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Nine Lives and a Sixth Sense

Don’t give up before the miracle happens.

~Fannie Flagg

My very first fur baby was a fluffy white, part-Persian cat named Rebel. We got him as a kitten from the SPCA, and he quickly took over the house and our hearts. He was almost six months old when he disappeared, and I was heartbroken.

We had already made an appointment to get him neutered, but it was too late. He must have been in the mood to prowl, so when we had company one day, he snuck out while they were walking in.

We searched for him everywhere, canvassing the neighbourhood, putting up posters, and even offering a reward. I checked the pound and the emergency vet clinic to see if he had been injured or picked up. No one had seen him, so we kept searching.

We lived in the city, close to a high-traffic road, and Rebel didn’t have “street smarts” because he was an indoor cat. We also suspected that if he got lost, he wouldn’t be able to find his way home. Every time we went out, I would search for him as we drove down the road. Nothing.

Weeks went by with no sign of our cat. Everyone said I had to accept the inevitable — either he was dead, or someone else had him and was giving him a good home. I didn’t accept that. I just couldn’t.

After two weeks with no sign of him, we put his bed, toys, food, bowls, and litter box into storage so we wouldn’t have to walk by the sad reminders every day. But I still wasn’t ready to give up.

One morning, I left for work a few minutes early and started walking to the bus stop a block away. It was a nice autumn day, crisp and sunny — a good day for a walk. I arrived at the bus stop and checked to see if the bus was coming, but I was still a little early.

Something told me to keep going, so I decided to walk to the next bus stop. I got there and saw the bus coming, but I just kept walking, watching the bus whiz by, knowing I was going to be late for work. But something told me to keep going.

I continued to walk for another twenty minutes, veering into a neighbourhood I wasn’t familiar with — and walked right up to my cat! He was sitting by a fence and he was filthy, no longer white, more of a dirty brown colour. He was matted and stinky, and had a scab on a ragged torn ear. He was so scrawny.

I called his name as I scooped him into my arms. His motorboat purr was as loud as I remembered, and he pushed his dirty face into mine. I teared up with happiness because I had found my cat.

I turned around and carried him home. He purred all the way. When we got there, I refilled his bowls with food and water and set up his litter box. I cuddled him some more and then phoned to tell my boss I was on my way, promising to make up the time I had missed. I had another quick snuggle with my cat, washed up, grabbed my bags, and ran to catch the next bus.

Work was busy, so I didn’t have a chance to call my husband and tell him that I had found our cat. When he came home from work that afternoon, he was shocked to find a dirty, smelly cat in the house — one he didn’t recognize.

At first he thought it was a stray that had somehow gotten into the house. But after a minute he realized it was really our cat, so he gave Rebel a bath, getting rid of most of the dirt and bad smell.

When I finally walked through the door an hour later, I told him the story about getting a weird premonition and walking until I got to a strange neighbourhood — and found Rebel.

He just shook his head. “After I bathed him, I finally believed it was really our cat. But when I first saw him, all matted, dirty and skinny, I wouldn’t have recognized him in a million years. I can’t believe you did!”

I’m so glad I was blessed with a sixth sense that day and kept walking past bus stop after bus stop on my way to finding our wayward cat. We took him to the vet to make sure he was okay and arranged to get him fixed as soon as possible. After that, Rebel stayed put, never wandering away again, which was a good thing because I have a feeling he had already used up most of his nine lives.

— Lori Kempf Bosko —

Image source : © pixabay.com

The Siamese Connection

A bond between souls is ancient — older than the planet.

~Dianna Hardy

I’ve had a Siamese cat for as long as I can remember. They are my absolute favourite breed. Having one makes me feel complete, like having my own sidekick. When I moved away from the family home, I brought my Chocolate Point Siamese cat with me. When Tucker passed away at age seventeen, I knew moving forward was going to be difficult.

After a couple of weeks passed and I was tired of being miserable, I decided to get in touch with the breeder who had sold us Tucker. I wanted to see if it was possible to trace his bloodline and maybe have a part of him back in some way.

When I heard back, the news wasn’t good. The breeder had stopped her business eight years earlier. There was no way for me to find another cat in Tucker’s family.

My husband helped me realize that even though we couldn’t get another cat with Tucker’s bloodline, we could still fall in love with another cat. After searching online, I discovered that a woman who lived five blocks from us bred Siamese cats. One of her cats had just given birth to five kittens a month prior. I thought it was pretty cool that the kittens were just down the street, so I contacted her and asked if she would mind if my husband and I came by for some “Siamese therapy.” She obliged happily, and off we went to meet the Siamese babies.

We showed up at her place with no expectations. We had a blast watching all the babies crawl around. The timing of their birth was perfect as they were just starting to explore and play. While chatting with the breeder, Jane, we asked her how long she had been in the business of breeding.

