A sad Sammy tale ends well

Sammy, the orange tabby from next door who moved over this spring to find good food and keep Duchess the other refugee kitty company, has become a fixture in our lives. He follows me about the yard (Duchess doesn't care as long as I have the food on time), purrs and makes a fool of himself begging for attention if I'm on the patio, and is an all-around good people cat. Therefore, if Sammy was going to ingratiate himself into our lives, he was going to have to follow a few rules.

First and foremost: vaccinations up to date. So last Monday Sam and I visited the vet. He was given an all-clear, ear medicine for the yeast infection, and made an official member of our family. I brought him home (he was a bit disgruntled by this time, all good sportsmanship having gone out the window at the first shot), fed him very good cat food, and petted him. He was miffed, but two hours later was on the front porch to greet my spouse as he came home.

Then Sam disappeared.

This is not unusual behavior for a cat who's had a traumatic experience. We were sure he wasn't feeling well--and was mad--so we didn't think much of his not being up Tuesday morning. By Tuesday evening, I called the neighbors. By Wednesday morning, I felt I had been punished enough and I went to roving about the neighborhood, calling his name, and deciding on my course of action: call the City, call the vets, ad in the paper.

Gentle, gentle Sam. Something had to have happened to him because he wouldn't have left voluntarily, no matter how mad he was. He will follow me on Sunday mornings to the end of the driveway, wait there while I go a block to get a newspaper, then join me for the stroll back to the house. Someone had to have taken Sam.

Then... as I'm checking the bushes in the backyard--could he be so mad he's laying low and eating after I go back inside?--I look at our garage. There's a space under the door that pregnant mother cats have no trouble breaching. If Sam had gone in there, couldn't he get back out?

A meeting of the humans puts the story together: what if Sam, Mr. Friendly, had followed my husband in there Monday night when he aired up my tires? What if... he couldn't get out?

Where were our minds?

Key in the lock, door up, and Sam shoots out of there as if from a cannon. His ears are grimy; he looks like a lynx. His front paws are filthy from trying to dig out. Feeling not only relieved, but about 2 inches high, we follow him to the backyard, produce the very good food, and stroke him until he's eating and purring.

He will not let me clean his ears or paws. He is a bit snooty for a day, but then my lovin' Sammy returns. The grime is wearing off his ears and he's cleaned his paws.

We'll now look in the garage first for any missing family members, but yesterday evening, with the garage door up, Sam didn't approach.

Perhaps we all learned a lesson.