I think my friends give me credit for using more diminutives than I actually willingly use. Because last week, Jacob lost his stuffed cat, which is his favorite (though not as much a favorite as Emily's Larry Monkey, who could more accurately be termed as my second child, given the amount of time I've spent looking for that damn think). He named the cat, in a burst of creativity, Kitty.

I mentioned to people, trying to be melodramatic and amusing, and apparently falling short on both counts, that "We can't find Kitty, I just don't know what we'll do." And then it promptly fell out of my head - I would look once in a while but was operating on the assumption that since Kitty (who is still, by the way, androgynous) had not left the house since last visual contact, and it was unlikely that Kitty was going to become mobile anytime soon (s/he's not THAT grungy), then eventually Kitty would turn up someplace odd.

Imagine, then, my befuddlement on Saturday, when a friend called specifically to ask whether I had found Kitty yet. "No, not yet, but Jacob seems to be doing fine without, so far."
"Well, did you post signs in the neighborhood or anything?"
"Um... no. I don't think that'll help. Stuffed animals don't tend to come when called, anyway."
"Oh! You don't mean YOUR cat, you mean a toy!"

Hee hee... yeah. Sorry for the confusion, and I appreciate the concern, even if misdirected.

So last night, Willem was folding laundry and went on a brief search for refugee socks, and when he reached behind my enormous piggy bank... well, just look:



We had looked back there before, because the short people in my house have been known to play back behind there when they think they can get away with it, but apparently overlooked Kitty. Because, as Willem remarked, "It's not like the pig has a functional butt."