She told us, “Over twenty-five years.”

I mentioned the town where I had gotten Tucker seventeen years earlier. I didn’t provide her with any other information.

She said, “It’s funny you say that. I used to live about forty-five minutes away from there.” Nineteen or twenty years ago, she told us, she had sold two Siamese cats (from different litters) to a woman in the same location.

“The woman also bred Bouviers,” said Jane.

I froze because the biggest coincidence in my life had just happened. The kennel that Tucker was from also bred Bouvier dogs. They had a huge farm property, and the big black Bouviers were running free in the farmyard as we pulled in to pick up Tucker. It had to be the same place.

“Do you remember what kind of Siamese cats you sold the kennel?” I asked.

“A male Lilac Point and a female Chocolate Point, I think,” said Jane.

Tucker’s parents were a male Lilac Point and a female Chocolate Point. The ages of Tucker’s parents correlated perfectly with what Jane had said, too. Jane pulled up photographs she had stored on a hard drive. To our amazement, there they were: Tucker’s long-lost family. We had found them! She had a picture of a cat named “Gorgeous George” who, as it turns out, was Tucker’s grandfather. The kittens that Jane had now were descendants of George’s bloodline through their mother. This means they are cousins to our beloved Tucker — and living right in our own neighbourhood!

“May I hold them?” I asked.

“I’m not sure how they’ll respond,” said Jane. “They really haven’t had any human contact, but you can go ahead and try picking them up.”

Carefully, I picked up one of the little boys and felt an immediate connection. He was the only one willing to let me hold him. As I brought him close to my chest, he did what Tucker had done when I first met him. He put his tiny paws around my neck, and I looked at my husband and said, “He’s the one.”

My husband nodded in agreement. “He’s definitely the one.” We had a part of Tucker back again, living on in a beautiful little boy, and we were overjoyed.

Tucker and I could have ended up anywhere in our journey together. We lived in a multitude of different cities, travelled in cars and across the country in moving trucks, and even flew in airplanes together. After I graduated university, we moved away again, and I met my husband. It was an amazing coincidence that Tucker’s parents were born a few blocks from the home where we eventually settled.

It’s been a month and a half since we fell in love with baby Huxley. We are so happy that he is officially home. We decided to name him after author Aldous Huxley, as he too had Siamese cats who would sit on his shoulders while he created his art. Perhaps our Huxley will do the same. My husband and I are both artists and we loved it when Tucker would do that. Either way, we are excited about getting to know Huxley and embracing his little personality.

— Mackenzie Donegan —

Image source : © pixabay.com

When you have lost hope, you have lost everything.

And when you think all is lost, when all is dire and bleak, there is always hope.

~Pittacus Lore, I Am Number Four

With our sons grown and raising their own children, our house was feeling empty. My husband Mike and I adopted two feral kittens, orange tabby brothers who we named Hunter and Buddy. They’re now four and a half years old and a huge part of our lives and family. Hunter is my big boy, weighing twenty-three pounds. Buddy is smaller at eighteen pounds.

We love to camp and hate the thought of leaving the “boys” at home, so we’ve turned them into our “camping cats.” In our car, they travel in a pet playpen so they can watch the world go by. We also travel with a trailer, and they love being in it. It’s a five-hour drive to our main camp, which is on an acre of land we own in the Sierra Nevada Mountains in Plumas County at a place called Little Grass Valley, California. We set up camp in May once the snow has melted and leave it up until October when the weather gets cold. Hunter and Buddy love exploring during the daylight. We keep them indoors at night.

On July 19, 2019, we decided to leave after work for our week in the mountains instead of waiting until morning. It’s a long drive, and we wanted to get it over with. We arrived at our camp at ten. The cats went from the car to the trailer as usual. I asked Mike to tether them since we were unloading, and it was dark. He tethered Buddy and was reaching for Hunter when Hunter jumped out the trailer door and into the darkness. We didn’t think much of it because he never strays far from us. We called him and went looking with flashlights in hand, but found no Hunter, not even a peep. We went to bed, expecting him to show up during the night, but he didn’t.

The next day, we hiked the mountains, calling and calling, still nothing. We didn’t know until the next night that there had been a bear near our camp whose smell must have scared Hunter. We went cabin to cabin talking with people. Everyone was very kind and said they would keep an eye out for him. After a week of searching, we had no choice but to go home without him.

I was devastated, to say the least. Two weeks passed before we could go up again and resume our search. I printed fliers with his picture and the location of our camp; there’s no cell phone service there, which makes communication difficult. People would drive by asking if we’d found him yet. They were putting out bowls of cat food on their decks. One man was carrying cat treats in his pocket “just in case.”

