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Because I'm highly superstitious and mildly obsessive-compulsive I don't want to discuss the activities of last night's Operation Sunkist events.  We have a bit of hope though.  Now please knock on wood.

I never realized how much Pumpkin looks like Sunkist.  He is his brother, but it somehow escaped me until now.  I really don't want my orange boys split up again.  It seems like they keep disappearing from my life one-by-one.  I'm supposed to be positive, I know, but it's not an easy thing to keep up when the traps are consistently empty or contain an inhabitant that isn't him.

The weather is getting warmer and I didn't lose circulation when I stepped outdoors so THANK JESUS H. CHRIST!  But when J drove me to The Shed on the four-wheeler I couldn't feel my butt as I attempted to liberate myself from the contraption.  Who needs butt sensation anyway?  Well, I can think of one sector of the community that probably needs butt sensation.

Speaking of sensation, our night vision camera is on our kitchen table and, because I don't know how to turn it off, it probably contains nineteen photos of Peter's penis because he keeps walking over it.  Peter is a cat—not some strange man wandering around my house taking photos of his wienerschnitzel.

It's been 27 days.

We're trapping in a different location and it's taking up all of my time and hope and willpower.  The Shed doors have been closed since Thursday and it's a real possibility that some creature—hopefully not a mutant unicorn or a deranged Wyomingite—is locked inside.  I just don't have room in my house to take in a special-needs occupant.

We're trapping in this House of Treasures because it has recently started smelling like Eau de Parfum of cat pee.  And the cat pee smell fluctuates.  I've also examined bits of fecal matter deposited around The Shed and I'm of the belief that it came from a cat's bowels.  I'm pretty much like the female Inspector Gadget.  But things don't self-destruct around me.  Not yet anyway. 

In order to trap inside The Shed I had to put up with a lengthy discussion with the decidedly-retarded real estate agent in charge of the house.  It was as if I was speaking Alien Tongue.  I had to repeat myself approximately 182 times and each time her response was pretty much a series of grunts and gurgles with a "Huh?" thrown in here and there.  When she managed to actually put a sentence together she told me "There's not a cat in there" and I'm like "WTF do you, who have the intelligence of a stone, know about this?"  Actually I didn't say that, but I finally convinced her that she was most likely the biggest moron on the face of the Earth and she agreed.  So we obtained permission to walk through the enchanting doors of The Shed, which clearly must contain some sort of precious treasure hidden in its depths based on her insistence that I not place a single toe inside the magical building. 

Yes Lady, I really want that 80's sofa with the puffy arms.  I want it so badly I drool every time I step foot inside The Shed.  Please let me have it.  I know it will look delightful and charming in my home that is decorated with posters of The New Kids on the Block.

It's been 26 days.

It warmed up a bit yesterday—this means wearing two pairs of pants and three shirts that flattened my boobs like a sports bra.  I was looking quite attractive. 

Fortunately the wind didn't threaten to blow my private regions off into the sunset.  I could actually hear last night when I was out looking for him.  Of course, that didn't help much because every noise was him.  My breathing was so erratic that I was actually hearing myself.  And my eyes kept seeing flashes of light.  Surely aliens didn't pack up their things, follow Jenne home from seeing the Marfa lights, and travel through the phone lines to Wyoming.  Or maybe they did.  It would likely be a familiar place for them to immigrate—bizarre, barren, unfriendly, uninhabitable.  I'm pretty sure that's what happened.

I had another (well, two) encounter with the imaginary cops last night.  While standing near the shed, debating whether to risk going in and getting blown away by the deranged neighbors, a car came into view and I immediately and psychicly (yes that's a word) determined it was a cop.  So I ran through the sagebrush yet again.  I must be getting quite good at running through knee-high bushes and uneven terrain in the dark because I actually made it back to the house without breaking off my fibula.

I also had a run-in with an annoyed antelope while I was trying to flatten myself against the shack behind our house—the second cop sighting.  The antelope was making all sorts of grunting noises and I couldn't turn on the flashlight to scare him away, or see if he was sitting right beside me, because, obviously, I was hiding.  He didn't mow me down but I had thoughts of being trampled by an antelope and how that would work out for me.

