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2002-11-09 - 10:55 a.m.

I have a knack for losing things.

Library books, which I end up buying. The mates to socks. Manuals accompanying gadgets. Christmas wrapping paper purchased on sale the previous year. Reminders and other important notations jotted on small scraps of paper. Snow shovels (don’t ask). House keys. My summer wardrobe. My mother’s emerald and diamond ring (ouch). Mini cassette recorders. My glasses (both pair). Some would say my mind; most would say my temper. And cats.

I prefer thinking I’ve misplaced all I’ve lost, but it’s hard to justify misplacing my mind or my temper. Or someone else’s cats.

Several times a year I’m responsible for caring for my neighbors’ and friends’ (who shall be known here as Mr. and Mrs. Gadabout) two cats. In my circle of friends, this task is referred to as Pussy Patrol. And, except for occasionally losing the cats, I’m very accomplished and capable of the chore. I go above and beyond the call of duty and, instead of merely dumping out dry chow or opening tin cans of fishy entrees, I take time to scratch their ears, nuzzle their smelly little faces and have insightful conversations with them, i.e. “Yo, boys, how’s with youse guys today?” “Sparky, my little man, you get a mouse today?” “So, Mr. Pickles, found yourself a woman yet?”

In the last few years I’ve been assigned Pussy Patrol numerous times while Mr. and Mrs. Gadabout enjoy the sun and sand in Hawaii and Jamaica or various other Caribbean locales, study with master clay artists in Japan, cuddle on romantic gondola rides in Venice or savor winter weeks in Florida. And all was good until one day last February. The day I lost Pugsly.

Mr. and Mrs. were probably enjoying juicy burgers and cold beers at Fudruckers on the beach while I was tromping through the timber, cold snow covering my ankles and leaking into my shoes and my heart threatening to pound through my chest. The Mr.’s favorite pussy had failed to show for dinner for the third day. On the fourth day I was slowly cruising the lake road, window down, cold winter air blasting through the car, yelling: “PUGSLY. Gawdammit, PUGSLY, come home!”

The snow melted, Mr. and Mrs. returned from The Sunshine State, but Pugsly never did come home. Deductive reasoning led us to think Pugs--who liked to crawl in cars--had jumped in the back of daughter number two’s boyfriend’s truck while they were home from college the weekend prior to his vanishing act, and Pugs had stayed in the truck and most likely moved to town.

In late spring, a wild, grungy yellow and white cat had moved to a tree hole in the Gadabout’s back timber. By early summer he had moved from his tree house to their backyard. Mr. named him Mr. Pickles and announced he was “Pugs reincarnate.” Mr. Pickles was a sorry sight. Obviously he’d fought hard to survive, his tail had been broken and jutted off at a crazy angle two inches from the end, and when he walked his behind cantered crazily to the left. And he didn’t really have a meow, more a little screech.

Mr. and Mrs. took him in, patiently working with him until he tamed and became a much loved--if oddball--pet.

Two weeks ago the Gadabouts went off to the boat show in Ft. Lauderdale, leaving me in charge of Sparky and Mr. Pickles. The last thing Mr. said to me was: “Don’t lose my favorite pussy.” I assured him I would do no such thing.

And then I lost him.

Last Thursday Mr. Pickles, usually the first to meet me in the driveway, didn’t show. On Friday, still no Mr. Pickles. I was in a panic. A 45-minute search of the surrounding timber, yelling for Pickles to get his scrawny, crooked behind home did not produce a hungry and grateful cat. I came home chastising myself for having lost another cat, and telling myself--out loud--I had 24 hours to locate the runaway.

But that wasn’t to be. Within 30 minutes of my arrival home the Mrs. called. They had come home a day early.

Oh shit.

“Ahhhhh,” I stuttered, “Were you guys there when I was stomping through the woods yelling at your cat?”

“No, we just got here.” she answered. “Why?”

Oh gawd. Why indeed!

“Because I’ve done it again. I’ve lost the Mr.’s favorite pussy!”

She laughed. “No you didn’t. He’s here at his dish.”

Thank gawd, this time I only temporarily misplaced a cat.

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