Missing: one striped kitty. Possibly thinks he is a vulture.

Missing: one striped kitty. Possibly thinks he is a vulture.

My cat growing up was a black cat named Mickey (it’s not the most creative name, but I got him when I was 12, right after a trip to DisneyWorld, and my other idea for a name was Jonathan Brandis, so I suppose Mickey did okay in the name department, all things considered, in spite of the obvious irony of naming a cat after a famous mouse) and he was a very bad cat. Well, perhaps more accurately, he was a lovely cat who did a lot of bad things. He was insanely mischevious and also seemed to be quite a bit smarter than the rest of us combined, as evidenced by the complicated hook and latch system we had to install on the patio door, lest he open it himself and escape to the back yard, where he always went immediately to the exact same patch of grass for a snack while he waited for me to catch him and toss him back in the house. (His commitment to getting outside was truly extraordinary, as was his ingenuity. If only he had used his powers for good and not evil.) I think the final version was the third or fourth iteration, after he managed to break the lock that came with the door, and then also figured out how to open the door while it was attached to the frame with a rather strong elastic.

We called this security system a Mickey Lock, and I commented to my mom yesterday afternoon that I thought we should probably install a Mickey Lock on our patio doors, because Oliver is also a cat who does bad things, not to mention a bit of a daredevil, so I assumed he would at some point escape and would likely base-jump off the deck like Norton did last summer and into the backyard below, from where he might be inclined to relive his glory days of life on the streets. Last night before bed, Mike came to tell me he couldn’t find Oliver anywhere. We assume he must have gotten out during the day when the kids were playing outside. He’s still not home, and I am trying desperately not to fret about it. Mike searched for him for hours last night, occasionally hearing the jingle of his collar in the yards and on the street behind us, but never quite managed to catch him. He eventually came home around 12:30 because there was a police car on that street and he figured pacing around in front of homes in the dark might not seem very neighbourly.

I have put a big dish of tuna in the back yard, but it is going to storm soon and I am worried and sad. I really hope he comes home soon.