Where Oh Where
Last night, our slender gray cat, Smoke, got lost. We didn't print up a bunch of fliers and paper the neighborhood, though; we're rather used to it. You see, she got lost the night before, too. And several days ago, as well. In fact, at least once a day or so, she can't be found; by herself, that is. She'll meow loudly, plaintively, in a way that echoes off the smooth tile that dominates our flooring, making her call much more demanding than it might otherwise sound. Like a little kid "lost" on the other side of a clothing rack, out of sight of mom, she calls out to be found. Her people are lost; where could they be? Don't they know where she is? The cry goes out, bouncing down the hall just as we start to drift off to sleep. No answer? A half-minute later, she tries again. Louder. A judgment is made: which disturbs our nascent slumber less - the noise, or mustering a rapidly dissipating consciousness to do something about it? "Smoke, we're in her