Kid Amnesiac

Monday through Wednesday this week, Kitty Friend moved onto my porch and deck. He waited for us to come out and play, he ran between mine and Simon’s legs when we raced around the house (Simon demands that we alternate winning these races), and he plopped in my mom’s lap for a nice snooze when she sat on my front porch Tuesday afternoon.

It seemed that Kitty Friend had adopted us. I was in agony, as I cannot in good conscience bring a young indoor/outdoor (at best) cat into my home while I have two senior indoor-only cats. So I did what anyone in my shoes would do: I put up signs all over the neighborhood imploring Kitty Friend’s owner to call me, and then I called the biggest animal lovers I know and plead my case. Those would be Jim and Evie, my in-laws.

At first, there was some resistance. Well, they’d thought about having cats and missed having cats, but there were some logistical issues to work out. I understood—and said as much—but kept talking. “He’s so pretty. He’s so sweet. Simon loves him so much. You should have seen him on my mom’s lap! And I just don’t know what to do. Was there any way to make it work with three in my house? Because just look at him, he’s precious.”

An hour later, my father-in-law announced I should bring Kitty Friend to their house on Friday. Then he laughed that we were BOTH going to go broke bringing in homeless cats. I cried a little. Thank goodness. No, scratch that. Thank Jim and Evie!

So what happens next? Thursday I call the vet and arrange a drop-in check-up. I go buy food. I have my plan set up. And Kitty Friend doesn’t show up. Not in the morning to greet Simon on his way to school. Not in the afternoon for a snooze. And not in the evening for a pre-bedtime visit. The cat that had practically moved in—the cat who had just the day before sat in front of my door and fixed me long, meaningful stares—had gone AWOL. When I went to bed Thursday night, it was the longest Kitty Friend-less stretch I had had in five days.

“He’s lost,” I speculated to Matt. “Or trapped. Or out hunting for food and has had to increase his territory to find something. Or he’s been hit by a car or wounded in a terrible fight.”

“That could be it,” Matt replied. “But I think we just shamed Kitty Friend’s owners into taking care of him. They saw the signs and were embarrassed.”

Maybe. But I wasn’t convinced. Simon asked about Kitty Friend, too. “Where was he? Was he home? Could he come to our house.”

I told a nice story, hoped it was true, and went to bed feeling uncertain.

This uncertainly came to a close when my neighbor Greg knocked on our door at around 10:30 this morning. Kitty Friend was in his yard. Soon, he was back on my porch, drinking water and munching away on his lunch. Then, he got stuffed into a cat carrier and brought to the vet. Kitty Friend is:

• about a year old, maybe a bit older;
• in general good health;
• free of Feline HIV or leukemia;
• recovering from some battle wounds, including a damaged ear and puncture wounds on his head (kitty is not retreating from battle);
• not altered;
• not micro-chipped;
• very sweet. He sat without protest for a blood-draw.

Based on this, the vet concluded that Kitty Friend is a great cat with a neglectful owner and that I am well within my rights to find him a new and better home. As I type, Kitty Friend is in my basement, hiding under a couch. I hate to deprive him of a sunny spring day on my deck, but tonight he’s heading to my in-laws for a shot at an infinitely better life, and I can’t take any chances he’ll disappear again.

But you know what the best part is? The best part is that the next time Simon asks about Kitty Friend, I get to tell him that Kitty Friend is going to Grandma and Papaw’s house for a bit. We’ll both like the sound of that.