Since I also travel a lot for my job, I needed a lot of Bitey sitters. This is rarely a problem, as we live in a house with 500 satellite channels, a PS2 and the baseball package. The only time I hit a wall is Thanksgiving and Christmas. That's when all the East Coast expats I rely on for catsitting make the pilgrimage home. I've never called early enough in the year to board Bitey or get a professional sitter, so when I go home for the holidays, so does the cat.
Bitey is a pretty good flier. He (barely)fits under the seat, doesn't need to be drugged, and has learned to prevent Deep Vein Thrombosis by stretching, half-in, half-out of his carrier every hour. One time we were even upgraded to business class, only to end up next to the one neurotic East Side cat-hater on the whole plane. She hissed so loudly about cat hair and passenger rights, and I became so shaken and upset that the flight attendants were one step away from implementing the 'dangerous passenger' plan. In the end, Bitey and I sipped champagne and enjoyed moist towelettes; she was moved to coach.
But I digress. In November of 2004, I took Bitey east for a triple purpose visit.
1) Visit Boyfriend, who had been sleeping on a couch in Brooklyn for the past three months;
2) Celebrate my birthday, which was the week before Thanksgiving;
3) Spend a classic 'divorced child' Thanksgiving with both of my parents. (This, by the way, is magic trick that involves a car, a time machine, and many helpings of turkey).
Bitey and I arrived the night before my birthday. My mother picked us up in her silver Mustang at Newark Airport. By this time Bitey has been in the travel bag for over eight hours. He is at his limit, and we still have a long drive to my mom's new lake cottage in wilderness of Northern New Jersey. So I let him out of his carrier. Bitey promptly disappeared under the passenger seat of the car and took a piss on Mom's mail.
An hour later we arrived at my mom's cottage. I opened the car door to try and coax Bitey out from under the seat, but he was one step ahead of me. Bitey leapt out of the car, and sprinted off through the snow into the woods.
I was horrified. My mom lives in bear country. I couldn't believe I had lugged my cat 3,000 miles across the country only to have him turn into some lumbering bear's midnight snack. Poor boyfriend had been living like a hobo for three months, and now, instead of kitty comfort, he would be faced with kitty carcass.
We searched the neighborhood, yelling his name. We looked under the house, in the woods, even down by the lake. I cried. I called boyfriend and cried some more. My birthday would be here in four hours, and I had let my cat escape into a cold unfamiliar environment. I sucked.
Eventually my mom convinced me that Bitey would come home eventually. She went to bed. I grabbed a blanket, sat on the sofa and looked out at the front yard. Nothing. I opened a window, despite the cold, so as to better hear any noise.
Eventually, exhausted by tears and paranoia, I drifted off. Some time later, I awoke to the best noise possible; a plaintive and confused meow just outside the open window. I opened the front door quietly, and there was Bitey, sitting below the window boxes. I grabbed him and went inside. As I settled under the five layers of blankets with my cat on my pillow, I looked at the clock. 12:10 am. Happy Birthday. J
This is Bitey in the closet of my room at my mom's house. He loves closets, and used to be able to jump quite high to reach them. (And no, I have not read War and Peace). 
Here is Bitey in our closet at home.
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