It was an innocent enough question, suddenly very hard to answer.

We had eight. Then, at the beginning of March, 2002, we rescued a beautiful but toothless Siamese, later named Cybelle. She turned out to be pregnant. Two kittens have survived. Lots of changes, but the question could still be answered.

Then Lizzie disappeared, and the simple counting of heads becomes a statement of yearning and hope and reality and anxiety, fear for our cats, and fear of the unknown danger that may be afoot in the neighborhood.

Every day, at every hour, the background pressure. Lizzie's gone missing and we've exhausted our options. It's now up to her. That's been too difficult to admit. I don't want to lose her, but the warning signs have been there since September, when the new dogs on the street first sent her high up in the mango tree in search of a safe haven. Apparently she's been searching since then in a widening spiral that slowly took her to new territories.

Meda says she suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, and that seems apt.

It's doubly difficult for me because I've got hundreds of photos of Lizzie. Photos as a kitten locked in constant play with Ms. Harriet, her sister. Photos of Lizzie in her favorite spot on or next to my computer, or in my lap. Photos of her in various parts of the yard , strutting her stuff. She's been a very large part of us for the last two years.

Now she's gone, although not without warning. I've started and ended many days trying to locate Lizzie over the past six or eight months. I eventually found several of her hiding places. Through the tall grass and down the hill behind our house into the vacant 4-acre lot owned by the state. In the tall grass on the lower part of our lot. Under the house across the street, amid piles of old car parts and other items in storage for the owner's son. She always said it was all right to check under her house, and on many occasions Ms. Lizzie was there, whether caught in the act or waiting to be found I don't know. Then she moved next door, then another house up the street. Then, we learned only recently, across the stream bed and up the other side into the yards of Kaaawa Park Lane.

And, suddenly, more disturbing news. Silverman's also AWOL, missing now for over a week. He's always been more tenuous, elusive, mysterious. He appeared in our lives and our house while we were in Chicago for a week in September 1999. We got back from the trip and found Silverman on the deck with our other cats. He had taught himself to use the cat door and was helping himself to meals. We don't know where he came from, or where he spent the bulk of his time. But he tended to show up for meals, and he often sought refuge in wet weather. It suited us just fine.

But although we've formally adopted him, had him neutered, micro chipped, and provided ongoing vet care,he's always been a visitor, never quite turning the corner into a fully domesticated part of the household. And we've never found a reliable way to keep him nearby, despite repeated efforts.

It was clear that he was confused and worried by the sudden appearance of kittens in the house. The last few times we saw Silverman, he burst into the house, scurried to different corners of the living room, but quickly took off after running into the kittens. It's hard to say what state of cat mind those initial contacts engendered, but the fact is that he hasn't returned.

There's guilt. Could we have done things differently? "What if" scenarios are difficult to banish. There's anxiety. Are we missing clues and opportunities? Did they run away, or were they "disappeared"? Is there suddenly a new element in the immediate neighborhood that's lethal to cats?

The questions and self doubts are endless.

A good friend listened to my tale of missing felines last week, shook her head, and said: "That's what cats do."

It wasn't a good answer. If your kid's suddenly missing, is the answer the same? "Don't worry, that's what kids do?"

Then she looked at me, obviously dismissing the cats as legitimate objects of worry, and added: "I don't think you've got enough to do."

As if attachments to our animals, and mourning when they disappear or pass on, is the exclusive province of the idle and indolent.

Nope, she just doesn't get it.

In the meantime, though, there are a bunch of cats looking for their daily dose of attention and care.