By all accounts, I'm fairly certain the eleventh circle of family-hell is reserved for me. However they've all been very supportive of the first three...it's just this damn cat thing that has been a bit tricky.

Let me begin by telling you how I got mixed up in this crazy world of cat ownership. See I have this friend who has this boyfriend. And this boyfriend was all "Hey you have two cats. I don't even like one cat so two cats is like...no bueno." And she replied "Well I mean I love you so I guess I'll have to get rid of the newer one of the two."

Weeks go by, she petitions everyone she knows to see who can take the little bugger, but there are no bites. She doesn't even think of me, knowing full well that I'm not too keen on the kittens. Well fast forward another week or so and I have a big bichon-frise shaped hole in my heart from not being able to see my God-dog very often and think "Well shit. There's this cat that's about to go to a shelter, Phil. A freakin' shelter. They rape animals in shelters (I know this is true because I watched a episode of The Wizard Goes to Oz on HBO (the lesser-known spin-off of Oz, featuring the cast of The Wizard of Oz)).

Pause. Double-parentheses-five! *slap* Resume.

So there I go. "Sure, gimme the cat." Meet Rambo (he has since been through several name revisions), aka Ninja-Cat, known for sneaking up on you and suddenly being on your freakin' face, purring like a jackhammer. For more antics and history on Rambo, check my twitter and search for "Ninja-Cat." We're not here for the full history lesson, we're here to talk about how my cat ended up on the FBI's most wanted list.

Tonight I come home from a totally sweet fourteen hour day at work (this is sarcasm, folks) and pour myself a nice stout adult beverage and prepare to dissolve into the fabric of my couch. I fully expect to hear the persistent meowing of a cat that spends more than half of each day completely devoid of any type of contact (don't report me to the humane society...yet). This is why I named him Cicero. The cat likes to talk.

A half hour passes and there is no yawning. No mewing. No meowing. There is no jackhammer on top of my head. So I start to wonder. I do a few cat-calls. But that was while on my porch wearing a hard-hat. I came inside to call the cat, and kept calling and calling but there was no response. I checked all his favorite hiding spots: my laundry hamper(s), the top shelf in the laundry room, under my bed, in the only open nook on my bookshelf and behind the TV. There is no cat. Relying on the lessons I learned from reading the Hardy Boys as a young lad, I first checked for a black sedan in my rear view mirror, and upon discovering none, I turn to Frank and say "Gee, where can this wily feline be?" I deduced through the brilliant use of observation that his food had barely been touched all day (a rarity) and there was not a mountain of poo in the litterbox. These both indicate an AWOL cat.

Like a mother in a grocery store who starts screaming "BOBBY!!! BOBBY!!!!! BOBBY WHERE ARE YOU!?!?!?!" when their kid disappears behind an Easy-Mac display, I switch straight into freaked out mother mode, lactating and whatnot. I try to call my estranged roommate who is notorious for never answering his phone, and you guessed it...he didn't answer his phone. I left him a few burly, frustrated messages asking him if he had been back to the apartment that day (which was obvious, the door to his room was open, Cicero does not yet know how to do this). No answer. I frantically searched the hallway, realizing that to escape he'd still have to have mastered the whole doorknob catastrophe (thank God I don't have a pet velociraptor). I proceeded to tear my entire house apart. No joke, I dismantled my roommates bed, moved his dresser six feet away from the wall, broke off a chunk of drywall to get to where my water-heater is...I mean I was busy. All the while I'm making a fool of myself, dancing around the apartment going "Cicero...Cissy? Meowsers? Bowser? FUCKING CAT! WHERE ARE YOU?"

I'm just about to give up hope when I realized estranged roommate is at his girlfriend's apartment which means that his girlfriend's roommate is probably parked on the couch next to them both. A quick ringy-dingy brings me to the person next to roommate, and eventually to roommate, who in a slightly intoxicated, overtly "duh, dude" tone says "Man, he's probably like, in my dresser. Check the drawers."

Um. WHAT?

"Yeah, check the drawers. I bet that's where he is."

Because I haven't already done that. Regardless I check again. I come back and report my findings.

"I'm telling you, he's in my dresser."

I'm feeling like I'm in Zoolander and need to think dumber instead of smarter. "He's in the dresser!" I hit the floor like a NAVY Seal and instead of feeling underneath the dresser in a downward motion I sweep up. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Wait...was that an opening? Was that fur!?!?!? You BASTARD!

I proceeded to drag that cat out of there so quickly it was almost like a cartoon. His claws were dug into the carpet and I think I probably stretched his whole body a bit more than its meant to stretch. I shot him a dirty look, smoked a cigarette, chugged a whiskey and thought to myself: "What have you become, Phil? You just went fight-or-flight over a cat?"

If only my family could see me now.

As I contemplated water-boarding Cicero to make him understand that this hiding place was now and forevermore off limits, it occurred to me that the only other creature I've ever thought of that has hidden as effectively as this would be Osama bin Laden. So I'm seriously considering changing this cat's name for the third (or fourth?) time. Osama's a great cat name, right?

For those with the humane society's number in front of them and an itchy trigger finger, I decided not to water-board him, instead of that I gave him a ton of catnip to drive him out of his mind. Hunter S. Catson, you see. I'm pretty sure he has no idea where he is right now. So don't call the pet police on me, alright?

That's my story. I'm tired. But at least we know that if we want to truly find the real Osama Bin Laden that he'll be in someone's dresser.

Today's story was a lesson in thinking dumber, so now more than ever, please don't think too hard.