Keeping track of a cat

July 20, 2006

Dear Patty,

When DC agreed to feed our neighbor Robyn's cat while she was out of the country for three weeks, I had reason to worry.

I reassured myself that Sunday, Robyn's cat, is an outdoor cat. Outdoor cats practically take care of themselves.

Each day one or both of us put food and water in Sunday's dishes on Robyn's front porch. Sometimes starlings swooped in right away for a food fight, so we took to feeding Sunday in the evening. Usually the food was gone in the morning, but all kinds of creatures roam our neighborhood at night. An empty bowl didn't mean Sunday's belly was full.

You can go out looking for a dog. You know dogs like other dogs or you know where your dog likes to feast on the smells. A cat could be anywhere. It comes to you if and when it wants to.

When Robyn returned home last weekend, we had to tell her we never saw Sunday. She's still waiting for Sunday to return.

I'd had good reason to worry about keeping track of a cat.

In my 20s my girlfriend left me her cat, Frijoles, to care for while she traveled for six months overland to Katmandu. Bad idea. I grew up having dogs. Dogs you take for a walk. Frijoles sometimes followed half a block behind if I walked to a downtown nightspot like the Algiers or the End Zone or the Second Chance, skittering along the sidewalk like a spy.

That's about all the interaction we managed.

Frijoles surely missed her mistress, and I was no substitute.

I made sure she had food and water but sometimes forgot to change her litter box as often as necessary. Eventually, Frijoles, no doubt feeling abandoned, abandoned me.

Sending a general delivery letter to Greece or Nepal to inform my girlfriend that, by the way, her beloved cat had disappeared held little appeal. Her letters from the road wondered why I didn't write.

Least appealing was the prospect of welcoming her home with the news that Frijoles had vanished. "I never thought you really liked my cat," she would say.

The return date neared, and Frijoles was still missing. The time to panic had come. I littered the neighborhood with fliers featuring Frijoles' mug. Nothing happened. Miracle needed.

Then one afternoon just before the girlfriend's arrival home, someone knocked on the door. Standing on the porch was Dr. Harold Grauel, an esteemed professor emeritus of English at the university who happened to live across the street. Dr. Grauel was holding Frijoles.

Frijoles had been living across the street with him for months, Dr. Grauel said. He had named her Norma. She was well-fed and seemed content in his arms, a lap cat after all. Dr. Grauel was teary as he placed Frijoles/ Norma in my hands. I don't know who felt worse, him or me.

The girlfriend was reunited with her cat, but she and I split up because Frijoles wasn't the only one who felt abandoned. This is the way stories about cats must end.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is managing editor of the Southeast Missourian.