the daily snivel

Such is the joy in the household today, as I can happily say that after an entire week of mysterious absence the cat has been found. How a creature so fastidiously accustomed to long naps, large meals, regular helpings of cat treats and oodles of snuggle-wuggles (and whose "Lost Cat" poster indicated that he also responded to the name "Sweetie" and "Little Boy") could decide that he wanted to rough it outdoors in the middle of a frigid Canadian winter for a week, I'll never know. But anyway, he's back, and apparently none the worse for the experience (aside from a slight cat cold accompanied by sneezing).

We've been leaving food out on the front porch for the cat in case he found his way back and was hungry, though it seemed most heavily frequented by two other kitties from the neighbourhood over the past week. That said, two large bowls of food put out at night would invariably be completely empty the next morning, which at least suggested that the food was appreciated, whether by our cats, or just cats generally, or even the local racoons. Indeed, during our postering and canvassing of a five block radius around the house, we discovered a lot of friendly people who put out food regularly for their cats and for neighbourhood strays. Some people loved cats so much that they called not to report a lead (though we had many people calling and telling us they'd seen a black cat somewhere or other) but to ask whether we'd found the cat yet, and to let them know when we did, and in the meantime expressed their sympathy and promised to keep an eye out. It was sweet.

During his absence, however, we spent an agonizing and heartbreaking week looking for him, canvassing a five block radius around the house, putting up posters, and so on. A friend even walked through the neighbourhood shaking a bag of cat treats (much loved by the missing cat, and part of his daily routine) in the hopes of attracting him. The effort attracted a lot of other cats, not surprisingly (all of whom were of course given treats), but not the fugitive prodigal kitty. In all, we distributed 200 posters and flyers. Natalie put an ad in the newspaper and even had to call the city to see if any workers had picked up a dead cat matching his description, as well as check in at the Humane Society. Worse than having to see all the homeless strays was the fact that the Human Society has a book of the cats who arrive D.O.A. and another for the cats who are so sick or wounded they have to be euthenized on arrival. Even before we found the cat, Natalie she swore she couldn't look at those even one more time.

We found him on Sunday night -- a week after he'd vanished -- in a neighbour's yard. Interestingly, it was technically the other cat (the good one that knows it's an indoor cat) who found him. I was making dinner while Natalie was in the living room, and she noticed that the remaining good kitty was tapping on the glass in the living room. You'd have to know the cat to know this, but she's a big skittish chicken and when she sees birds or another cat or (God forbid) a raccoon on the front porch, she jumps out of the window and chatters excitedly. This time, she just tapped. Natalie took a cue and opened the front door to take a look, notwithstanding that one or the other of us would anxiously open the front door in vain every ten minutes or so otherwise. But it was practically a blizzard outside and there, in the freshly fallen snow, were new paw prints that ended right at the front door. I was called to pursue the trail, and trudging out into the night without so much as a coat, I followed the prints through a laneway and well beyond the house to the fence to a neighbour's property line. There, sitting atop a snowbank butting up to the fence was the cat.

Of course, being a cat, and particularly one who had already caused us so much anxiety and grief, he jumped over the fence and took off into the night in a terrified, mad little panic when I approached him with a promise of safety, warmth, and salvation. I ran back to the house and fetched a bag of cat treats. I then dashed back to the snowbank and proceeded to shake the bag as hard as I could, calling his name and hoping to coax him back to me. It took about five minutes, but eventually he heeded my call and cautiously crept back into the yard and stopped on the other side of the fence. Although he was mewing pathetically, he wouldn't climb back on top of the shed in that yard and jump back over -- perhaps he had forgotten how he'd done it in the first place. Natalie, meanwhile, ran around the block in the hopes of catching him from the other side. She homed in on the sound of my voice, and discovered that (luckily) she could get into the yard from the street. She had her own bag of treats, and I cautioned her not to charge the cat, as he'd simply bolt away again in his panic. Instead, I told her to stay where she was and call him to her. And so she did. I mean, this cat is her baby. She called to him in a melodic, loving voice that he could not possibly resist -- and, of course, there were also treats to be had too -- and slowly, timidly, and with some trepidation, he began to move towards her.

The cat almost fled once or twice, but Natalie remained patient and called him with renewed urgency. Eventually he returned to the right path and came towards her. She started throwing treats into the snow to lure him closer. It was plain to see that he wanted to be rescued, but was so confused and frightened after a week on his own (his first week outside since being rescued one Christmas day several years ago as a frostbitten, wormy, starving little kitten) that he couldn't be sure of what was safe. Once he was close enough, Natalie extended her arm and tried to pet him. He timidly came closer and closer, realizing that salvation was at hand and, once he trusted enough to put his entire head into her hands, she grabbed him and held on tight. She then left the yard, even leaving the bag of treats where it lay for the neighbours to puzzle over come spring. I ran back to the house and grabbed the cat carrier, as he began to squirm and struggle once he was picked up, and it's hard to fend off 13 pounds of determined legs and claws for an entire walk around the block home.

When I reached the pair on the street, we literally poured him into the carrier out of Natalie's arms -- he seemed happier to be inside the confines of the box, which at least smelled familiar, rather than be hoisted in the air near the steady rush of traffic (which utterly terrified him). Once back inside, he quickly put on the air of a creature who might only have stepped out for a few minutes and not an entire week. He rolled around on the floor, sniffed his favourite spots approvingly, and rubbed up against people's legs. The only evidence of his absence was the fact that he was desperately thirsty and that the other cat refused to accept that he was the same creature she had been missing and pining for not an hour before, and growled and hissed whenever he was in sight. I mean, she never really liked him, but she'd grown accustomed to his presence to the point of fondness because he kept things interesting, and was manically strung out and needy while he was gone.

So, things are back to normal now. An enormous weight has been lifted from me, since I had allowed him to escape in the first place and felt horribly guilty for my inattentiveness. And the house where I've been staying since my return to Ottawa is again a complete home, with none of the ache or anguish of worrying about a lost friend.

Well, maybe you have to be a cat person to understand.