But that’s what happens when you go to a relaxed happy hour Thursday night organized through work and find out — surprise! — it’s also being sponsored by your employer. I think I was rather incoherent on the telephone that next day, and I’ve no idea how I made it through the night at my part-time job either. Best part? It was stumbling distance from home.

I got home today from my part-time job and was busy unloading my cell phone, smartrip lanyard, keys, wallet, and glasses, when I heard Tippy mewl. She always cries when I walk in the door because, inevitably, she’s always hungry. I glanced down at the floor, and didn’t see her, which is odd, because she always tries to give me her “look at me I’m a cutie kitty” expression when she wants something. As I notice I don’t see her, I also notice her meows seem, um, muted. Like she’s behind something. To be more specific, like she’s behind a door she can’t get out of.

Which is, really, not the thing any cat owner wants to hear. Well, any pet owner, I’d wager.

So here I am, tired after a long day at work, wanting not much else beyond a light supper, watching the second episode of HBO’s John Adams, and reading more of New City (which I found hidden on my bookshelf, by the way), and all of a sudden I’m a frantic mess. I rip open the closet door: no kitty. I’m hurrying through the kitchen opening every pantry door. I freak, because I’m afraid she somehow managed to get atop the fridge and then down behind it onto the window ledge (yes, my fridge just about completely obstructs a window).

So the meowing continues and I can’t find the fucking cat. After a few minutes of frantic searching, I think any cat owner in my position goes from thinking of their pet as a beloved furry companion to “that fucking creature.” Actually, one of my coworkers calls them “rats”, which makes no sense as I think even dog-lovers would find the average feline more attractive than a rat.

It occurs to me, as I glance about, that there’s one door I haven’t looked. There’s a linen closet in my foyer. I don’t actually use it for linens — I have a big old nice reading chair which blocks the door and makes access inconvenient. For that reason, I use the closet mostly for long-term storage, stuff I don’t need to access on a daily basis: lightbulbs, tools, extra paper towels, cat litter. At this moment, my mind clicks. What’d I do before going to work? I took out the trash, and changed the cat litter.

I pull the chair forward and open the door. Poor Tippy. She spent ten hours on the second shelf from the bottom, with no light, and little room to stretch or relax. The cat practically exploded out of the closet into my arms and showed her gratitude by rubbing her face in mine, purring, pawing at me, and then, finally, stretching her rump out into the air so that I’d scratch it for her. All this accomplished, she fled to the futon, where she’s spent the last half hour stretching out and contorting herself and rolling about.

I’d say that perhaps she won’t be interested in the closet the next time I open the door, but I think she probably will be. I feel so silly for not checking the closet. For all that they fight, my two cats are actually pretty closely attuned to the other’s noises. I think Tippy was probably crying for rescue every time she heard a noise: every time one of my neighbors opened their doors or walked past my apartment. And I think that was probably torture for Guy. Right now he’s lying at the foot of the futon, his back paws stretched out, his front two tucked under his white chest, his head inclined slightly up to where he can see through the slats of the frame as Tippy cleans herself.