Missing: Cat

“Pandora?”

The fluffy black and white cat raised its head from the front stoop where it lie in the heat of a North Carolina summer. “Meow?”

I dropped the missing cat flyers I was distributing, the stack of them feathering out in the front yard of an unfamiliar house in this new neighborhood. I staggered to our indoor-only kitty as she stood and began walking directly toward me. Her usually-immaculate coat was matted on one side, the long silky strands tangled to reveal patches of bare pink skin underneath.

“You’ve had an adventure, haven’t you?” As soon as she was close enough to me, I scooped her into my arms and she didn’t resist being held like she usually did, proof to me that she was ready to go home but didn’t know how to get there.

As we walked home, neighbors congratulated me on finding Pandora, their smiles invoking tears of relief. The group of little boys on their bikes skidded to a stop near us, slightly disappointed that it wasn’t their efforts that had resulted in the finding of our lost kitty.

Steps from our house, Pandora decided she’d had enough of being held, but I tightened my grip on her back paws; there was no way I would lose my husband’s cat twice in one day. Strange that she is skittish so close to home- wouldn’t she be thrilled to be here after being lost all afternoon? Maybe she doesn’t recognize it; we’ve only lived here three days. But her reaction, coupled with the matted fur- could fur mat like that in just a few hours?- planted a seed of doubt.

Locked safely in the upstairs bathroom, I inspected Pandora more closely. Her paw pads, usually pink and soft, were black and scratchy on my skin. I grasped at the narrative that I wanted this to be. Maybe she stepped in some ink? Or paint?

Just before we married last year, Pandora- a food lover- had knocked out one of her canine teeth on her food dish- the vet bill an unexpected surprise during grad school and wedding planning. I wrangled this cat into my arms and pushed up its lips. A full set of teeth smiled back at me.

In one afternoon I had managed to lose my husband’s cat AND steal someone else’s.  

I left the cat locked in the bathroom while I retraced my steps. Where was that porch? Where were the flyers? I eventually stumbled upon the house where I was pretty sure the cat had been resting, but the flyers were gone. I stood there puzzling, the front door opened, and a family poured onto the lawn.

“Were there some missing cat flyers on your lawn?”

The mom looked at me quizzically. “Yes?”

“Do you have a cat that looks EXACTLY like that cat?”

Pause. 

Sweatiness.

She wrinkled her forehead. “Kind of?”

My shoulders drooped. “I have your cat.”

I’m sure she said something other than the cat’s name, but I couldn’t hear anything else over the embarrassment clanging around in my head.

Back at home, I loaded Desmond into the car. He rested his front paws on the dash, a look of adventure sparkling in his eyes. As I backed out, my husband pulled up on my passenger side, got out of his car and looked in my side window. In an instant, relief washed over his face, and then rearranged into a look of confusion. He leaned down to look at me through the side window, his eyebrows knotted into a question.

“I’ll be right back,” I answered.

I stopped the car around the block and the mom came up to me, talking incessantly. “I’m so embarrassed. Desmond’s fur is a mess; I haven’t brushed it in a long time and..”

“I STOLE your cat.”

“But his fur…”

“In my hopes to find our missing kitty, I took yours. That’s definitely worse than not giving him a brush now and then. I’m so sorry.”

As we stood there arguing over who was the guiltiest, Desmond hopped out of the front seat, wandered back to his stoop, stretched his legs, circled, and flopped down again, matted side against the concrete. 

Somehow we both stopped chattering and as I drove home I was dismayed to see the yards-  minutes ago that had been filled with people mowing and weeding, watering and planting- were all empty, and the bike brigade had rolled elsewhere. How could I get anyone to help me? How would they know we were still searching, that the first kitty was just the one I catnapped from an unsuspecting neighbor?

I posted on the neighborhood online message board, too embarrassed to go door to door or hunt down the bike brigade to undo the mess I had made. Hours passed. No cat.

The heat of the day eventually gave up and night rolled in. We propped open windows and left plates of tuna on the sills. We shook the treat container, ran the can opener, called all the names we had for Pandora into the darkness behind our house. No cat.

My husband, whom I’d known for over five years, the one who hadn’t shed a tear ever in that time, not even at his beloved grandfather’s funeral, dissolved into my arms, heartbroken. 

“I’m going to check the woods one last time,” he sighed as he grabbed the flashlight from the front porch. 

I slumped onto the steps. Why didn’t I watch the cat more closely? Why hadn’t I checked the screens? 

And then my husband’s voice, light and hopeful for the first time all day. 

I ran to where he stood, the flashlight shining into the woods, two red circles reflecting back at him. While she was blinded by the flashlight, I scooped Pandora up and carried her into the house.

In one day I managed to lose, find, steal and return two cats.