Last night was not a good night in terms of being hopeful.  I didn't find Sunkist—apparently he wasn't interested in using the loo.  We didn't trap.  But there was some sign of a tasting at the Kitty Buffet.  It's most likely just those pesky neighborhood cats mooching.  They probably all sit around, napkins in their laps, and discuss politics in British accents while they dine on the select morsels.

I did look at some pictures of Sunkist and attempted to speak to him telepathically.  Unfortunately when I try to clear my mind I start chanting "nothing, nothing, nothing" to myself and then I realize I have an itch that I should scratch and then I start wondering how I'll ever get the laundry finished.  Apparently I'm just not cut out to have a clear and calm mind.  I'll keep trying to do the telepathic thing though because I'm just cool like that. 

I'm now considering buying a cartload of whole fish at the lame grocery store, if they even carry fish, to hang from every surface around our house.  The soon-to-be warm weather will make it stink to high heaven and maybe that'll make him come running home.  I know it's a rather disturbing idea, but I have a lot of those lately.  This ordeal makes people, or maybe just me, do very bizarre things.

God.  I hope he is recovered soon.  I may start sitting on the floor all day drooling, making up songs, and picking my toes before too long.

It's been 24 days.

I'm straying from my single-track focus.  WTF is the deal with gas prices?  This is just wrong.  I'm not going to buy some electric car because there's no way I could fit my entire family and my skincare products inside.  Plus, I don't want to drive around in a rollerskate.  My car is quite fuel efficient.  Today it cost me $59.67 to fill it up.  I can't take these gas prices anymore.  We should revolt.  A Gasoline Revolution where we all hang out at gas stations in long underwear and screech like monkeys until they lower the prices.  I believe that would do the trick.

We live in an area where the oil industry has literally made this county.  If it weren't for the oil and gas industry this place would still be a giant tumbleweed inhabited by people without teeth and skin like beef jerky.  I don't want the prices to drop below $2 a gallon, but pretty soon it's going to be difficult for the companies here to actually service the industry.  Nobody will be able to afford to drive to work, much less perform their duties.  We'll all go on welfare.  The oil and gas industry will be forced into non-existence.  Then what?  Probably we'll all move to Iraq because the living conditions are better.

The other day I was told that we can expect gas prices to get up to $8 a gallon here sometime this summer.  At that point I'll be joining a commune in Peru where I can wear muu-muu dresses and no undergarments. 

We didn't catch anybody last night, but that was expected because we didn't trap.  The Kitty Buffet had no visitors.  Not even an overweight redneck wearing overalls, his toothless wife, and their 18 children.  

Our night vision camera didn't arrive today because UPS dared to have an airplane mechanical issue.  Damn them.  How dare they not deliver my package because an airplane might be dangerous?  They should've flown anyway and left it to chance. 

I love the world today. 

I would feel better if, tonight, Sunkist knocks on the door and asks to use the loo.

It's been 23 days.

I can feel the lack of hope by those around me, both virtually and physically.  It's a bitter pill to swallow. 

However, the support I am getting is something I wrap up in a box and store until I need it.  It's encouraging to have others sending good thoughts our way.  Thank you.

I'm handling this situation much better than I would typically expect from myself.  I'm not continuously falling apart.  I'm not destroying things—besides the cleanliness of my home.  And I'm not bumbling nude through the sagebrush.  It's probably in part from medication and part from the absolute need to recover him.

I don't have much to report.  Last night was bitterly cold so we set up a Kitty Buffet with Jack Mackerel and tuna.  J touched the Jack Mackerel with bare hands and has been making comments relating to vulvas all day.  I'm married to a pervert and I'm proud of it—he'll probably vomit up his prostate when he realizes his wife posts bits of information he'd probably prefer to keep between us. 

At 3 AM I went outside for an hour and called him.  I nearly turned into an icicle in the process, especially when I sat on the ground for 20 minutes.  My butt did not appreciate that move.  I thought I heard him several times but I'm just wanting to hear him so badly that I'm pretty sure I'm making it up.  I did, however, hear that sound that I assumed was a deranged bird.  I'm not so sure anymore.  The sound is vaguely reminiscent of a cat fight, but not really.  I wondered if it was a creature, like a rabbit or mouse, being hunted.  Maybe it was Sunkist trying to make his way towards me and being chased by another cat.  I have no idea, but it made me want to run the 5 acres to get to the noise and help whoever may have been in a bad situation.  But that's an absurd idea.  Thankfully I realized it.

