Our cat is missing. He went out yesterday morning at his usual 5:00 but didn't come back in at his usual 5:30. In fact, he didn't come back at all. Uuuuuugh. My sweet little cat. What, oh what am I going to tell The Boy.
We brought this cat home at 12 weeks old. The kids screamed in terror every time they saw him for two full weeks. Just as I was about to give up on him, The Boy realized that he played tag. He's also a fool for anything whippy and feathered. His favorite toy was a plain blue cotton catnip mouse. I've seen him poking through the bin of cat toys to find just the toy he wanted. At a year and a half old, he was still playing with fuzzy toys tied to door knobs with elastic cord.
If it seems like I keep switching from present tense to past and back, it's because I still hope he's okay. Maybe someone took him in, thinking he was homeless. I put up signs on the mailboxes. Maybe he strayed into the woods behind the house and got injured. I hunted down the address, name, and phone number of the house behind us and called. I asked the neighbors. I searched the ditches around the house. Nothing. The little thing just vanished.
Oh dear. It's not like he's a terribly affectionate cat. He wasn't the type to sit on a lap or worship. He tended to stalk, grab, and lick. We think he was weaned too young and not socialized, but my dad found him in the shrubs, and he was ours. He pet-broke my kids. He amused them. He did keep us company many an evening. But he treads softly on this Earth and on our hearts, leaving just faint prints.
This morning, The Boy was already saying, "Can we get a gray cat now?" But now, late at night, he's woken me with, "Mom? I'm worried about Harry." Oh dear. I assured him that Harry is one of God's little creatures, and he'll be okay. But secretly, I'm not sure he's coming home to us.
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