Ladybug and cat noir drawing

Ladybug and cat noir drawing

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Ladybug and cat noir drawing, digital painting

"I'm gonna find you, Bugsy," he said, taking a step.

He wasn't sure if he was prepared to do this, but he also didn't have a choice.

He moved toward the front door, wondering where he'd left the keys. He went around to the side of the house. The door opened into a small entryway. He found the keys on a table in the entryway, his heart beating quickly. He unlocked the door and went in.

He didn't expect to see Bugsy, but he'd hoped to at least find him, see where he was being held.

"Bugsy," he called out, but got no answer.

No one answered.

He went from room to room, hoping against hope to find him. He finally checked a room downstairs in the back, his heart in his throat the whole time, but the room was empty. He took a deep breath, his heart slamming against his ribs.

He couldn't find his boy anywhere.

It hit him then that the cat might have escaped through the door.

He had no idea where the cat had gone, but he had to follow. He knew it was stupid to do, but he couldn't help himself.

There was a small garden at the back of the house. He went into it, not knowing what he was looking for, not really seeing the cat. He looked around, wondering if he'd be able to find it.

"Come on, Bugsy," he said, his voice rough and loud, echoing off the stone walls of the garden.

But there was no answer.

He stood in the garden for a long time, thinking about what he should do, thinking about how he'd find the cat and how he'd get it back to the house and how he'd explain to his son where it had gone. He could barely think.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't realize the door to the garden was locked. He could hear the cat outside, but there was no way he could get to it.

He went back to the front door, which was ajar. He didn't know how long he'd been outside, but he could tell that he'd been gone too long. The cat might be scared of the dog or the gun.

It was better to just leave and come back later.

He unlocked the door and went back in, turning to check on Bugsy. He knew the cat would be safe, but he hoped to God he was at least all right.

He'd had time to consider things and had decided that the only thing he could do was call the police.

But he had no idea where the nearest phone was or how long it would take to find one. And even if he was able to get a hold of the police, he wasn't sure what they would do. He'd been a kid once, but he'd never dealt with this.

He had no idea where Bugsy was. He had no idea where the cat had gone.

He stood in the house, his body shaking. His head spun.

He couldn't think.

He had to get out.

He moved fast, going to the kitchen and getting a glass of water. Then he went upstairs to the bathroom, hoping there would be a toothbrush. There was, but there were only a few. He took a new toothbrush and a toothpaste. Then he grabbed a handful of clothes from his closet.

He was going back outside.

He found his hat on the kitchen table. He put it on, pulling it low over his eyes, hoping the cat wouldn't see him.

He locked the front door, then went back to the garden.

There were footprints around the flower bed. He followed them to the cat's hiding place. He could hear the cat inside, moving around.

He got down on his knees and crawled to the cat.

It looked right at him, then looked away.


The cat hissed, a low, angry sound.

"Oh God, oh God," he said.

He knew it was stupid to do, but he picked the cat up by the scruff of its neck and held it in his arms, as if it were his son.

He got up and walked to the house, holding the cat in his arms. He unlocked the back door, then went in.

He placed the cat on the floor and went to the kitchen, opening the cupboard. He got a box of milk and some biscuits and took them to the cat.

"Come on, boy," he said.

He didn't know what the cat would do. It was so quiet in the house. He kept thinking it was a trick, that the cat had tricked him somehow.

But it hadn't tricked him.

He got the cat up and put it back on the shelf, then he left the room and went back into the living room. He stood there, looking around, trying to find his son.


No answer.

He couldn't think.

He was too afraid.

He went to the front door and looked out.

He went to the window in the living room and looked out, then he went to the window in the kitchen and looked out, but he saw nothing.

He took a step toward the bedroom, and he saw him.

His son was lying on his side in the corner, curled up. His face was turned toward the wall, and he was looking at something on the floor.

It was a dead mouse.

It looked like it had been dragged out of its hole.

It looked like Bugsy had found it.

It looked like he was crying.

The sight of his son lying in the corner, curled up, crying was like a kick in the gut.

He started crying then. He just


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