The most frustrating thing was that Hunter wouldn’t show himself! We weren’t sure where to continue searching; it was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. We came home empty-handed again and again. We contacted a pet psychic, who said he was still alive. Buddy was crying for his brother and losing weight from stress. People started telling me to “face reality, he’s gone for good” and “he’s perished,” but I had to keep searching! I could feel in my heart that he was still alive, and I had to find him before winter.

On Labor Day, September 2, we received a call in the afternoon from a Forest Ranger named Sierra. She had spotted Hunter in a campground three miles from our camp. I packed up my gear and left the next morning, ready to stay as long as it took. I wasn’t going to come home without him again. I drove straight to the Little Beaver campground site #25 where she had seen him. I brought clothes and towels with Buddy’s and Mike’s scent on them and placed them around the campsite. I set up my tent, scattered cat treats around, and set out a bowl of food. For seven hours, I called and called him. No response. As the sun went down, I sat in my chair, crying.

Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out a bead I had picked up off my dresser before leaving home. It’s a silver bead with the word HOPE spelled out. I had found it on one of our campouts years before. As I held it in my hand, I realized I needed to have enough hope for both Hunter and myself, that we would find each other again. I walked to the bathroom to wash away my tears.

As I walked back to my campsite, calling him, he showed himself! I called to him, and he popped into a culvert. I grabbed my flashlight, his bowl of food, and a towel with his brother’s scent. I couldn’t see Hunter; he was too deep inside the pipe. I sat down on the ground, talking calmly to him the whole time. Hunter was crying but wouldn’t come out. I sat there talking to him, telling him I wouldn’t leave without him, and I would sit there as long as he needed to feel safe. I pushed the food further into the pipe, talking and soothing him. After half an hour, he finally came to eat the food, but he wouldn’t let me touch him yet.

Slowly, I pulled the food bowl out of the pipe as he continued eating. I touched his neck to pet him, and he started purring. When he finished eating, I wrapped him in the towel and carried him to his kennel. He struggled to get free, but I refused to let him go. I decided then that we were going straight home. I didn’t want to take the chance that he’d get away again. He talked in the car, telling me his tale as we drove 200 miles home in the night. I only stopped to call Mike to let him know we were on our way, together again. Hunter had lost half his weight, but the saving grace was that he had made it to the lake, which meant he had water to survive.

It’s been three weeks since he returned to our family. He’s regaining weight, spending time with his brother and our beloved grandkids. He’s back to sleeping on his favorite chair, and he cuddles more than he ever did before. He has nightmares sometimes, which I wake him from. He is definitely our miracle cat!

— Nancy Sevilla —

Image source : © pixabay.com

Zelda Finds a Hidden Killer

Cats are mysterious kind of folk — there is more passing in their minds than we are aware of.

~Sir Walter Scott

My cat Zelda is acting strangely, pacing and meowing as if she’s in distress. Now, she talks to me. “You need to find Killer,” she says. Killer — our neighbor’s cat? “Hurry!” Zelda urges. Now, Scout, my Beagle, barks. I dash outside but don’t see Killer anywhere. Zelda runs over to our seldom-used side yard and paws at a pile of autumn leaves. I dig through the leaves and find Killer, worried for a moment when he doesn’t move. I scoop him up. He’s all right! I’ve gotten to him in time, but I wouldn’t have without Zelda’s help.

What a funny dream, I thought nervously on waking. In real life, my cat Zelda couldn’t stand Killer, the big, gray-striped tomcat who lived next door, so named because his owners hoped he would be a good mouser. Killer loved to hang out in our yard and would spend hours lazing on our redwood deck in the sun, much to Zelda’s dismay.

Killer tolerated Zelda’s daily hiss. He’d roll over contentedly, ignoring her unless she came too close. I didn’t blame Zelda. She was there first. Scout was the buffer between them.

The dream didn’t ring true. It hardly seemed likely that Zelda would worry about Killer’s wellbeing, but I felt a twinge of alarm regardless and made a mental note to check on Killer before I left the house for the day.

As I gathered up my keys and stashed my laptop in my briefcase, I heard Zelda meowing somewhere in the house. That was odd. Zelda rarely meowed. Impatient to get going, I walked outside and scanned the empty yard for Killer, shivering a little in the crisp air. At first, I didn’t see him, but then I spotted him, lying on the bottom stair of the deck beside a pot of yellow petunias, just where the early morning sun was shining. Relieved, I walked back indoors, closed the sliding glass door firmly behind me, and called to my pets to be sure they were both inside before I left. Immediately, Scout came scampering, but now I couldn’t find Zelda. Oh, no! Had she darted outside while I was looking for Killer? I didn’t want her to be out all day, especially alone with Killer.

“Zelda!” I called. “Where are you, kitty? Come here, Zelda.” I checked all her usual places — behind the family-room couch, under my office desk, on top of the living-room chair. No Zelda. Where was that darn cat? If I didn’t get going, I’d miss my morning meeting. “Scout,” I called, remembering now that Scout had barked in my dream when I was looking for Killer. “Where’s Zelda? Show me where Zelda is.”

