The Darker Side of Christmas: What Happened to Winston.

I constantly fear for all things pertaining to Winston.
There have been late nights when I have stayed awake, bundled in my robe and slippers, calling shrilly and in vain for him to come inside. I toss and turn in the night, imagining the claws on his scratching post to be in fact claws on my couch, my throw pillows, or my duvet cover. I imagine every hiccup and every cough to be an inevitable sign that he will throw up on the kitchen floor-- or worse yet, the carpet. I imagine him being struck by a passing car and feebly dragging himself to the gutter where he cries piteously for help that won't come because I am too preoccupied with worrying about him to hear.
Once, in the middle of the night, our knife block fell from a shelf and created a stupendous crashing sound. Winston, who was sleeping next to my hand, jumped with fright at the noise. Jason awoke with a start. I sat bolt upright and screamed accusingly in my semiconscious and paranoid state, "WINSTON!!!! BAD CAT!" There were several confused moments when Jason looked at me like I was crazy, Winston looked at Jason with an expression that might have said "save me!" and I glowered at Winston, wondering how he could have jumped onto the high shelf in the kitchen, knocked the knife block over and returned to a relaxed sleeping position on our bed before it hit the ground.
This is my problem. My anxiety is completely unjustified. Winston is not a malicious animal. He's never had an accident. He rarely scratches anything he's not supposed to. He no longer is interested in his poop. He's just a lazy, laid back, easy going cat. My fear has never been warranted.
Until now.
Over the period of five days that we were visiting my parents last week, we left Winston outside with plenty of food and water and a very luxurious heated cat house (Thank you, Dad!). I was nervous but reassured. I mean.... he has a heated house. "He'll be fine," Jason said. "Yes," I would reply, unable to shake off the stories I'd heard of crazy people torturing lonely cats.
We returned from Christmas vacation to a missing Winston.The minute I stepped out of the car and there was no jingle jangle from a cat's collar to be heard, alarm bells went off in my head. Jason said, "He's fine. He's probably just wandering around. He'll come back." We unpacked our things. We contemplated dinner. Then a faint meowing came from behind the wall.
It was Winston all right. Scuffling around in there and sounding pretty desperate to get out.
I started to cry.
Here's what we think happened: Somehow, using his ridiculous climbing skills, Winston got into the apartment above us where our landlords sometimes stay when they're in town. Then he was trapped there for a day or two, possibly longer, with no food or water. The soot, however, was inexplicable. He was filthy. Completely gray. Did he try to crawl into the chimney (that is blocked off)? Or roll around on the roof? Or tunnel through the earth and then walk through extremely dense pollution? We may never know. All I know is that I was frantic, and have been terrified for him ever since.

Not the best Christmas for poor Winsty.