George is missing.

It's not uncommon that he is gone one night. But we have passed a second night, and now are on to the third.

My sleep was fitful last night, dreams of lost George intermingled with images of Robby, the two of them lost together.

I turn again and again yesterday and today from the kitchen to the window that overlooks the backyard, expecting to see him there, peering into the window back at me, his little face appearing to light up as it does when he knows I've seen him and am coming to open the door. But he is not there. I see only a scattering of yellowish orange leaves on the green patio. I try not to think about the symbolism of the dead leaves and our missing George, but it is a comparison so obvious as to nearly be comical.

My boss says her daughter knows some people who are animal communicators. "Tell me his name and send me his picture," she advises. "I'll forward it to them and we'll see what they can tell us. Maybe they can see if he's locked in somewhere, or if he's lost. They're pretty good at this, really."

I believe. At this moment, the idea is not the least bit humorous.

"Meanwhile, I want you to picture George and talk to him in your head," she says. "I know this sounds crazy, but animals pick up more than we know, especially cats. Tell him you want him to come home."

I hang up the phone and do as she said. "Come home, George," I think. "We are not a family without you."

How awful it is; I would rather something have happened to my dog than to our cat. I hope that she cannot sense this.

"Where is your brother?" I ask her. "I'm worried about him."

She looks up at me with her solemn eyes and wags her tail tentatively. I stroke her head gently.

A young, sympathetic-appearing woman at the Denver Dumb Friends League leads me through room after room of cats. A long-haired orange tabby looks up and meows at me. Another orange tabby sleeps. I look at him more closely; his nose is pink, without George's black freckles. Besides, George would have stood up at the sound of my voice.

I ask the hardest question last. "Do you have any dead cats?"

"Yes," she says. "But none like him. The best thing for you to do is to call Waste Management."

I nod curtly, as though we are talking business, and feel no shame as my emotions rise to betray me. Red-rimmed eyes can be nothing new to her.

Tomorrow night, I pick Robby up for another weekend here in our home. I will have to tell him, and watch his face twist as his small heart breaks.

Where is our crazy little Georgie-cat? I cling to hope, even as it grows slippery.