AQUA

“Do you think they’ll be okay?”

I looked over at my wife, sitting in the passenger seat. The slight visible tension in her forehead, and her upturned eybrows turned the question into a slightly anxious plee.

“Do you think my cats will be okay?” she repeated. I could hear the trace of real worry in her voice.

“They’ll be fine,” I said. “Ben’s coming to see them and feed them every day. They’ll probably be a little freaked out, but they’ll be in their own place, with food and water and Ben’s attention. They’ll be fine,” I repeated.

Ben lives two houses down from us, and watches our pets when we’re gone. When his family is gone, our kids watch their animals. It’s a good system, and Ben’s a good kid, so I didn’t worry. But my wife was. I knew she didn’t like leaving any of her creatures behind.

I also knew there wasn’t anything I could say to ease her mind, so we pulled away from the house and our four cats to begin our eighteen day vacation.

* * * * * * * *

Eighteen days later, on Saturday night, we pulled back into the driveway. We agreed that the one good thing about returning from such a great vacation would be to see the cats we had left in Ben’s able care. The first thing we did was to dump our bags and seek them out.

First to show himself was Nicky, the gray tabby whose natural curiosity keeps him right on the ragged edge of disaster. Nicky is one of those rare creatures that is surrounded by a golden aura. Its as if he’s invincible, no matter what kind of crazy risks he takes. He ran right up to us with a characteristic Meaaoowlll. We loved him up. And good.

It wasn’t long before Nicky’s best friend and cohort, Murphy, sauntered up to see what the excitement was about. “Mr. Murph,” as we call him, is the cool cat. He’s the male model (among cats) in the family. He is perfectly proportioned, with good muscle tone and a perfectly groomed orange tabby coat. One neighbor’s comment after meeting him: “That’s a good lookin’ cat!”

Of course, this all goes to hell the second he opens his mouth. Due to some combination of his natural genetic makeup and his “alterations,” he has the same high voice of the tiny kitten that he once used to be. He took his share of everyone’s affection and immediately jumped on Nicky for one of their characteristic wrestling matches.
It was a while later when we first came across Baby Biscuit. My wife wanted “Baby” and my daughter wanted “Biscuit” — so “Baby Biscuit” was the rather unnatural decision. From my perspective, neither of these names suits this cat’s personality. She’s our only long-haired cat, and the oldest of the four. The long white hair is patched with black, and gives her a dramatic and slightly exotic look. But she sleeps flat on her back with her front paws up near her chin and her back legs all sprawled out. Very unladylike. She’s also a wicked fast hunter who is usually the one to bring a variety of living gifts in through the cat door. She also took her share of attention, and then slipped off to the soft comfort of her favorite sleeping spot.

I heard the familiar click of the cat door and looked over to see an orange tabby flash. Assuming it was the final member of our cat family, I lost my cool and rushed the door, with a loud “HI SUNNY!” The situation was not improved by our dog, Pica running full tilt at the cat door to see what had gotten my attention.

Whatever the orange flash had been, it vanished in an obvious panic.

“That was Sunny,” I said to the room in general.

My family had come to see the one remaining cat. We all waited, watching the cat door to see if the orange flash would re-enter.

After a minute or so, we went out on the back deck. There was nothing there.

I heard my wife give her signature call, “Sunnneeeee…”

And again.

Once more.

No Sunny.

* * * * * * * *

About three days went by with no sign of our missing cat. I had done my best to keep everyone’s spirits up.”Cats do this,” I said with the confidence of a trained vet.

“She’s probably mad at us for leaving her alone for so long. Today or tomorrow, she’ll show up.”

Of course, like all of our cats, Sunny had been trained (probably by Nicky) in the fine art of collar removal. None of our cats keep their collars on longer than a few seconds. There’s a constant struggle between wanting to stick with the breakaway collars so that they can’t hang themselves, and knowing that they’ll just take them off versus the possibility of something stronger, which could hurt the cats if they get hung up the wrong way. We’ve mostly given up, and none of our cats wear their tags these days.

Including Sunny.

As the days went by, my tirade about her being angry began to sound more empty, and my family gave me increasingly doubtful looks as I repeated the mantra.

Finally, I used my lunch hour at work to print up ten copies of a sign that said:

LOST CAT
“Sunny”
Orange/White Striped
Overweight/Skinny Legs

I put a big photo of our cat’s face on the front along with our phone number in huge type. On my way home, I posted the signs on posts near mailboxes all around our house, hoping that someone might have taken Sunny in.

I was beginning to wonder whether Sunny was gone.

* * * * * * * *

By Friday, it was time for action. Still no sign of Sunny in the five days since we had arrived home. First, I posted an ad on the internet web site, Craig’s List, which hosts a large lost pets section. I looked back through two weeks worth of ads for found animals. Along the way, I began to see the large number of other people who were looking for missing pets. In two weeks worth of ads, there were well over a hundred such entries.

None of the found animals listed were the elusive Sunny.

