I don’t like to lose things, do you?
The word “lose” or “lost” implies that something is missing. It further implies that at some point in time that that certain thing was not missing. It might even imply that the one who lost said thing is a loser. But that’s a blog for another day.
Initially, I always feel like I know where “it” is. Typically, I even have a visual in my head. Like I remember seeing my keys on top of the dresser last night. I mean that’s where I always put them, right? My mind’s eye taunts me with false pictures and probable hallucinations. I scour the top of the dresser, behind it, under it. Again and again. Both seeing my missing keys (in my head) and not seeing my missing keys (in reality). But no matter how many times I look, they are not physically there. I vow at that moment that should I ever find my keys I will immediately purchase and put on my keychain one of those new-fangled “Tile” dealy-mabobs that they advertise on the internet for the terminally amnesiatic. But I think you and I both know, that once I do find my keys, and I will find them, I won’t be buying anything from the internet. Why should I? My keys are right where I left them … on the dresser.
All in all though, I prefer knowing where my stuff is. It makes me feel grounded, soothed even.
… and not knowing. Well, that brings up abandonment issues and other free-floating angst. When I don’t know where my stuff is I become unhappy. Unhinged unhappy. I start to question life itself.
For instance, where the hell do all of my socks go? How is it that I buy an eight-pack package of ankle whities with slightly different patterns of slightly different colored triangles and then less than one month later I can’t come up with even one pair of matched triangles to save my life. I don’t get it. I mean I put them on my feet at the same time. I take them off at the same time. I wash and dry them at the same time. But a few minutes later, when I want to roll them up into a cute little sock bunny/ball, nothing goes with nothing. I’m farmischt (Yiddish for confused). I don’t know if A. they have become temporarily misplaced or B. (more likely) they are lost forever.
“Where are my matching socks?” I shriek every time. Every time I receive no answer. Ultimately, I end up wearing one of each. One white sock and one black sock . Sad.
Or what about when your favorite cat gets lost. That’s a bad one. One minute the cat is in the window sunning herself, chewing on her claws, and the next minute she’s seemingly vanished. That’s when I start to lose something else. My rationality.
I’m convinced she’s either run off to California or been abducted by aliens. Before I completely panic though, I try to reason with myself.
“I’m sure she’s in the house … somewhere. She’s probably just hiding,” I declare loudly, hoping she hears me. I further hope that she then comically pops out from behind the couch laughing and rolling on the carpet in merriment. (when I say laughing, I mean with me – not at me).
When that didn’t happen, I immediately searched her regular alone-time spots. No dice. So then I painstakingly scanned the entirety of the house. Not once but five times, calling out her name as I approached each new possible hideout.
“Screamer, where are you?” I sing-songed in what I imagined was a high-pitched mama cat voice speaking English. I squinted into closets and peered behind bookshelves as I called out.
But Screamer neither responded nor revealed herself to me. So I had to consider the possibility that she somehow had escaped outdoors. How that might have occurred I hadn’t a clue, but the evidence pointed in that direction.
I put on my shoes and dark blue hoodie and went outside with a 4×6 photo of Screamer, a beautiful gray and white I had rescued as an infant kitten. She had been left in my backyard, barely two weeks old, by an irresponsible next-door neighbor at another location. As a result, she had a chronic and continual case of cat herpes.
I showed my lost cat pic to the neighborhood kids but they were useless. They told me if I gave them ten bucks each it might help their memories. I shook my head and trekked from house to house around the block, knocking on doors, showing the picture, explaining my plight. By the time I got back home I was desperate. Screamer was my favorite and now she was nowhere to be found.
I collapsed almost crying on the couch, not knowing what to do next. Then I heard a faint scratching coming from the rear of the house. I jumped up and rushed to the scratching noise, flinging open the door. It was Screamer, her cute little pink and gray nose snuffling (from the herpes) up a storm. I reached down and swooped her into my arms.
“Screamer,” I said, pulling her face into mine. “Where have you been?”
She looked at me funny and then snuffled again. I snuffled too. She smelled of cigarettes.
“Where have you been?” I repeated, straining my eyes, scrutinizing her furry little body.
She licked her back leg but refrained from revealing her adventures.
“I’ve missed you so much,” I fawned.
She gave me her trademark goopy Screamer sideways glance and then pushed her face back into my cheek.
Even as I accepted her very wet, very sweet kisses, I knew one day she would be lost to me for good. All I could do was to try to cherish every moment I had with her. One goopy kiss at a time.