This morning a good portion of the Jack Mackerel was gone.  The tuna wasn't touched.  Apparently cats like food that smells like the perfume Vulva.  I'm assuming this information, of course.  I don't happen to own Vulva.

Our night vision camera will arrive tomorrow and hopefully we'll get footage of him coming to eat.  I hope he is.  Also, my mom may fly in this weekend and help call him.  He'd been living with my parents for a year and he comes to her so hopefully that happens.  If it does it's a sure sign that when he looks at me he says "Not the Mama!"

It's been 22 days.

I haven't updated, much to y'alls' glee I'm sure, because yesterday was The Day From Hell.  Seriously, Satan must have jumped in my purse when I was in Pinedale a few days ago.  I'll have to fumigate soon.

After the sleepless night trying to capture Orange Kitty #3 across the subdivision I came home for the last time and got ready to take a trip to the post office.  Yes, visits to the post office are Earth-shattering events here.  As I was gathering my shoes I realized Pip had an enormous hard lump underneath his eye.  Naturally I overreacted and saw the world crashing in around me—but I give myself huge leeway in this situation due to the absurd level of stress of these past 3 weeks.  So I threw a huge tantrum, cried tears I didn't think I had left, carried Pip around like a baby, and proceeded to make an embarrassingly overwrought call to the vet. 

She got him in, sedated him to the point where he was a limp noodle, and determined he needed to have a molar removed.  An anesthetic-required procedure—thoughts of anesthesia make my heart stop beating.  The appointment was set for today, as well as getting Miller in for a dental so they'd be done at the same time.  I spent the last 3 hours of the day attempting to sleep around phone calls about Orange Kitty #3 (the people were being incredibly helpful) and the persistent attempts of my intestines to lurch out of my throat. 

This morning I dropped the boys off at the vet, talked myself out of driving off the bridge, and checked the trap, which did contain Orange Kitty #3.  I think this may actually be Orange Kitty #4, but who the hell knows anymore?  Orange Kitty #3 is not Sunkist.  In fact, he belongs to the man across the street and I think he was a bit puzzled when he saw me freeing his cat.  He came over and promised to let me know if he saw another orange kitty around.

Fortunately the boys are okay, but quite sore and grumpy, and they are 1.5 teeth short for a grand total of $840.  J is just grumpy all around and I'd prefer if he'd go on a vacation—alone.  The weather has turned quite bad (this means snow—in June—Wyoming—seriously?) and trapping is out of the question, so we've set up a disturbingly fishy kitty buffet and ordered a ridiculous night vision camera to see if Sunkist is coming around.  Finding a displaced cat is expensive financially and emotionally.

I had a dream that I caught him by our trailer.  I snatched his ass up and held on for dear life.  Sheer relief.  Then I woke up in hell again.  J and I are beginning to wonder what we did to deserve this—what kind of horrible thing must we have done to cause such pain for our pets? 

So my life is turning into cans of fish and a need for extra-strength Tums.  At this point in the night I'm too exhausted, too cried-out to feel much.  But this kind of loss, even if temporary, can be felt through any amount of exhaustion or medication.

It's been 21 days.


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Unrelated, do you think it's weird that my spellchecker tries to replace the word "okay" with "orgy"?  I do.  Also, the new blog is getting bloody close to completion.  I'll let you know when it does by posting here.  In the meantime, here's some ads for your viewing pleasure.


   


   

I wasn't able to trap Orange Kitty #3.  However, I'm going to leave the trap out during the day because we saw him lounging about (or rather staring at me like I was a psychopath) in the middle of the day so maybe he'll be out and about today and get in the trap and we can find out if he's Sunkist.  I didn't last very long at Operation Stake-Out.  It was frigid in my car and my boobies almost fell off.  I was wrapping every piece of cloth I could find around my head and finally had to go back home to warm up.  I returned every 3 hours.  On one such return I couldn't find the trap so I spent almost half an hour wandering around their property searching for it.  I think that time spent in the cold probably froze a few brain cells, causing bizarre behavior later in the night.

