I'm sure that's where Pat the Cat has gone. It's been four weeks since he waltzed out the door with the other cats in the morning, then for the first time in his life didn't come back for dinner. He had been getting stiff and frail, so we are telling ourselves he did a typical feline hide-and-die somewhere in the multi-acre wild canyon below our house.
Seymour and I found Pat the tiny flea-ridden kitten in a Charlotte, NC rental truck yard, during a 1994 Brooklyn -> Bay Area relocation trip. He rode across the country in my lap and received flea baths in many I-40 motel sinks. He was waiting in the truck while Seymour and I succumbed to the Painted Desert and got engaged. He lived in four different homes with us, and went through three separate WTF processing periods each time we brought home another yowling infant.
He was our beautiful otter pelt cat, he drooled copiously when he was happy, he was much prettier than he was smart, and everyone loved him. His non-pseudonymous name was Boone. Now you get the joke.