The cat disappeared.
Friday of last week. That was the last time I saw her.
Our big ol' black cat.
A dog chased her under the next-door neighbors' porch, and she found some level of safety by wedging herself up into the joists. Once the melee was over I couldn't coax her out. She just glared at me with contempt.
"You are to blame," she repeatedly hissed in response to each of my "here kitty-kittys."
She's not wrong.
I feel some guilt. I invited that dog to come to our house every Wednesday and Friday for playdates. He would launch himself over couches and accordion carpets and she would find herself scarce until the canine revelry subsided, which it usually did in short order.
Still, she took the house guest as an opportunity to peruse the perimeter of the yard, or, if the weather was inclement, retire to her boy's room, where his homemade bed tent turned the lower part of his bunk into a comfy cardboard box fit for a lioness.
Which, truth be told, she sounded like as she chastised me from under the decking of that neighbor's porch.
I know the experts say cats don't hold grudges, they just work through trauma in their own feline way.
But this feels personal.
And yet I believed she'd find a way to forgive me. She'd come back. That's what I told myself and the kids when they asked.
She has disappeared before. She's always returned eventually, I presume when she's good and ready.
But the snap in the air gives me a nagging feeling. One day turns into one week, which is halfway to her most protracted sojourn two Augusts ago. It makes me wonder if she's ever going to be ready to come home again.
The last time she disappeared the weather was more conducive to following her hearts' content wherever it dangled its unraveling ball of yarn: Down the block, or deep into the neighboring field, made no difference. This morning, however, under a fresh layer of frost the great outdoors seems to be an inhospitable place. Certainly, its vast expanse is no longer teaming with mice.
"Here kitty, kitty."
I called the humane society. Gave a description. There hadn't been any calls. They suggested I try leafletting the neighborhood.
Maybe someone has seen her ... or taken her in ... or given her a new home without big dumb dopey dogs who take over the house on holidays.
Who don't let you get a word in edgewise ...
Who can't stop with the politics.
She could tell people quite accurately that she didn't really belong to us … she was, after all, adopted.
I don't tell my kids about this call. For them, having their cat select another family would be the worst thing that could happen. I also don't mention Coyotes.
Nor do I show them the poster I made, complete with a flattering picture and the word MISSING in the largest text that will fit on the page. I type out our phone number, copying it over and over for the clever pull strips at the bottom. I add the word REWARD.
I look at my handiwork, and my heart sinks. Print makes it real.
“Here Kitty, Kitty.”
Friday of last week. That was the last time I saw her.
Our big ol' black cat.
A dog chased her under the next-door neighbors' porch, and she found some level of safety by wedging herself up into the joists. Once the melee was over I couldn't coax her out. She just glared at me with contempt.
"You are to blame," she repeatedly hissed in response to each of my "here kitty-kittys."
She's not wrong.
I feel some guilt. I invited that dog to come to our house every Wednesday and Friday for playdates. He would launch himself over couches and accordion carpets and she would find herself scarce until the canine revelry subsided, which it usually did in short order.
Still, she took the house guest as an opportunity to peruse the perimeter of the yard, or, if the weather was inclement, retire to her boy's room, where his homemade bed tent turned the lower part of his bunk into a comfy cardboard box fit for a lioness.
Which, truth be told, she sounded like as she chastised me from under the decking of that neighbor's porch.
I know the experts say cats don't hold grudges, they just work through trauma in their own feline way.
But this feels personal.
And yet I believed she'd find a way to forgive me. She'd come back. That's what I told myself and the kids when they asked.
She has disappeared before. She's always returned eventually, I presume when she's good and ready.
But the snap in the air gives me a nagging feeling. One day turns into one week, which is halfway to her most protracted sojourn two Augusts ago. It makes me wonder if she's ever going to be ready to come home again.
The last time she disappeared the weather was more conducive to following her hearts' content wherever it dangled its unraveling ball of yarn: Down the block, or deep into the neighboring field, made no difference. This morning, however, under a fresh layer of frost the great outdoors seems to be an inhospitable place. Certainly, its vast expanse is no longer teaming with mice.
"Here kitty, kitty."
I called the humane society. Gave a description. There hadn't been any calls. They suggested I try leafletting the neighborhood.
Maybe someone has seen her ... or taken her in ... or given her a new home without big dumb dopey dogs who take over the house on holidays.
Who don't let you get a word in edgewise ...
Who can't stop with the politics.
She could tell people quite accurately that she didn't really belong to us … she was, after all, adopted.
I don't tell my kids about this call. For them, having their cat select another family would be the worst thing that could happen. I also don't mention Coyotes.
Nor do I show them the poster I made, complete with a flattering picture and the word MISSING in the largest text that will fit on the page. I type out our phone number, copying it over and over for the clever pull strips at the bottom. I add the word REWARD.
I look at my handiwork, and my heart sinks. Print makes it real.
“Here Kitty, Kitty.”
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