There have certainly been times in recent months (see for example) when I wished our cat would simply disappear. After she peed on all my stuff in the closet, after she peed directly in my bed when I was up with the baby for five minutes. But now she actually HAS disappeared, and the feeling is ambiguous. Some anxiety, some guilt, and no closure.
Back in March I actually tried to give her away. I felt that we had hit rock bottom in our relationship and there was no way she could be a welcome part of our life again. I wanted to find her a situation where she could live outdoors most of time (so as not to inflict her issues on another household). I reasoned that she has all her claws, and good hunting skills, and began life feral so knows how to handle herself. But then after I had her in a crate in laundry room for a couple weeks, my temper cooled and my heart warmed towards her again.
I remembered how she came into my life six years ago, when I needed a kitten quite badly. It was the bleak summer of 2001, after we had lost our baby. Lena chased the kitten up a tree behind our house one night. When I first saw her she looked like a chinchilla, a ball of gray fuzz with big saucer eyes. Over the next few days I coaxed her to eat sardines, and finally caught her and took her inside. She was filthy and full of worms, covered in fleas. A reclamation project that I termed "the kitten cure." She was curing me, that is. I helped her thrive and grow. I bathed her and fed her and cured all her ills. Mr. Cat (RIP) took care of her with all the devotion of a mother, too, and together we raised her.
Through sweltering summer and frigid winter, she slept on my head each night like a vibrating Russian fur hat.
I realized that although she had done me wrong in all that peeing, there were a lot of mitigating factors. Lena chased her when she tried to use the cat box. Ben had let the cat box go to the point of total sewage dump while I was pregnant. The baby had been taking up all my time and attention, and on many occasions, when she tried to sleep on my head per usual I would push her away. I knew she was lonely after Mr. Cat's death, but I was too overwhelmed by the children to spend much time with her.
With all this in mind, I decided to try to rehabilitate her. I figured I should at least make sure that she didn't have some sort of physical problem causing the peeing, so I took her in for a full medical work-up. $200 later, I learned that she was in good health and her problems were merely psychological. (i'm glad now that I got her shots up to date. …) Then I found a cat consultant, a lady who said cheerfully on the phone, "It may sound strange but feline house-soiling is our specialty!" I filled out a multi-page survey about the cat's issues, and completed a detailed drawing of our floor plan.
(I mentioned this whole process to my friend Martha who said, "You're such a s—" When I heard the "s" I figured she was going to say "saint." But what came out was instead "sucker!")
But then we found this house, and suddenly it seemed that we could just bring her here and she could be a pretty much outdoor cat. I researched this special locking cat door, in which the cat wears an electronic collar that unlocks the door, so that she can come in and no other animals (raccoons, opposums, etc.) can't. During the two months between finding the house and moving here, I boarded her at the cost of $10/day. Then once we were living here I brought her home and established her in the basement. There she hid for several days in the very darkest corner of the farthest room. But after a while she warmed up and would come and weave through my legs and purr when I was doing laundry. As she got acclimated she began to sit at the top of the basement stairs and meow to rejoin the rest of the family.
But I was loathe to give her run of the new house. I also remembered the pissing bandit side of her personality, and thought of the expanse of beautiful new carpet upstairs. I reallized that I didn't really miss having her sleeping on my head when it was 90 degrees. And that her wads of grey fur everywhere really were unsightly. No– a cat door and life in the basement would be best.
But in the midst of everything else I didn't get the cat door in. I just left the back door open and she would walk out, sniff around, run back in. Sometimes I would find her hiding in the ferns outside the back door. Sometimes I would find that she had vomited up some grass on the basement floor. Overall the arrangement seemed to be working, only I needed a way for her to get back in when she wanted to. It was on the list! It really was. (I'm happy to say that at least I got her a new tag with our current address, and a reflective collar to make her less likely to be hit by a car.)
I think it was Sunday that she vanished. She went for a walk and didn't come back. Now that I think of it, I have a vague memory of her meowing loudly. But I didn't check what she wanted. I figured it was just the usual sitting at the top of the stairs and wanting to rejoin society. We had a cleaning team here and I didn't have time for her.
Then I noticed that she wasn't coming and rubbing my legs in the laundry room. I checked her bed, where I assumed she was hiding, and she wasn't there. I started actively looking for her, but she was nowhere to be found. I leveled the top of her food to see if she was eating any, and day after day it stayed the same. I walked around in the woods calling her. Each night before bed I called her.
I wish I could be relieved to be shut of her. But instead I'm simply worried: has she drowned in the creek? Been eating by a coyote or carried off by a hawk? Is she wet and lonely, trying to find her way home? Or is she happily sleeping in a hollow log, making friends with other outdoor cats and getting fat on chipmunks?
My mother has had cats return home after adventures as long as six months. It's only been a few days– maybe she'll come back. Strangely enough, I hope so. Since there's nothing I can do about it, I suppose it's best to picture her out there happy someplace, out there by choice rather than by circumstance. Maybe she'll come home when winter comes. Maybe this is her version of sports camp. I hope so. In the meantime, I'm leaving the light on for her.