I went to check inside, and sure enough, a cat was missing. (Arthur.)
Almost 11PM, and he's not back yet.
To add fuel to the fire of self-loathing that seems to be one of my stages of grief, I realized I never wrote Stanford back about lost book charges. When they emailed my boss's boss about it. And mentioned my not replying back. Twice. Never mind that I'm not actually the lost book charges person. Somehow this is on my lap, and I knew it was there, and I never effectively got it off my lap.
To go with my self-loathing? At the beginning of the summer, I actually thought about checking all the (admittedly upstairs) screens to make sure no cats could fall out of them--and didn't. Didn't think about the downstairs screens, though. Not that it matters. If I'd checked the upstairs screens and hadn't done the downstairs ones, I'd be just as loathing.