The case of the missing Kiz

Last Saturday, Terry, my husband, and I had to go out of town to help clean up our favorite campground, getting it ready for the season. Somehow, while we were gone, a door was left open. According to the boys, who stayed home, it was the work of those pesky poltergeists Ida Know and Not Me, but it was the kittens who took advantage of it. At least, it was one of the kittens. Timid Karma only shows an interest in the front door when I come through it at the end of the day because when Mommy comes home, Food comes out of hiding.

Bold Kismet, on the other hand, has been haunting the door for weeks, sniffing the mysteries of spring and wanting to get out there and explore every nook and cranny. Since the babies were only 5 weeks old, they've only been outside in a pet carrier to go visit the vet.

But Kiz got out and had a fine time exploring. He finally found out what thing went with what smell. He got to touch noses and say hello to the neighborhood cats. It was just as exciting and interesting as he'd dreamed.

What he hadn't dreamed, however, was the near-tornado that swept through the neighborhood a few hours later.

The closest brush Kiz has had with rain in the past five months has been his bizarre and unfeline obsession with the shower in the master bath. As soon as he hears the water hit the tile floor, he's in the bathroom. As soon as the person steps out of the shower, he's in there, playing with the puddles. Then, feet wet and whiskers dripping, he decides it's time to go jump on Mom and wake her up.

This was no quick shower. The rain came down in sheets, the wind howled, and this strange and fascinating new world turned dark and terrifying. He ran. He hid.

When we got home and realized he'd gotten out, it was still raining and the temperature was dropping faster than GM stock. We called, but the cat didn't come back.

The next morning, frost nipping at our noses and the neighbor's nasty little Pomeranian nipping at our heels, we scoured the neighborhood. I peeked into more bushes and sheds and crawled through more underbrush than Homeland Security. No Kismet. There's one cat in the neighborhood that's marked up like he is, mostly white with gray cap, ring-tail and a few spots, but it's a hugely pregnant female. Every time we'd see her from a distance, we'd get excited and run for her. Then she'd stand up, looking like she'd just swallowed a Pomeranian. Whole. (I could only wish.)

I was devastated. Karma is admittedly my favorite for purely egocentric reasons -- Karma likes me best. But I love Kiz and I know my guys do too. Besides, it just felt wrong, hearing only one cat-elephant crossbreed gallumphing down the hall instead of two. I didn't sleep well Saturday or Sunday night, which made waking up worse. I had to wake up on my own -- no Kismet sneezes in my ear, no nose nibbles or chest compressions.

Karma seemed just as upset. He walked the halls constantly, meowing and making that weird "prrrt" noise that sounds like the tricorder from Star Trek. He kept peeking into the weird cubbyholes Kismet liked to sleep in -- the ancient high chair in the den, the lazy Susan corner cupboard, the plastic tub under the bathroom sink, and the big utensil drawer on the kitchen island. No Kismet. A puzzled Karma would "prrrt" again and beam himself up to the next hiding place.

Monday, I didn't want to go home. It was too depressing. But I was hoping that the warmer weather would have drawn the boy out of his warm hiding place -- and I was right. I spotted him in our own backyard, sneaking from one shed to another. I cornered him, but two days of living in the wilderness of our backyard had changed him. He backed into a corner, wariness coiling his little body into one giant, razor-tip loaded cat spring.

I got down on my knees and just kept calling him, talking to him, and reminding him of all the evil and immoral acts his ancestors have ever done. I questioned his legitimacy and insulted his personal hygiene, all in a perfectly calm, cheerful, sweet voice. In short, I called him every name in the book in tones that Doris Day would approve.

He crept toward me, his head tilted up. His nose was twitching and as soon as he caught my scent, I could see the little light bulb blink on over his tiny, empty skull.

Mom.

He jumped into my lap and practically crawled into my sweater. I may not be fluent in Cat, but I didn't need a translator to understand "Get me OUT of here! Take me HOME! FEED me!"

The odd thing was -- Karma, who seemed to miss his brother so much, totally freaked out. Monday was the first time in his entire life he was left completely alone and I think he must have liked it. I brought Kiz inside, expecting a joyful family reunion. Instead, I get Satan-possessed Karma with his tail bottled out and hissing, yowling like a Kardashian girl.

"My house," growls Karma. "My house. My people. My food!"

He proceeded to roll along the rug, using the scent glands under his jaw to stake his claim, for a solid 20 minutes. Kismet ignored him and just sat down to wash. And wash. And wash. Apparently, whatever smell Kismet brought back with him from the Wilderness that disturbed Karma so much got washed off and by nightfall, they were back to cuddling together on the end of the bed, cleaning each other's faces, and chasing each other wildly through the house to defend their people from the deadly invasion of paper towels, dryer lint and potted plants.

It was as though nothing had changed -- except Kismet no longer has that bizarre and unfeline obsession with the shower. It's just a little too much like rain ...

­-- Mary Reeves is a staff writer for the Times-Gazette. She can be reached by e-mail at mreeves@t-g.com.