Scout bolted down the hall to the door of our guest bathroom and barked. For the first time, I noticed the door was slightly ajar. We rarely used this bathroom, and Zelda never went in there. I pushed the door open carefully. An eerie light greeted me. I opened the door wide, astonished to see Zelda perched on the edge of the sink, her image reflected in the mirror like a glowing, silvery ghost. Beside her flickered a wax candle my husband had lit that morning and forgotten to blow out before he left. In the wee hours, unbeknownst to me, our power had gone out briefly. The candle was nestled among a decorative wreath of fall leaves and had burned nearly all the way down.

If I’d left the house as planned that morning and not returned until evening, the leaves would surely have caught fire. Shaken, I blew out the candle and scooped Zelda up in my arms, nuzzling her warm, gray fur. I was stunned as I thought of what might have happened and remembered her strange meowing, both in my dream and later in the house.

My dream had been a warning — just not the one I thought it was when I awoke. This “Killer” was hidden in my home, a candle burning unattended among dry, autumn leaves. If not for Zelda and Scout, I might never have known. My sweet cat had not only kept a fire from burning down my house that morning, but she may have saved her own life.

I have always had a healthy respect for the messages that come to us in dreams, but rarely has one been so urgent and literal. As for Killer the cat, he never left his perch in the sun that morning, but Zelda had her favorite dinner of fresh prawns that night and even got to be queen of our the deck the next day when a vet appointment kept Killer away.

— Maureen Boyd Biro —

Image source : © pixabay.com

A Christmas Cat

Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.

~Anatole France

A muffled meow startled me awake at nine o’clock. I fumbled through the darkness of my new bedroom and cracked open my door to let in the hallway light. I heard another muffled meow.

The garage was below me. Maybe that’s how a cat had gotten in. Or was I dreaming? I had wanted a cuddly cat to call my own forever, but my parents had yet to relent, claiming pets were a lot of work.

I called over the bannister. “Mom? Did you hear that?”

I heard another meow, this time as clear as day. I turned around. A black-and-white cat sat in the hallway, his tail swishing and green eyes gleaming.

“Mom!” I yelled, not even considering I might wake my younger sisters. “There’s a cat in the house!”

My mom bolted up the stairs. “It’s okay! He must have escaped from my room,” she whispered. She scooped up the chubby cat, who curled up against her. “He’s a Christmas present for you and your sisters. Someone is going to watch him until Christmas Eve, but I can’t bring him over there until tomorrow. Can you keep a secret?”

Thrilled beyond belief at finally having a cat, I nodded.

Although I had agreed, I couldn’t contain my excitement. The next night, while getting ready for bed with my sister Katie, I said, “Don’t tell Mom I said anything, but we’re getting a cat for Christmas. Act surprised, okay?”

Christmas morning flew by. As the oldest kid, I was in charge of handing out gifts. My youngest sister Maggie always opened hers first, followed by Katie, and then me. One by one, we unwrapped our presents, but all I could think about was that cat: a real, live cat. My parents didn’t seem to notice my anticipation, though, wrapped up in their robes, sleepily drinking their coffee at the crack of dawn.

After we opened the last wrapped gift, my mom said, “I think we may have one more present,” and headed down the hallway.

Katie and I exchanged looks. My dad took out the video recorder and hit Record as my mom walked back into the living room. She carried a long white box with three holes along each side. The box shook slightly as she set it down. “This is for all three of you,” she said.

My sisters approached the box. I stood behind them, figuring that since I was the only one who was supposed to know, I should let them open it.

As they popped open the box top, the black-and-white cat leaped into the air, his long tail arcing behind him. We all screamed… even me. He scurried down the hallway, his claws trying to gain traction on the wood floor.

“A cat!” Maggie squealed. We ran after him, sliding down the hallway in our Christmas socks. Our dad followed, the camera bobbing.

Not knowing the house, the cat turned left, past the bathroom and into a dead end: the laundry room. We took a quick glance around; he was nowhere in sight. But in such a small space, there were only so many options. Sure enough, his green eyes twinkled from behind the washing machine, giving away his location.

“Come here, kitty,” I called.

Nothing. Not a peep. Not a squeak. Not a meow. We waited for a while, hoping that, if we were quiet enough, he would come out and greet us properly. But the minutes ticked by, and he didn’t budge. Disappointment at not being able to hold him started to bother me, but I forced away the feeling.

It turned out my mom had adopted the cat from a shelter, and his old owner had been an elderly lady who was not as loud as three young girls. The poor cat had to have been so scared.

When he finally emerged hours later, he slunk out from the laundry room. He took tentative steps down the hallway. We acted like statues in the open dining- and living-room area, watching him, worried any sudden movements would send him right back into hiding.

