now I’m sure she’s going to be losing weight.”

“Hold on a minute, ma’am. Your little girl is seven years old and weighs only sixteen pounds?”

“She’s not my little girl. She’s my cat. Someone’s stolen my cat!”

“This is the emergency line, ma’am.” The kindly voice suddenly sounded a lot less kind. “You need to call the pound.”

“No, you don’t understand. This is a matter of life and death. My cat has been kidnapped by a murderer. Her life is in jeopardy.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t do cats.”

“But someone’s taken my Prozac!”

“There’s nothing I can do about that, either, ma’am. You’ll have to call your doctor for a refill on your prescription.”

“You don’t understand. I call my cat Prozac.”

“And I call mine Mr. Fluffy, but I’m afraid I still can’t help you, ma’am.”

Suddenly I was furious. Why was I paying taxes if the city couldn’t do a simple thing like help me find a kidnapped cat?

“I demand to talk to your supervisor,” I shrieked.

“One moment, please,” she snapped, and put me on hold.

At which point, there was a knock on the door.