Good morning from damp and cloudy Vermont. Apparently it's been raining hard at home, but nothing much seems to be happening here so far.

I ought to go for a walk today. Yesterday afternoon, when I had a bit of off time, all I did was fall asleep on my nephew's bed, but that was a side-effect from the cat excitement of the day before. At about 6:30 p.m. I'd let Ruckus outside, expecting him to be back yowling at the door within a few minutes, which is his usual pattern. But by 7, no cat. I stepped outside and called. No cat. I walked around the neighborhood, Tom walked around the neighborhood. No cat. With growing anxiety, I went further afield to look at busy Forest Avenue to see if he'd been hit by car. No cat. It was getting dark, pushing 9 p.m., far later than he was ever out. He's 13 years old, not prone to wander and a luxuriant who likes his household comforts. Something had gone wrong.

With desperation I went to my computer to look up the Next Door online message board, planning to put up his photo and ask neighbors to check their sheds and garages. But lo and behold: someone else had already posted a photo of Ruckus in their house, with the caption "Is this your cat?" Turns out they lived more than a mile from us, far too long a distance for him to walk. What could possibly have happened?

Well, what happened is that the daughter of the house, a middle schooler, had been walking through our neighborhood, saw Ruckus crossing the street, worried that he might be lost or get hit, and in some still undetermined way carried him back to her house. Apparently, this is the downside of having a very friendly cat: people kidnap him. We were fortunate she had good intentions and her mother could deal with the situation. But lord.