He stopped to watch us, his tail swishing. He took a few more steps, rubbed his chubby body against my leg, and purred. We giggled, but he didn’t take off running… until the doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of my mom’s family. At the sound of the chime, he took off, tearing down the hallway and returning to his spot behind the washing machine.

While he hid, the family gathered: six of my mom’s siblings along with their significant others and a whole lot of kids. Mostly, we stayed in the back of the house, where the adults gathered to eat and drink and the kids could shake their presents. The volume of our talking and laughter became increasingly louder. I checked on the cat every once in awhile, but he was clearly most comfortable in the quiet confines of his dark hiding spot.

When we sat down to dinner, we quieted down. The adults gathered around the long dining-room table. Some of my cousins went downstairs to eat. A few cousins, along with myself, stayed in the back room to eat near the tree. As we were busy devouring our turkey and sweet potatoes, the cat must have assumed it was safe to come out. Once again, he ventured down the hallway, a little more confident than earlier. But he froze when he reached the dining and living area; even his tail stopped swishing.

“What an adorable cat!” an aunt declared.

Milliseconds later, the cat zipped to the closest hiding spot he could find: the Christmas tree. He bounded over the gifts and climbed as high as possible on the nine-foot tree, shaking the colorful lights as he went. I tried coaxing him down, but he clearly wasn’t coming down with so many people around. So there he stayed while we finished dinner and unwrapped presents, surveying all of us from his perch.

When everyone left a couple hours later, and the only sounds came from the TV, the cat scrambled his way down the branches, sending a few ornaments crashing in the process. We didn’t move from the couch. When he reached the floor, he stared at us again. I wanted to reach out to him and tell him how much I loved him already, but I didn’t want to scare him.

In the dimly lit room, he jumped onto the couch, strolled across our laps, and curled up in my lap. As I petted him, he started purring again. “We should name him Purcy,” I said. His purr was so loud that my family quickly agreed.

He spent the rest of the night in my lap. His arrival — and hiding — weren’t what I expected when a cat finally joined our family, but that was okay. He was, by far, the very best Christmas present ever.

— Liz SanFilippo Hall —

Image source : © pixabay.com

Ben the Benevolent

One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes.

~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

My small cat hospital was busy enough, but rescues kept it really hopping. So when the door chimed just before closing on a Friday night, and a man walked in carrying a shoebox, I wasn’t really surprised. “I have a cat,” he said with a Spanish accent, “a little cat.”

“Oh,” I said, “have you tried taking it to the shelter?” After a brief conversation in broken English and broken Spanish, I learned that he had tried, but the shelter would not take the cat because it was too sick. He had tried another animal hospital but they did not accept strays.

I peered into the box and found a scrawny kitten whose nose and eyes were plastered shut with mucus, and of course there were fleas. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll take the kitten,” knowing that I wouldn’t be leaving the office on time. “Can you make a donation to the hospital?” I asked sheepishly. Fifty dollars later, I was in charge of saving this male kitten and his road to recovery began.

Months later, after plenty of good food and lots of TLC provided by a dedicated and nurturing staff, the kitten blossomed into an adorable, rambunctious ball of fire. His left eye had become large and painful and had to go, but he didn’t seem to notice. And since he had arrived close to the fourth of July, I chose to name him after one of our founding fathers, Benjamin Franklin.

Eventually, the time came to find Ben a forever home. He was healthy and ready to be adopted, but there was a small problem: After months of toting him back and forth from office to home in order to feed and medicate him, Ben had become more to me than just another rescue. Whoever was going to adopt him not only had to pass my rigorous scrutiny, but also had to walk on water.

Ben was placed in the adoption cage in the waiting room. Every morning when I arrived at the office, that one eye would follow me, and I would feel a tug at my heartstrings. So when Andrea, one of my favorite clients, inquired, “What’s his story?” I was elated. Andrea already had three cats, one a youngster who needed a playmate. Quickly, I recounted Ben’s history and placed him on Andrea’s lap. She was interested but not ready to commit. “I’ll let you know in a week,” she promised, and I was hopeful.

Over the course of the week, I found myself becoming less and less excited at the prospect of Ben’s potential adoption. So, when Andrea phoned the following Saturday with her decision, I had mixed feelings. “I’ve decided a fourth cat would be too much for us,” she said.

“I understand,” I responded, trying very hard to sound disappointed.

There was only one rule of fostering: You could not keep an adoptable cat or kitten. But rules are meant to be broken, so why should this one be any different? That night, Benjamin was loaded into his carrier for a one-way trip to his forever home — mine.

In no time at all, Ben claimed the upstairs of my small ranch house. Like any kitten, he got into everything and pestered all the other feline residents. He became “Benamin” when he was sweet and “Ben!” when he was naughty. Very quickly, he learned what he could get away with.

