It's an extremely fretful day here, as one of the other cats (Mithrandir), the big grey, appears to be living up to his name. Specifically, he's nowhere to be found, and investigations around the house, neighborhood and yard are not turning him up.
Now, we have a cinderblock-walled yard, and my father-in-law and husband use it for storage of an amazing amount of crap, and there are several closets in the house that are difficult to adequately search for similar reasons (It's a freaking good thing I own almost nothing, is all I'm saying) and we live on the sort of quiet street where kids play soccer on the street, and Mith *is* a 23-pound cat, so I'm reasonably confident of his ability to look out for himself. And since every house on the block has a six-foot cinderblock wall around the yard, going out looking for him is not particularly useful.
But Chris is panicking, and it's rubbing off on me.
I'm hoping he comes home when it gets cold and he gets hungry. Meanwhile, Chris is out looking, and I'm wandering out into the yard periodically to call and bang tuna tins, even though the last time I saw him, he was in the house, and I don't know how he could have gotten out. If he's not back tonight, though, I have to go check shelters tomorrow.
Prayers for the little idiot's safe return would not be out of order, if you are the praying sort.
Meanwhile, of course, I have a chest cold and a fever.
I really do not need more drama in my life than it already has. For fuck's sake.
In other news, I posted an excerpt from One-Eyed Jack over at elizabethbear.
And it's the anniversary of the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, although green_key beat me to it.