The next step was to try the shelters. I stopped in at a little cat hospital right around the corner from our house, but they told me that they don’t take in stray animals.

“Check at Town Lake. They all go to Town Lake,” said the girl behind the desk, with the necessary sympathy in her voice.

Next stop, Town Lake Animal Shelter.

A good 15 miles from my house, this central Austin animal shelter is where all stray animals seem to end up. I walked in, and was directed to simply look through the two buildings with stray cats, and to tell them if I saw my cat.

About one second after entering the first building, I decided that my wife would never, ever be allowed to visit the Town Lake Animal Shelter. In every cage was another lost cat. All shapes, sizes and ages. All sweet in their own ways. All lonely. All a little scared. If only I could take them all home.

But after checking every cage, there was no Sunny.

* * * * * * * *

Over the next few days, I watched Craig’s List ceaselessly, as well as the Town Lake shelter’s internet photos of lost cats. I also made the thirty-mile round trip loop up to the Williamson County Animal Shelter. As we live near the county line, it could have potentially gone either way. No luck, no Sunny, but lots of sad animals.

Each day, both my wife and daughter were in a fairly constant state of meandering in a sad listless way, until my daughter eventually got more tired, and broke down into full-on sobs and tears. This was becoming a nightly occurrence.

For my wife, it was more subtle. I’d catch her staring for long minutes out the back window, or inspecting the holes in our back fence. Not calling — just looking.

* * * * * * * *

Over the next ten days things slowly got more and more hopeless. I continued to watch Craig’s List, even reposting in a different area of the site. I took several long walks and drives around the neighborhood, hoping that I might see some posters proclaiming that a fat orange tabby had been found. I rechecked the animal shelters. Each time, I’d get a burst of hope, and I could almost envision being able to call Katie to tell her that I had found her cat! But I was disappointed each time. And I had to endure the multitudes of other homeless lost animals.

On the following Monday night, my wife slipped into a quiet bout of serious crying.

“I just think she’s gone,” she whimpered. We had been back for nine days without a sign.

“She’s just not the kind of cat to be gone like this.”

And she wasn’t. Sunny was the most shy — the most scared — the biggest lap cat of them all. But she was also the cat who would go into our downstairs bathroom, presumably because of the better acoustics, and sing her little heart out for thirty or forty minutes straight.

“She was my talky cat,” my wife said through a new batch of tears.

Her choice to switch to the past tense at that moment meant that something had changed.

* * * * * * * *

Katie and I secretly decided that if we didn’t see Sunny by the weekend, it would be appropriate to hold a small ceremony. This would help us all to acknowledge the fact that she was gone, and give us some closure — even without really knowing what had happened. We had planned to look at some photos, and say some nice things, then release some orange balloons into the sky.

A few more days ticked by with no sign of her. On Wednesday, I took my daughter to her first Volleyball practice of the fall season. She had a great time, and seemed to really be enjoying herself. I didn’t notice any of the sadness I’d seen for the previous week.

Until we drove home.

“Do you think we’ll find Sunny?” she asked in such a quiet voice, that I could tell she almost didn’t want me to answer her.

I paused for a long time. I knew I had to begin preparing her for the adjustment to a world without Sunny.

“It’s been such a long time,” I said. “I really don’t think we’ll find her. I believe that she’s probably found her way to another house, and that another family is giving her lots of food and love. I’m sure she’s safe — just not with us.”

I looked over to see those violent, but completely silent tears which only come in real grief. After a while she managed to utter a few words.

“I don’t want her to be with another family. I want her home with us.”

I didn’t have much to say to that.

* * * * * * * *

That night, my wife and I sat around our dining room table, having a glass of wine, and talking through the beginnings of the first week of school. We had managed to get back to some of the mundane things which always go with starting a new school year. All the kids needed a bunch of forms filled out and signed. Alex needed some extra school supplies. Tyler needed an assignment planner. I had a doctor’s checkup.

Then the clip-clop of the cat door got our attention, and an orange tabby streak flew by.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then my wife gasped, “I think that was Sunny!”

We began to rush to our feet, then slowed our movements so as to not frighten her — if it was truly her.

We followed through the house to the stairs, where the orange streak had gone upstairs. By this time, Madison had also seen the orange streak, and had already picked up from Katie that there was a possibility that it was Sunny. For the next five minutes, her hands were superglued to her mouth as she hoped for the best.

We all went up to Madison’s room, which was Sunny’s favorite haunt before the vacation.

She was hiding way under the very head of Madison’s bed.

But it was her.

Absolutely and completely unchanged. Still fat as ever. Very happy to see us. Shedding like crazy in all the excitement.

But her.

Sunny had returned.

* * * * * * * *

Eleven full days had passed without her. We still have no idea where she was. Perhaps she was holed up in another nearby house, getting love and attention — she certainly seems to have kept her weight up. I don’t think we’ll ever know what happened.

It would be great if cats could speak English! I’d love to hear what she was doing for those eleven days.