My cat is gone.  To the best of our knowledge she must have wandered out an open door sometime after dinner last night and this morning she is lost. I am sick over it.  Sick.  Worried.  Sick.

We did the usual things - ran around the neighborhood calling for her, driving around looking for her, tearing apart the garage and closets just in case she was hiding out in the moving mess.  Nothing.  My cat "ran away".  Yes, I know there are bigger problems in the world - war, poverty, illness, hunger - but still, my cat is gone and it's just all I can do to not imagine her in a terrible situation.  My mom said to put some food outside and maybe she'll just show up.  Maybe.  But what if she doesn't?  What will I do?

I found Camille in 1997 in a dumpster behind a frat house during a party.  I took her home with me because she looked so sick and bad off that my intention was to give her a nice, warm, comfortable place to spend her last days.  Those last days have gone on for the last ten years.  She's a cuddle cat.  She loves my children.  She is a loving cat.  And now she's gone.  I realize I should be grateful for the ten years I had with her, but I'm finding it very hard to remain optomistic here.  For one thing we didn't have her collar on her because the address information needed to be changed.  There's the added complication that the cat simply does not know the new neighborhood and probably couldn't find her way back home.  And, my biggest fear, what if she got out in the large open area behind us - where the coyotes are? 

This is the second cat I've lost in a week.  Peyton 2 - our outside kitty at the old home - stayed behind with the other family who has been taking care of her too.  We couldn't just take her away when the other family also loved and cared for her.  So we let her go.  And she is fine with the other family - eating homemade, specialty tamales and relaxing to the sound of a mariache band.  Camille, though, has only ever lived inside.  With me.  She isn't fit for outdoor life. 

Wilson, I suppose in his way of trying to make me feel better, said "Let's get a new cat."  And then he said "Why are you crying?"  Because I don't want a new cat, I want my cat.  And if I can't have my cat I don't ever want another one. 

I've resisted saying "Why couldn't it have been that black dog?"  because that's just not right...  But you know, Camille never tore anything up.  This shouldn't have happened.  Not to the cat. 

Moving isn't going as well as one would have thought.