In a sort of feline parody of the parable of the prodigal son, first the cat was lost and then it was found. In this story, however, the father was a mother, there wasn't really a grumpy older brother -- unless it was me -- and the resulting emotion was less about amazing grace and more about relief. But the "lostness" was no less traumatic.
Late Saturday morning, to start at the beginning, we gradually became aware of a stirring stillness. After calling out his name, looking in every room and closet and cupboard and finally the garage without results, we were left with no alternative but to conclude that Lori's mother's cat (would that make him my "cat-in-law"?) was missing. Despite there having been only the thinnest of opportunities for him to escape that morning, we could conceive of no other explanation. Henry the cat was gone. No collar. No tag. No microchip. No real prospects of finding him.
Though we continued to reexamine the nooks and crannies of the house, we widened the search -- walks around the cul-de-sac, emails to neighbors, and eventually into ever-expanding sorties through the nearby streets and neighborhoods, knocking on doors, talking to whomever might be out and about, and peering over fences. Lori and her mother consulted the experts at the police department and the Animal Rescue League -- even Craig's List -- and finally started the hopeful (some might say "wishful") process of creating a "Lost Cat" flyer we could post around the area.
More driving through the neighborhoods, more calling out his name, more searching through the house -- this time descending to such extreme possibilities as the oven and the microwave. Nothing. Eventually and mercilessly the hour arrived when the in-laws would have to begin the journey back home -- empty-handed. Choking back anticipatory grief and fighting off despair, hugs were exchanged, car doors were shut, and the car backed out of the drive.
Later in the evening, one of Lori's sisters emailed pictures of the missing for us to add to the flyer. The cat had now been missing 12 long and tiresome hours. Past our bedtime, we were hovered over the computer, Photoshopping cat pictures into cropped portraits we hoped might catch the eye of someone who had seen something. Studying the most recent printout, Lori casually looked over to Barrington lounging nearby...
...and froze. Next to Barrington was a cat. Turning to me with widened eyes and hushed voice, she said, "I think I'm seeing a mirage." After a careful approach and a literal pinch, she concluded that this was not a figment of her imagination but the actual AWOL cat who had apparently been somewhere in this house all along.
Now a day or so after the fact, I've been reflecting on the lessons I might constructively learn from this experience. I can think of lessons I might commend to others involved, but that's not my place. "Believe" was the word ornament the cat had knocked off the tree downstairs before his disappearance, and I suppose that could be one lesson to take to heart. I had certainly lost all hope of finding anything more than pancaked fur on some nearby roadway, and there is, I suppose, something to be said for not losing hope.
But perhaps the best I can take from all this harrowing afternoon, however, is the simple admonition to value and pay attention as best you can to every minute you can. They are numbered, after all, and you never know what might be slipping out without your notice, potentially never to return.
And on those rare occasions when you get a second chance, offer a prayer of thankful praise...
...and then drop whatever you were doing and as fast you can go get a collar and a tag.
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