One day, when Ben was big enough to scale the baby gate across the bathroom door, I watched with apprehension as he jumped over. The bathroom was Spirit’s domain, my paraplegic Tortoiseshell who had lost her freedom when I could no longer get her diaper to stay on. Spirit didn’t mind much as she had always been a loner anyway, never interacting with the other cats. Nevertheless, I had always felt bad about her isolation. To my amazement, she scooted over to Ben immediately and lowered her head. Ben wrapped his front legs around her neck and began grooming her vigorously. Tears filled my eyes as I watched Spirit with her new friend. This became a daily ritual, even though his primary motive for hopping the gate was to see what food he could steal from Spirit’s dish.

Since then, Ben has similarly welcomed two rescue kittens, and while he wasn’t my first foster failure and likely will not be my last, I am so glad I kept him. Ben not only earned his keep, but is also proof that every homeless kitten deserves a chance.

— Jan Rottenberg, D.V.M. —

Image source : © pixabay.com

Twelfth Night in St. Bethlehem

If light is in your heart, you will find your way home.

~Rumi

Our family made its eighth Army move during the summer of 1987. We were to wait in Clarksville, Tennessee, while my husband George completed a thirteen-month unaccompanied tour in Korea. Our six-year-old son Rick, our four-year-old daughter Starr, Barney the Sheepdog, our large long-haired gray cat named Q, and I were in a rental house near a place called Two Rivers.

My task was to have a house built for us and have it ready when George returned in the late summer of 1988. He would be assigned to the 101st Airborne Division at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, which is adjacent to Clarksville.

We had decided to build in an area known as St. Bethlehem. To arrive at our lot, we had to pass a neighborhood called Rudolphtown. Every morning, the kids and I would drive from Two Rivers to our lot to take pictures. Every afternoon, we would go to the St. Bethlehem post office to mail pictures of the progress to Daddy in Korea.

As we went back and forth between Two Rivers and St. Bethlehem, the kids and I would sing, “Over Two Rivers and through the woods…” On passing Rudolphtown, we would launch into “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” I even joked that our daughter was the little Starr of St. Bethlehem.

If we were lucky, we would be in our new house before Thanksgiving. Even though Daddy would not be there for Christmas, we would make a home and memories. He would be home by summer.

The days passed. The house rose. The pictures were mailed. Shortly before Thanksgiving we loaded ourselves and Barney into our car. Q, protesting, was loaded into a pet crate in the back of our Jeep. The move was an adventure. We slept on the floor for a week until the movers arrived.

Barney adjusted quickly, but Q spooked easily and was skittish. When the workers and movers arrived, I put Q in his crate in the basement. I asked everyone not to enter the basement. If they had to go there, they were told not to let the cat out of the crate.

Well, it happened anyway. Somehow, Q disappeared.

Thanksgiving was subdued. We had much to be thankful for, but no Q to enjoy turkey with us. Q was Starr’s special friend, and his loss hurt her most of all.

An odd thing happened one day. In the grocery store, I ran into a real-estate agent who told me we were lucky to have left the rental when we did. Someone had broken a window in the basement and gotten into the house. (I recalled that when we lived there, the window had been cracked.) There was no real damage from the break-in, but blood and gray hair were all over the window and basement floor.

Then, I knew. Q, our large gray cat, must have somehow found his way back, crossing two large rivers. It was perhaps a seven-mile journey. Finding no one home, he must have been frightened. I went to the rental house, but I couldn’t find him.

As the Christmas season approached, the kids and I would read stories and legends surrounding the magic of Christmas. They loved the story of Twelfth Night, when the Star of Bethlehem led the Wise Men to their destination.

Christmas came and went, as happy as Rick, Starr, Barney and I could make it with George still in Korea and Q who knows where.

We had cousins in Nashville, Tennessee, whom we visited for the day on January 6th. While returning to St. Bethlehem late that night, Starr kept nagging me to hurry. “We have to be home by midnight,” she said.

“Why, baby?” I asked her.

She replied, “It’s Twelfth Night, and Q is following the star of St. Bethlehem home. We have to be there to greet him.”

While she had garbled the story and misunderstood much, she had the unshakable belief that Q would come home that night.

I was sick with dread, wondering how I could explain it her. Q had never been outside the Two Rivers rental house. He had never seen the outside of our new house in St. Bethlehem, having been transported there in a crate. I had to admit, however, he did seem to have found his way back to the old house, given that gray cat hair in the basement.

Oh, me of little faith, and she of great faith… our little Army family needed a miracle, and we received one. For one little girl named Starr, on Twelfth Night, it happened. Just before midnight, in St. Bethlehem, Tennessee, Q came home.

— Anne Oliver —

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A beating heart and an angel’s soul, covered in fur.

~Lexie Saige

To the former family of the orange tabby cat named Bubba, who left him with Sun Cities 4 Paws Rescue:

I don’t know who you are or where you’re living now, but I have a strong hunch that your family often wonders where Bubba is and if he’s doing okay.