I may actually be losing sanity faster than I can swallow pills to keep it.  On one trip behind our house to check the other trap I heard a strange screeching noise (turned out to be a deranged bird) and suddenly I was running through the sagebrush towards the sound.  Somewhere along the way I realized that the sound was echoing off the mountains, I had no idea where it was actually coming from, and WTF was I doing anyway?

Then, I was standing near our propane tank calling his name and something made a very loud noise.  I have no idea what it was.  I searched all over with the flashlight but found nothing.  Awhile later, or maybe during another check—I'm losing all sense of time—I really thought I heard him.  Very close to me.  But the sound was near the house and so was I.  If he'd been there I'd have caught sight of him with the flashlight.   

As if that isn't enough right?  After I checked the trap at the other house for the last time and the sun was just beginning to rise I happened upon a small orange-ish animal.  I slammed on the brakes, tore across a ditch, and ran full speed after this animal.  Not the brightest idea.  But the creature stopped running.  It was the right size.  It was alert and interested in me.  And it was also a fox.  A poor baby fox who couldn't comprehend the insane lady calling him Sunkist, waving a flashlight and charging towards him.  Even after I realized he was a fox I continued to call him and stare at him.  Maybe he was a shape-shifter.  Who the hell knows?

It was a long night and it promises to be a long day and then again a long night.  Perhaps I will never again sleep.

It's been 20 days.

Pumpkin has fitted himself amongst the insane amount of crap on our countertops and is desperately trying to find himself another treat.  He's become so obsessed with the treats he spends hours staring at the bottle, knocking it over, nibbling at it.  I think he may be emotionally eating.

Today we got another (the third) phone call about an orange cat on a certain road.  Call #1 said she had an orange cat, but it was female, and she let it go.  Call #2 said she saw an orange cat on her patio growling at her cat.  Call #3 today said there was an orange cat hanging around their house.

We've been silently worried, but outwardly dismissive, about these calls.  After all, this road is quite far away.  I'm confused about the distance, not wanting to move our traps here should tonight be the night Sunkist comes home, but at the same time not wanting to lose a chance that could very well be him.  Each person has stressed that they've never seen an orange cat around there.  All the more distressing.

So today, as we were entering the subdivision, we drove by the house of Call #3.  Now, sagebrush is a distressing plant.  It is all crazy, goes in all different directions, and it is generally just tall enough to hide a cat.  And because there is only 1 blade of grass per acre here in Wyoming sagebrush covers as far as the eye can see.  Imagine my extreme frustration through these 19 days of straining to see an orange cat in this tangle of weeds.

As we were driving along, and I was becoming increasingly distressed about how and why Sunkist would be this far, J slammed on the brakes and pointed out a cat.  A cat about a zillion yards away.  An orange cat.  J.  Who pays attention to very little, notices almost nothing.  It was shocking.  We had the binoculars with us (yes, we're sickos) and both of us took turns using them and then alternatively screaming at each other about how to correctly adjust them. 

J finally told me to get out there.  I was hesitant to go on someone's property.  These people are nutcases.  But I timidly approached the cat, had only gone about 10 feet in fact, and Orange Kitty #3 (I think?) started scooting away.  I was calling Sunkist's name and J was swearing the cat would poke his head up and look at me when I did this.  I was too busy keeping one eyeball on the orange flashes and another on the house ahead—looking for the shotgun out the window.

The cat wasn't interested in letting me near him/her.  This fact is interesting to me—remember Call #1 actually had the cat in captivity.  Maybe there are 2 orange cats down there?  (I say down there because we live on the back side of a ridge near the mountains—this cat, if Sunkist, would've had to travel up the ridge, over the ridge, down the ridge, and through quite a bit of flat land to get to this particular road.)

I decided it would be a bad idea to channel my inner sprint runner and hurdle through the sagebrush at breakneck speed so we drove up to the house of Call #3.  On the way J swore up and down that it was Sunkist.  I disagreed, his face seemed different.  The caller agreed that I could set up a stake-out on her property and emphasized that she has never seen an orange cat around.  She was actually quite nice, offered the use of another trap that she happened to have, had the most attractive children I've ever seen, and 3 Saint Bernards that were huge. 

