lost and found

When I came home from work yesterday Simon wasn't there to greet me at the door.

Now, this might not seem like much, but in Sarah-Simon world it's the equivalent of the sun failing to rise. My kitty is always there to greet me at the door. Always.

Maybe he's taking a nap, I thought. He'll be along in a second, as soon as he hears my footsteps.

Nope. I started to call him. He didn't come. In Sarah-Simon world his failing to come when I call is like the sun rising black. So then I started to worry. Someone had mown my lawn for me -- was it my landlord? Did he come into the house and somehow let Simon out? Did Simon get into the basement and crawl out through one of the glassless windows?

My calls became a little more frantic. I searched under the bed. I checked the bathroom. I glanced in the library. No kitty. My calls became desperate.

Then I forced myself to calm down, because I thought I'd heard a faint miaow. I called again, and heard it for certain -- somewhere in the house. I followed the noise into the library and he was definitely somewhere in the (tiny, tiny) room. But I couldn't see him. I kept calling.

And found him trapped behind one of the bookcases.

It was in the corner, balanced across the corner so that there was a little triangulation of space behind it. Simon was sounding pretty frantic himself by then, and terrified, but talking to him in soothing tones, I started pulling books off the shelf so I could move it, wondering all the time how on earth he got back there. There's no way in along the walls or the floor. My best guess was that he tried jumping on the top shelf from one of the other shelves, overshot himself, and fell down (six feet) to the floor behind the case.

I started wiggling the bookcase, and Simon started trying to get out. I was worried that he had hurt himself, and that I would accidentally wiggle the heavy case on a paw or tail. I said, "Look out!" -- one of my catch-phrases that he actually understands, whenever I say that in a certain tone of voice, he always moves out of the way -- and he retreated to the very back of the corner. I tugged and yanked until there was just enough space for a slinking cat and called him to come. He wormed his way out (talk about trust: He looked a little doubtful of the fit but came because I called him) and ran into the kitchen. I followed and loved him up and fed him dinner.

He wasn't hurt, just a little traumatized and clingy. I have no idea how long he'd been back there -- anywhere from five minutes to six hours, since I'd come home at lunch and left him wandering free.

Stupid cat. I told him, as I slumped into a chair, "You've had more brilliant moments...as in, any other moment in your life."

But he seemed relaxed by the end of the evening -- even did, for the first time since moving in to the new house, his Floppy Love Kitty routine where he flops on the floor and writhes around, as Mary O'Hara writes in Green Grass of Wyoming, "in an ecstasy of love."

So all's well that ends well -- as long as he tries no more bookshelf acrobatics.