He’s more than okay. He’s a loving bundle of furry awesomeness — but you already knew that. You helped him become the cat he is today.

I visited the rescue, desperate to ease my heartache after losing my seventeen-year-old cat to kidney disease. I walked around the adult cat room, looking into the spacious cages along the walls. I probably circled the carpeted cat tree in the middle of the room twenty times before noticing the orange cat asleep in a nook.

“Oh, that’s Bubba,” the shelter attendant told us as she gave the cat a scratch. He leaned into her touch. “He’s so easygoing that he has the full run of the place, but he usually stays right here on these cat trees. This condo actually belongs to him.” She motioned to a nearby four-foot-tall post with perches.

“He comes with a cat tree?” I echoed. Most cats in the room didn’t even come with a name, much less a big, expensive sleeping place.

“Oh, yes. And a green snake.” She pointed to an empty cage. A green cloth snake poked out from a blanket.

My husband Jason picked up Bubba. The lanky orange tabby melted into the nook of his arm and purred.

Our attendant continued with Bubba’s story. His previous family had a job transfer that forced them out-of-state to company housing that didn’t allow cats. They had raised Bubba from a kitten, and the whole family was heartbroken to leave him behind. They wanted to be sure his cat tree and favorite green snake toy stayed with him.

His backstory proved he’d been loved, and I could tell he was well loved at the shelter, too. Every worker who walked by crooned his name and had to pet him. He was the shelter heartthrob, and he basked in the attention.

“How long has he been here?” Jason asked, hoisting Bubba onto his shoulder. The malleable cat gladly took in his new vantage point. I could tell by Jason’s smile that this cat was coming home with us.

“About six months,” she said.

Our jaws dropped. “How has a cat this loving been here that long?” I asked.

“He’s an adult cat, about three years old. That makes him hard to adopt.” She gave an apologetic shrug. “He’s also sleeping in a cat tree most of the time. People don’t see him.”

We had seen him. We had to take him home.

The shelter workers gathered around to say goodbye to Bubba. They were happy he had a new family, but judging by the tears in some eyes, I could see he’d be missed, too.

I expected Bubba to hide as soon as we released him at our house. Instead, he strolled casually from his cage as if he’d always lived there. After a jaunt around the place, he settled in on his old-familiar cat tree, paws hugging his green snake. He handled the change to his new name of Finn with the same graceful aplomb and began answering to it within days.

I’ve known a lot of cats. I have never known any others with Finn’s easygoing confidence. Nothing bothers him. I can vacuum around his cat tree as he sleeps there, and he barely flicks an ear. He blisses out when he curls up in a lap for hours on end, but never sulks if he needs to be moved aside. I was baffled that he didn’t come running when I opened up cat food cans. Soon, I found out that he expected to be carried to his food dish. Even then, he didn’t deem most foods to be worthy of his palate. I undertook a grand effort to find a food he liked, and after forty different kinds (I kept a spreadsheet), I finally found one he enjoyed, though he prefers to lap up the gravy rather than eat the chunks.

If I could talk to you, family who loved him so, I’d like to know what you fed him and what he enjoyed so I could buy it, too!

I would also like to know how much trouble he caused as a kitten because he’s still a force of destruction and mischief as an adult. He tries to get in my grocery bags — with the groceries still inside. He shreds receipts. He sniffs in disdain at most canned cat food, but he wants to eat apple pie and other fresh-baked goods.

Most amazing of all, he jumps onto the wooden railing along our staircase landing, and then proceeds to bend over to attack his own tail through the gap, yowling for attention all the while. He practically gave me a heart attack the first few times he performed the stunt. I began to take pictures and videos — and then stopped when I realized the attention only encouraged him. Now, I try to ignore his balancing act and the panicked racing of my heart.

I’ve also discovered that he loves when I make the bed. He dives onto the mattress as I fluff out blankets and purrs like mad as they settle over him. He’ll stay there for hours, completely covered by thick layers. It’s a wonder he doesn’t suffocate!

Every day, I wonder what mischief our Finn will get into. Every day, I’m blessed by his loving, mellow manner and easy purr.

Though over two years have passed, I imagine that you still think of your Bubba and miss him. His old cat tree was worn to shreds and has since been replaced, but he still jumps onto the platforms to cuddle his careworn snake. We’ll keep that with him forever. We hope that it helps him remember you.

I hope this letter eases the guilt and grief you surely felt when you left Bubba behind. Thank you for nurturing him to be so loving and trusting, and for leaving him with a great shelter where we could find each other.

I would write more, but I think he’s into something he shouldn’t be. He’s yowling, and something is rattling. I better go check on him. You know how that goes….

With gratitude,

Beth Cato and the entire Cato family

— Beth Cato —

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Westward Ho

There is something about the presence of a cat… that seems to take the bite out of being alone.