So tonight I will don camouflage, slick my hair back and put that black crap all over my face.  I'll take my traps, my stinky tuna, wet cat food, a pillowcase, a flashlight..and whatever else I think might be useful, like a romance novel.  If only I had purchased the night vision goggles I was looking at a week ago—yes, I seriously considered the purchase. 

J said if I get the orange cat in a trap I'm to bring him/her home immediately regardless of if I think it's not Sunkist.  He doesn't trust me to recognize someone who might as well be my right arm.  What a riot.  Maybe he's right.

With extremely minimal headway on the cleaning (one load of laundry and an online shopping spree that resulted in 12 collars and 12 tags for each animal) and no captures, I'm giving in for the day.

Tomorrow's (or rather later today) trap setting is going to be different.  Hopefully it'll get warmer because I doubt the kind of cold that leaves frost on cars is conducive to catching kitties.  I read something somewhere (who knows where I get this crap while wandering the internet all night) that said to mix a can of tuna with a bunch of water and pour it all around, ultimately leading to the trap. 

Hey, I'm desperate.  I'll walk up and down the road pouring out gallons of stanky water if I have to. 

It seems like an eternity since I last saw him.  I ordered him a collar and tag.  I hope he returns soon to don the black velvet and rhinestone confection.  When you send good thoughts his way please leave out the whole collar thing—it might offend his sensibilities.

It's been 19 days.

This is quite the saga.  A saga that I'd give just about anything to turn back time and avoid altogether. 

The new website is coming along.  In many ways I feel so guilty spending time on it.  Guilty for doing anything but search for him.

But searching seems so futile these days.  Wandering around in sagebrush 6" tall.  Never being able to get within 10 feet of the neighbors' homes because they are all deranged maniacs.  Walking the same several acres calling him and getting no response.  Wondering where he could actually be hiding.  Doubting that he's even out there.

I held myself together a bit better today—actually smiled and bitched about the burritos J wanted to make for dinner.  Managed to wash several items in our dirty laundry mountain, which resides right in the middle of the entryway, and is quite pleasant to look at let me tell you.  But, the tears are present, and also a new wash of rage.  Every bark, every hug, every nuisance, makes me want to lash out.  I'm so unbelievably frustrated and doubting every single ounce of hope that enters my mind.  And I just want to be alone to work through this. 

I'm afraid for him.  Two days ago I started looking out the window routinely, something I'd been avoiding.  It's not a planned activity and I find myself confused when I realize what I'm doing.  I'm actually, without realizing it, expecting to see him out there.  I'm expecting him. 

I honestly feel like I'm losing my mind.  Today (2:30 AM—yeah, that's mid-day for me now) I plan to block everything out, play the same CD over and over and over again until I could perform a concert and J dreams about living inside one of the songs, and make this house livable.  Or at least be able to see the countertops. 

Avoidance at it's best.

It's snowing.  Why does he have to be out there in this? 

I keep expecting to look out the window or the door and see him sitting there, pleased as punch with his Outdoor Adventure.

Snow.  In June.  God I hate Wyoming. 

I don't remember life ever moving so slowly.  It drags quietly from sleep to trapping, always with Sunkist in mind.  I feel like I've lived a century in these 18 days.  Physically, I'm hanging in.  Mentally, I'm coping.  Emotionally, I'm losing grasp quicker than life is moving these days. 

I'm starting to lose perspective.  What exactly am I doing?  How did I get in this place of hope when I haven't seen my boy in 18 days?  18 days.  What reason, what right do I have to hope for this?  This feels absurd sometimes.  I feel people cringing at the story.

Sometimes I feel so positive...in my gut I just know he's going to be in that trap.  Yesterday I just knew he'd show up on the porch one day.  He never is in the trap.  And I don't know if he'll show up on the porch.  But I feel like I'm constantly grasping for straws. 

I thought I heard him the other day.  But there are so many strange noises here at night that sound like his scratchy-little-meow.  It was never repeated, though I sat on the frigid ground and spoke to the wind, even sang.  My insides felt raw as I walked inside.

The way it does every morning when I finally go to sleep.

Sometime between dawn and noon I had a headstone dream.  I can't even speak the words audibly.  Please let it mean nothing.  I've been hoping for dreams again and there's been nothing.  Except that.

