Clara disappeared around Thanksgiving of 2009. Despite collar and ID, despite microchip, despite county license, despite “lost” ads and flyers, trips to the county shelter and even a careful reading of the roadkills logs she never, ever turned up again. A couple times I thought maybe I’d caught a glimpse of her on the acreage behind my home, and a couple times my neighbor Judy also thought she’d seen her. But in the end, I had to admit she wasn’t coming back, not ever, and I would never know what happened to her. I was sick to my stomach thinking of the possibilities: A neighbor with a trap and a “shoot, shovel and shut up” attitude about cats or a coyote who’d come up the creek behind me from the American River Parkway. Either way, not a pretty end for a sweet little cat who was mostly fur and all purr. Because I do not keep my cats in, I knew the fault was all mine.
Ilario, a/k/a Teh Big Orange Kitteh, a/k/a T-BOK, is not a roamer like Clara was. If he wasn’t sleeping in the rafters of my attached garage, he was sleeping on the top shelf of the cat tree in my office, or snoozing in the sun on the roof of the chicken coop. If he was out, he came in after dark every night, jumped to his preferred spot on my bed between FayBee and McKenzie and purred himself to sleep, kneading his paws against McKenzie’s belly. As least once during the night I’d be sleeping on my back, and he took that as his cue to move onto my stomach. He’s a big cat, and the weight of him would always wake me, but I never moved to dislodge him. Sometimes I’d fall back asleep with a big lump of orange cat warm against me; other times, I’d turn on the light and read until he moved back into his warm spot, nestled into McKenzie’s belly.
As for what he did while he was out, there was no mystery: He hunted. Never once did I see him track or catch a bird, but the mice and rats attracted by the chicken feed disappeared shortly after he decided killing them was his life’s work. (And here’s photographic proof that he was good at it!)
Affection has always been on his terms — and I have the claw scars to prove it. While Clara loved snuggling any time, Teh Big Orange Kitteh decides when and where he wants to be petted. And while Clara tolerated baths, nail-trims and flea-treatments graciously, the only way T-BOK tolerates anything is in a “kitty burrito,” wrapped firmly in a towel, his eyes smoldering with a look that made me think he’d kill me in my sleep that night if he could. Despite that, he was a pussycat at the veterinarian’s, purring in the tech’s arms during his visits. No muzzle, no towel, no trouble. Crazy cat!
Last month, the same weekend to the year that Clara disappeared, I went to Southern California, leaving the animals in Judy’s care as always. When I came back … no Ilario. He had simply vanished without a trace, just as Clara had the year earlier. No one had seen him, although one of my neighbors told me she suspected the office building that backs up to the acreage behind my home trapped and killed “nuisance” cats, based on a little trap-neuter-release experience we had last spring.
No matter what I guessed had happened, Ilario was gone. Both my cats were gone, in a year’s time. I was catless, and heartsick about it.
I was grieving and guilt-ridden, having nightmares about their fates. I determined that there would be no other cats until I could finish the long-standing cat patio project so no cat ever left the property. In the meantime I kept looking, kept hoping, kept thinking Ilario would pop in the dog door again after dark.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
A month passed with no sign of him, and then last Wednesday night, I saw him walking down the street in front of my house. He never went out front, and yet, there he was. I rushed out and called him, and he looked at me, uncertain. He froze while I approached him slowly … and then ran like hell.
Still … I knew he was alive, and I hoped I could get him back. I went out to dinner, and when I came back I let the dogs out. As soon as he heard my voice, he started meowing from the area of the chicken coop. Wherever he’d been, he was back, but not sure about where his home was now. I’d call, he’d meow, again and again and again. He seemed fine, but he wouldn’t let me get close. I brought out food and let him be. I have a cat-trap for TNR, and I figured I’d have to use it to get him back. But I’d let him settle in for now, because I knew I’d have only one chance at trapping him.
On Christmas Eve, he was at the back door as if he wanted to come in, but again, he fled when I approached. His food and litterbox have always been in the garage, accessible through a cat door from the kitchen. So I set the cat door so it would let him into the garage but not back out, opened the back door and went to bed.
It worked, and he’s now trapped in the garage.
Yesterday, he wouldn’t come out of the rafters. This morning he let me pick him up and take him in the house. Wherever he was, he ate well: He’s in good weight and good health.
As for his re-entry: You can see the delight on my face, and the uncertainty on his, but I’ll keep working on it. In the meantime, he’s not going out again … ever. Because when you get your cat back for Christmas, you understand the message: Don’t push it, sister. Keep the cat in the house.
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