~Louis J. Camuti

I started second-guessing myself as I drove into the evening in my dusty car. What the heck was I thinking dragging Libby across the country? After eight weary hours of driving, we had completed the first leg of the “Big Adventure,” from Orlando, Florida, to the quaint, little town of Monroeville, Alabama. We were westward bound, exploring as many states as possible along the way.

One middle-aged lady in a Subaru with a cat.

I had settled into a lazy life of retirement at age fifty-six. Ten years after officially retiring as a Detective Police Sergeant, I had an epiphany. I was not living my Best Life. My whole purpose in retiring at such a young age was to travel. I wanted to explore foreign countries in far-flung places. I dreamed of road tripping the entire United States. National Park Geek would be my new nickname. It was time for a major life change, or I would be too old, too infirm, or just too afraid to do it.

I sold my townhome at market peak and paid off all my bills. It was now or never. I got rid of loads of junk and put my “must keeps” into storage. My two faithful dog companions had passed away within months of each other, so I could hit the proverbial road. No current relationships. No responsibilities. Nothing should hold me back. Oh, wait, I had been talked into adopting a skinny black-and-white kitten named Libby. Flash forward three years to a full-grown, sassy boss of a cat. How could I leave her for two months?

My sister said, “If you leave her with me, you will not get her back.” Well, that was not an option. It was currently hip to travel with a dog everywhere — to the grocery store, public library, or even the doctor’s office — so why not a petite, sweet feline as a trusted companion?

On the first night of our journey, anxiety flooded through my body as I lay on the hotel bed. I was exhausted from driving. It was a challenge carrying Libby’s litter box and my overpacked suitcase to our room. I knew it would be the first night of many. What if there were stairs? I told myself. Maybe we should just drive back to Florida and hang out by my sister’s pool. I asked Libby in a shaky voice, “Should we turn around and go home? What do you think?” Her response was a cool, green-eyed stare. The Queen had her own comfy, giant hotel bed. She was not going anywhere. I decided I would reassess in the morning.

The arrival of a new day ended all that paralyzing fear. Life was once again full of endless possibilities.

Away we went checking off items on our “must-visit list.” There were national parks to explore, local delicacies to try, and delightful independent bookstores to visit. Libby settled in quite nicely. I had bought a giant Pet Tube that fit the entire back seat of my Subaru. It was a cylindrical, deluxe cat house fit for the Queen.

Each new stop was a plethora of weird smells and odd spaces to pad around. Hotel room windows became Libby’s favorite perching spots. She startled a couple of young cleaners in a fancy bed-and-breakfast in Mississippi, who thought she was a cute stuffed animal until she skittered under the bed. She made many friends along the way, including vacation rental owners, pet-friendly hotel concierges, and delighted children looking for a break from long backseat travels. It was a toss-up as to whether people thought I was cool bringing my cat along on my big trek or a “Crazy Cat Lady.” One of the best things about this trip was it taught me not to care about what people think.

Many times, self-doubt would creep back in, especially when we made it to Utah and I realized that I was more than 2,000 miles from home. Now we had to drive all the way back! I learned to focus on one day at a time, to live in the moment. Each morning brought fresh, new adventures. This was a trip of a lifetime, and I was doing it all by myself. Libby was the best of company; I never felt truly alone. She was my backseat driver, cuddle buddy and best friend. She was a trooper. If she could persevere through the insecurities of what came next, then I could, too.

We drove through majestic scenery that took my breath away. We traveled switchback roads through snowy mountains and dusty deserts where my palms sweated and my knuckles turned white. In many places, we lost our GPS and cell-phone reception. During these times, I would tell Libby, “We’ve got this, girl!” I’d receive a meow of approval from the back seat. Each new challenge made me feel strong, independent and resourceful.

Libby and I were on the road for forty-seven days. We traveled 8,443 miles through thirteen states. We explored five national parks, an ice cave, a volcano, and the birthplaces of Harper Lee and Elvis. We drove on Historic Route 66 and made side trips to funky museums. A sing-along with a trio of handsome mariachis was an unexpected highlight in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I got lost hiking in Sedona, Arizona for three hours on a trail misnamed “EASY BREEZY.” I had no water or map but I never even considered panicking. I knew I had to survive and get back to Libby, who was window napping in our pricy, pet-friendly hotel.

Whenever my anxiety reared its ugly head, I would encounter friendly fellow travelers who shared experiences and tips for the road. In Bryce Canyon, Utah, a retired nurse gave me her spare pair of hiking boots because my worn-out sneakers were not cutting it through the snowy, rocky terrain.

With each leg of the journey, my self-confidence grew steadily. Yes, I could have made this fantastic trip all by myself, but it was so much better with Libby, my steadfast companion.

— Lori Shepard —

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