At the end of August I was entrusted with a cat. An old cat. While my very good friend was in the process of listing, selling and moving I was trusted with her cat. Or more likely the only person who said yes. After we split a bottle of wine...
He's grumpy, demanding and he talks a lot. We instantly bonded over our similarities. He came named, sort of. Named Fatboy. He's a little too regal, in my opinion for that name so I changed it. To Stanley. It sort of fits with his general grumpiness.
Again, he talks. A lot. Many nights I would put him in the basement so that I could sleep better as he tends to most enjoy a 4AM conversation. I don't tend to enjoy those as much... Two weeks ago I put him in the basement and went to bed. Little did I know that the basement door would blow open and Fatboy Stanley would disappear. In an ice storm.
I panicked. Honestly.
I lost NOT my cat.
He's 20. He hasn't really ever been outside. And, he doesn't have any business being outside. He's a house cat of the highest order. He moves between the couch and the bed. On a busy day.
He's slightly deaf and blind. He's a deadman on the outside. I knew it. His 'other' mother knew it. And, probably in his little cat mind, he knew it too.
I posted his picture on Facebook groups, the shelter and craigslist. Walked around. Called him. Left food out, just in case.
It snowed for days. Four snow days in two weeks. Temperatures hovering around 30. There is no way he's still alive. He's 20. It's freezing. He probably went outside to hide and die.
 |
| Reunited. And it feels so good. |
It was him.
Found.
On the other side of the tracks.
And a highway.
He's thin. And very tired. But, happy to be home.
After two days back, his hoarse voice on the mend, he woke me at 4 AM. Just to say hi.
Tonight that asshole sleeps in the basement.
Oh Stanley...
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