Yesterday two women called with sightings.  Both lived on the same street in our subdivision, quite far away, on the other end and across a ridge.  Both saw an orange cat, one woman captured an orange cat—female.  It must've been the same cat.  But what if the captive female cat wasn't the same cat the other woman saw? 

Then there's the Pinedale sighting.  By a bank.  We investigated without much success.

And then there's the truck theory.  What if, on the day he escaped, he got in J's truck and rode to work with him and is now wandering around that place?  Mostly we must be making up possibilities to explain why we can't see him. 

But what if those sightings are real?  I can't get it out of my mind.  The sightings have made things worse.  I'm doubting myself, plagued by thoughts.  What if I'm not doing the best thing I can? 

I caught nothing last night.  I hope the magic day comes soon.

It's been 18 days.

No captures last night.

Why couldn't this be one of those 2-week long stories? 

It's been 17 days. 

I use the term we a lot when I reference this situation.  The truth is that we means I. 

Lately I have been able to get J to help me set the traps, though the request is always met with grumbles and sighs.  Yes J, I know there are more important things to do.  Work, video games, beer, riding your motorcycle.  I understand how those things are important—everyone needs an out sometimes.  I do understand. 

But J, what about the other person who lives in this house?  The one you've got to see becoming nothing.  Stop asking if I'm mad at you for God's sake.  Christ, yes!  I'm mad at everything.  Furious even.  Me.  You.  The Situation.  Those people.  God.  Mostly, though, I'm just so full of tears that I can only let out in small increments.  I don't have any small talk, any smiles or laughter, any witty discussion left.  I don't have any fights or urging.  I don't care if the phone rings off the hook or the house doesn't get clean.  The dogs escaped today, ran all over the place, and I didn't even know it until you told me when you got home.  I look at this mess around me, the neglected things who won't be put away, food still on the counter, a pile of laundry so expansive I can sleep on it, and I feel nothing.  The disarray means nothing.  Nothing in comparison.

You don't know it, because you have the attention span of a gnat, but the person you see when you get home from work, the person who makes your dinner but rarely says a word, the person who sits alone in the living room all night so she can check the traps, the heartbroken person who slips into bed at dawn and prays desperately for a dream of Sunkist...she cries alone everyday and night.  In bed, at the computer, on the couch, staring out the window, sitting on the dirt at 2:31 AM while singing You Are My Sunshine and hoping Sunkist will respond to the song I've sung him forever. 

Fury and pain so deep I can't even let it bubble to the surface.  Because J, you don't know what's in here.  You'd surely make your way to the nearest phone and commit me if I once cried the way I need to.  So I hide it.  Hide the real devastation.

My mind has jumped into the routine of questions upon question, plagued by self-doubt:  What if he's not around here?  What if he somehow did end up in Pinedale?  How could that have happened?  What if he rode in your truck to your work?  What if everything?  What if anything?  What if he never again sleeps in my bed?

Grief.  It's not supposed to be like this now, yet.  I'm supposed to have hope.  Somewhere deep down there's hope—I continue to trap, continue to call him.  But the tears sliding down my face are constant reminders that everything's not right.

And maybe will never be.

It's raining today.  I love the rain. 

But now, I hate the rain.  I'm sure there are plenty of places for him to stay warm.  But it's not the kind of warm as when he's home.  I never imagined him, especially, being out in these elements.  I never imagined this limbo without him.  I wonder what he's doing, how he's feeling, how he's eating...

I worry he's not anywhere near here.  That I'm searching the wrong places.  That the emptiness is here to stay.

Orange fur surrounds me.  But not in my home.

I caught two orange kitties last night.  Two different orange kitties. 

What's going on with this?  Should I take it as sign that I'll get my orange kitty in there soon?  Or a sign that I should give up because these are the only orange kitties out here?  Or maybe not a sign at all? 

I'm waiting.  The time frame the animal communicator said was Sunkist's plan has passed.  Though he did apparently say it could be shorter or longer.  Well what the hell.  That could mean years.  I don't have that kind of time. 

Sunkist, get your orange butt inside this house right now.  Tonight will suffice.

Please.

It's been 16 days.

I don't know what happened today.  Somewhere I crossed a line.  For now, grief consumes me. 

I've heard "think about the other animals who need you"...I know they do, just as I need them.  But with one missing and my insides being simply the essence of dust I have nothing to give.  Only take. 

