Some of you may recall that my cat Baldrick recently shuffled off this mortal coil, reducing the feline population of my apartment to a nice, manageable 1. After today, I’m starting to think that the policy of living without a back-up may be unwise in the extreme.
My cat, Wimsey, is without a doubt the most affectionate thing in catskin. He’s about 10 months old, a foundling that my sister rescued (along with his brothers and sister) and that I adopted, as her dog seemed to think the kittens would be a lot of fun as prey, but otherwise had no business in his house. Since Baldrick’s demise, I have been particularly grateful for Wimsey, but today’s events have severely tested that warm, fuzzy feeling. Let me tell you why.
My vacation started yesterday. For me, this means it’s time for my yearly trip up to Wildwood, NJ, to spend quality time with the 'rents and whatever assorted familial units drift in or out over the course of the week that I’m there. Tame, I know, but much valued and much anticipated.
So yesterday morning I packed up the car with the bike and the clothes and the books, the sunscreen, the floppy hat, the crossword puzzles and the Mad Libs[sup]TM)[/sup] the toothbrush, the PJs – I remembered everything!! – and prepared to depart. Last step: collect all the CD’s I might potentially want to listen to during my four-hour drive, balance them precariously in my arms, and exit the apartment while tossing a few parting words of affection to the kitten, along the lines of, “See you soon, Wim. Guard the fort, write if you find work, Donna the Catlady will see you tomorrow. Be good, now.” And I set off, a song in my heart, a smile on my lips, and lead in my foot.
Now with the wisdom of today, I look back on that me and I feel a kind of fond pity for her. Little did she know . . .
Made great time to Wildwood and immediately set in on the debauch of pinochle-playing, nephew-teasing, roller-coaster- and teacup-riding wildness that is my yearly vacation. All well and good until my cell-phone rang at noon today. Incoming call from home?? This can’t be good.
Donna the Catlady cannot find the cat. Granted it’s a smallish cat, but it is also a smallish apartment. Also, seeing as how he’s such an affectionate cat and he’s been alone for 26 hours, he shouldn’t really be playing the shrinking violet at this point. And furthermore, there’s nothing at all in either litterbox. All signs point to one conclusion: while his mom’s arms were filled with CD’s and she was busily speaking affectionate words of farewell and trying to double-lock the door for safety, the cat slithered out of the apartment under her radar and made a break for it. Distraught catlady. Utterly undone mom.
The Catlady is putting up signs, calling shelters, knocking on doors, scanning the neighborhood and generally doing all that can be done. I know this. I know that my fervent desire to be on the scene is really nothing more than a fervent desire to return to the moment of the escape and catch him in the act. I call a couple of animal hospitals and leave a message at the apartment complex office and feel that that’s pretty much all I can do from Wildwood. Really, all anyone can do. So why can I not simply stay put??
It’s my cat. My special, lovely, one and only cat. AND I DON’T KNOW WHERE HE IS.
Four and half hours and 210 miles later I am pulling back into my apartment complex parking lot. Check lips – no song, just inventive curse words and desperate pleas to God to restore my cat to me. Check heart – nope, no song, just dread. Check foot – lead all used up.
First, look through the apartment. Definitely no cat. Well, we knew that. If he’d been there, Donna the Catlady would have found him. Next, start knocking on doors. Between buildings, call cat’s name – look like an idiot, but can’t help that. Approach strangers and ask if they’ve seen small black-and-white cat in the last day and a half. Knock on more doors. Can’t speak English, you say??? I will stand here in the hall and meow like a small cat and look beseechingly at you. See the crazy Anglo lady. Hey! Look!! An open basement door on that building! Ahh, it leads to this very scary storage space. Perfect place for psychos with billhooks to lurk in, but also possible hiding space for kittens. Better check. Nope. Kitten (and psycho) -free.
Forty minutes later, I decide to walk around the block and look for his furry little body in the streets. Still calling his name. Suddenly, just after I call him, I hear what seems to be an answering cry from a tree. Look up. There, on that branch! No. Shit – that’s just a damn squirrel, apparently mocking me. It’s making quite a ruckus, though. And sure enough, every time I cry, “Wim!!” it answers me. But still. It’s a squirrel. Walk on, past the end of this fence that’s between me and the squirrel’s tree. That damn squirrel is still screaming its head off. Look back once more and see my kitten. He’s lying in the yard there, right below the freaked-out squirrel, looking at me. Trespass slightly, scoop up reluctant and somewhat weirded-out, but otherwise unharmed, kitten and return to apartment.
Babble incoherent prayers of joy and thanksgiving. Run out for 6-pack and start process of drinking self into stupor.
So here’s the question. If I have this total whackjob neutered, will he stop bolting for the door every time I open it??
