Little Bo Bat has lost his...

I can't find my cat. Not Frank, the one in the picture, but Puck, the huge, fluffy, stupid white one.

Under normal circumstances I wouldn't even notice his dissapearance. But as luck would have it, I scheduled a vet appointment for 11am this morning, and I was hoping to find him and get rid of that large clump of matted fur on his back before stuffing him into the carrier so that the vet would have one less reason to look at me dissaprovingly and think "she doesn't deserve to HAVE a cat."

There are two possibilities. The first is that he saw me take the cat carriers upstairs last night, somehow linked them in his brain to the vet, and ran and hid. However, since this cat eats plastic wrap on a regular basis and can't figure out how to walk around a screen door to get in the house, I'm thinking he might be lost. Steve saw him last night around dinner time, and then... well, he might have slipped outside. It's huge out there. He might have run into the road. There are animals that might hurt him... like birds and deer. He is not very bright.

In the meantime, I have run all over the house looking in every nook and cranny, calling his name and shaking a bag of cat treats. I looked in drawers, in closets, and in toilets. I am trying not to remember that time Puck got caught in the wall (IN THE WALL) at our other place. I am trying not to think about how a large, sixteen pound cat who knocks things off shelves and sounds like a heard of elephants when he runs should be a little easier to find. Especially when he's ALL WHITE.

And when I show up at the vets with only one cat instead of two, the look the vet will give me will be oh, so much worse than the one for the clumpy fur.