I don't care about anything.  The house.  J's job.  Money.  Bills.  Putting gas in the car.  I'm done with that shit.  Someone else can do them. 

I just have to get Kissy home.  I'm not as strong as those 123-day people.  Maybe not even the 42-day people.  I'm cracking open, crumbling, after 15 days.

Around 9 we got a call for a possible sighting.  In Pinedale, which is 15-20 minutes away.  Unlikely.  Regardless of how far-fetched I wanted it to be him.  I wanted to see him, scoop him up in my pillowcase, get him home in my bed, and cry my eyes out.  Instead we got pulled over by an itty-bitty cop who gave me lip about all sorts of things, which I promptly spewed right back at him.  I don't care about going to jail.  Lemme have it dickwad.  I'll keep on going as you book me.  I have plenty to say for days. 

The cop also made this statement when J explained why he was going over the speed limit on a ROAD THAT HAD 1 OTHER VEHICLE ON IT:  Checking a sighting for a lost cat doesn't justify going over the speed limit.  And at that very moment I wanted to lunge over J, climb out the window, and dropkick that little weasel right in his nuts.  Kick him so damn hard you can see those nasty things coming out his mouth.  Fury exploded through my already grief-ridden body.  What in the FUCK was that man thinking?  What if it was a sighting for his lost kid?  Yeah, totally different I know.  No it's not.  It's exactly the same.  Blow it up your ass.  Wyoming can kiss my ass.  I hate it.  I wish there would be a nuclear bomb here.

At the sighting location we caught sight of a possible orange kitty, but who the hell knows.  I tried to trap, got a black kitty, and then we left because J shoved so many sticks up his ass while at work that it wasn't possible to pull them out manually.  And the whole cop/me thing shoved a few more up his ass so his behavior was so close to my last nerve that I fought from punching him in the face.

He doesn't understand.  He loves Sunkist.  He wants him home.  But he doesn't really get it.  Can't he see my personality weeping from my body and spreading across the floor?  Can't he feel the air I breathe out is cold?  Can't he see how I'm being swallowed?  That there's nothing inside?  Everything has moved out to a more habitable location.

I don't know what I'll do, how I'll do, how I'll live, if he doesn't get back home.

Last night I practiced meditation techniques (Um, meditation?  Who am I turning into?) and visualized what I want:  Sunkist coming home.  I sent him thoughts, encouraged him to get in the trap—that I would rescue him shortly. 
 
Inspired, I ventured outside to do a little more exploration than I was comfortable with.  After I checked the traps for the first time of the night (2:45 AM) and found them to be empty, I decided to explore the other area the animal communicator mentioned.  The Shed.  The Shed is actually a house in a cul-de-sac.  It has a semi-walkout-basement situation.  Underneath the house are two separate sections.  The front is a carport and the back is a shed.  Several days ago the renters left The Shed.  It's empty. 

When I crossed the front of our house my pulse increased tenfold.  There are three houses in the direction I was headed.  One of these neighbors is a Devil Worshiper for sure.  Or an asshole.  Maybe a bit of both.  As I reached the road I was ready to pass out from nerves.  Little did I know, it would get worse.  But, I focused on the task at hand and slowly made my way into the cul-de-sac.  I stopped when I reached the clump of mature sagebrush and I called his name, spoke to him, and in general looked like an escaped mental patient.  I could barely hear above my own breathing so I plodded on as quietly as possible in J's boots.  I finally reached something that looked like the pathway up to the house.  It was hard to tell in the dark so I felt around with my feet, taking each step very carefully.  The last thing I wanted was to fall into a huge hole, start screaming bloody murder, and alert the inhabitants of the one house very close to The Shed, or God forbid The Devil Worshiper.  When I realized the looming shape ahead was indeed The Shed I took several deep breaths and plunged into the garage portion of The Shed.  I turned on the lowest level of the flashlight and slipped into the door of The Shed.  I scanned the area and found plenty of hiding places.  I quietly called his name.  No answer.  After waiting as long as I felt was safe I set a can of wet food in the corner and lunged out the door—leaving it open, down the pathway, and safely onto the road.  I went on my merry way, proud I'd kept calm, and the Imaginary Rapist hadn't made an appearance.  Again I stopped at the sagebrush clump.  Listened intently.  Had no idea what I was listening to so went on, hopeful that if Sunkist was in there he'd follow my path and make his way home tonight.

