Maybe our cats have PTSD. They went to the vet this morning, and didn't they howl, locked up in their cat carriers - all the way there, and all the way back too. (The late Pandora at least used to quiet on the return, having figured out that she was going back home.)
Now they're crying for attention and love, all the more so because both of us were out for a while this evening. (B. was at rehearsals for her orchestra concert in March; I was attending a student chamber music recital at Stanford: I usually enjoy these, but this time the anemic performances of powerful music were a bit much, or rather a bit not enough.) We're doing our best to console and worship the cats.