My name is 'Sid. Short for Obsidian.

One night, I took a stroll. Mom opened up THAT door; you know, the one to a whole new place!!! Usually, I play in the dirt or in the bushes as she waters her plants and she then chases me back inside. That night, after playing in the bushes, she didn't come down right down and get me. I was feeling pretty bold. I went exploring.

There were lots of bushes
There were grassy places
There were bugs to chase
There were loud, noisy things--you know, those big, hyper things that bark
There were other people
I hid under a bush until the people went away
And the barking things.

It was a nice night. Cool. The wind was blowing too. It started blowing more and more and stuff started flying out of the grass!! That was fun. I chased, and chased, and chased.

Suddenly,
All was wet
Really wet
Big drops of wet coming from the sky!!
I'd better go home.

Hmmmm.
There's my stairs.
There's my door.

I saunter in. I'm such a big kitty!!

Hey!
Where did all my stuff go??
Who is that on the couch??

I sneak up and take a peak. I don't know who that is. It's not my mom. It's not my dad. Nothing smells right. Uh oh, it's moving, I'd better hide.

I find another room. This one doesn't have any of my stuff either. It's all full of things and I don't recognize any of it. Where am I?? Who are these strange people in my house?? What have they done to my mom??

I sleep--keeping one eye open and one ear cocked. Lots of strange small people. Lots of noise. I don't know what to do. I'm hungry.

Wait . . . .
That sounds like mom!!

I peak out from under the bed. It smells like mom but I don't see her. Maybe if I climb up a little farther . . . . Oh no!! They saw me!! I still don't see mom. I try to hide but they grab me. What do I do???

It seems like forever. They try to keep me from getting back under the bed. I know I smelled mom. Where are they hiding her??

What's that??
There's someone trying to get me to move again.
They're trying to grab me.
My hiding place isn't so good anymore. I better find a new one.

I rush out ready to make a dash for safety. She's here!!! Mom!!!!

She scoops me up. We go out the door. I'd hide, but she's holding on too tight.

We walk
Through the hall
Outside
Across the grass
Around the bushes
In the door

Suddenly, everything smells right. I leap to the ground and run up the other stairs. There's MY door. I try to crawl under it but I'm too big. Mom finally catches up to me. She opens the door.

MY THINGS!!
ALL MY STUFF!!
ALL THE RIGHT SMELLS!!

MY FOOD!!!

The next day, this gate thing appeared blocking the stairs. I can't climb down and play in the bushes. I guess that's ok. Mom says that cats are supposed to be really good at finding their way home. I'm not. Maybe that means I'm not really a cat.

---

'Sid spent the night in a neighbors apartment. I was panicked. He usually didn't wander past the bush at the bottom of my deck stairs. He was having fun so I let him play. When it started to rain, however, I went out to see why he hadn't come in. I've always had cats who went in and out. I've never had one who got lost! I was out, wandering the sidewalks calling for him every couple hours that night. The next day, after posting signs all over, we discovered that a neighbor kid's dad had seen "a black cat wandering in their sliding glass door". It ran right out, or so they said. After looking through their apartment once--I was so hopeful--and not finding him, I had just walked into my own when one of the kids came running to my door."He's there!!" was all I got. Apparently, after I left, 'Sid climbed out from under the bed. He was petrified, to say the least, and very, very, happy to be home. I can't imagine how a cat must feel--the apartment he was in was in the same position in the building as ours, just a few buildings off. He must have felt like his whole world was gone.

Needless to say, 'Sid is Onyx's opposite. While he loves to hunt crickets (we feed them to the frog and somethimes they get out), I have a hard time seeing him catch anything. He's just turned two now and still in the terrible teens (worse than the terrible two's). He's trying to help me write -- well, trying to bite my fingers as they type.

Copyright © Susan E. Zeigler, 2002. All Rights Reserved.