I was close to our driveway.  Probably about half an acre away.  And then I saw it.  Headlights heading down the road.  Right towards me.  YIKES.  COPS!  I leapt the ditch and tore through the sagebrush.  I ran the way you run when you're in the ocean and you think a shark is right behind you.  I realized that based on the speed of the car I was not going to be able to blindly run through the sagebrush with enough speed to make it to safety, to make it to a hiding place.  Still hopping over the sagebrush at breakneck speed in boots that were threatening to fly off at any moment, I briefly considered hitting the deck and flattening myself on the ground behind some sagebrush.  And as my heart was about to bust through my chest and my body was about to find out how sagebrush feels when you fling yourself upon it, the car turned off into a driveway.  Not cops after all. 

Indeed, this is a strange experience.  And regardless of the hilarity of some moments, it is heartbreaking.

There were no captures last night despite moving one trap to the sagebrush clump.  This is a journey I do not want to repeat.  Each time a trap is checked and found empty, a devastating loss accompanies the discovery.  The process of rebuilding faith and determination is rocky.  Each hour can contain four moments of elated hope and belief and seven moments of rock-bottom despair.  Yesterday I broke down and cried like I did when he first went missing.  Losing hope, even if only momentary, is overwhelming.

Everyday I ask myself if he can possibly be out there when I have no sign that he is.  I must believe.  But at the same time, how can it be true?  Of course I read the stories and marvel at the people who stayed steadfast for so long.  I see the stories of people seeing the cat run by or finding that the cat has been eating food on the front porch.  Why don't I have this?  Why can't that experience be mine?  Wouldn't it be possible for him to just pop his head out of the sagebrush and meow to me?  Just so I can go on.  That's all I ask.  I know it hasn't been that long in comparison to other stories, but how can I believe with all my heart that he's out there if I have no real reason to besides blind faith?  Blind faith isn't comforting.  Seeing him run by is. 

It's been 15 days.

Last night we switched our trap bait to Jack Mackerel, which, besides poop, is probably the most disgusting thing on Earth.  Strangely, J decided it looked appetizing and took a nibble.  He says it's tasty.  I say he's the grossest thing that ever walked the planet.

No captures last night.

Yesterday I felt a few intense moments, or 13 hours, of total despair.  So I did what every normal person would do.  I contacted a psychic.  Er.  An animal communicator.  I suppose my main motive was to find out if he was alive.  I know it's not factual information, like the fact that men are hairy beasts, but I figured it was worth a try.  I chose an older lady—because God knows young psychics just aren't seasoned enough.  (WTF?  Am I actually talking about this?)  Blah blah blah.  Stuff happened.  She spoke with Sunkist telepathically.  He is alive, he is near us and can see us searching for him, he is wary of the traps, he knows we want him home and knows it's in his best interest to be home, and he is planning to be recovered soon.  I had moments of doubt even though I've always believed in such things.  But two things she said he said (Got that?) really stuck in my mind.

She said he was staying in a "shed" near a clump of trees on the same side of the street as us.  She also said he suggested we put the trap behind our house near a clump of trees.  We don't have trees.  But!  We do have two hip-high clumps of mature sagebrush that I've visited time and time again thinking they'd be ideal Sunkist hideouts.  Hip-high sagebrush is probably akin to a tree in a cat's mind.  And where are these clumps?  On the same side of the street by a house with a "shed" on the bottom.  And one behind our house.  There are only two clumps of these mature sagebrush around.  Yes, I got goosebumps.

She had interesting things to say to me, or rather what Sunkist said to her.  I'm following Jenne's advice above all because I know she knows what she's talking about and she sounds like Lisa Loeb so I think that makes her pretty damn credible.  I'm not 100% on the animal communicator but I'm pretty damn close.  Regardless, it made me feel better to read what he said and if I have to contact 764 animal communicators to keep my hopes up and continue this process then by golly gee I'll do it.

So tonight we're moving one trap to the clump of mature sagebrush behind our house.  It's pretty close to where we've had the traps anyway, so hopefully he'll get his ass in one.

Send thoughts his way. 

It's been 14 days.