Running Out of Cats

"What was that?" Gertrude had looked up from her knitting just in time to have caught a glimpse of something flittering from one end of the room to the other.

"Ugh! It's a fairy!" Gogmagogg had seen it too and followed it over to the window where it stupidly bounced itself repeatedly against the glass as if there might be a soft spot it could pass through to the outside.

He scrunched his handkerchief up in his hand, trying to anticipate what the pest's next move might be in its futile attempts to continue on its way.

"Careful!" Cautioned Gertrude, clasping her husband's shoulder, having joined him as he tracked his quarry. "Some of them can turn you to stone!"

"Bah! Only if you miss," he quipped.

"Why don't you just let the cat get him?" Intrigued by the developments it had joined them and was now laser-focused on the tiny interloper as well.

"Because..." Gogmagogg lunged toward the window with his wadded-up rag. There was a sickly crunch as he caught the winged nuisance square against a pane. "We're running out of cats."

He let the broken critter fall to the floor among an ever-growing collection of petrified felines.