Goldenrod is my daughter’s cat. He is almost thirteen years old; but this story happened three years ago, when he was a sprightly ten.
He was a miracle cat in the first place, because his littermates were the offspring of a barn cat belonging to my best friend, and they all died young; one was accidentally run over, one was dispatched by a three-year-old who didn’t know how fragile a kitten can be, and one was killed by some sort of predator. Goldie was the only one left, and my daughter, who was eight years old at the time, wanted him desperately. After due consideration, my husband made a 700 mile round trip to bring him home for her.
Goldie has always been an indoors cat. He has also always expressed a keen interest in being an outdoors cat. Despite being declawed, he has upon occasion made his escape and wreaked bloody havoc upon innocent grackles and starlings. Typically, he would deposit the corpses in the dining room, as if to say, “Behold the mighty hunter, providing meat for the table.”
To which I would reply, “Ick.”
Everybody’s a critic.
So, occasionally Goldenrod would slip out if the sliding glass door onto the balcony were left open. Sometimes he would even be gone overnight, but he always came back. I would hear him meowing plaintively to be let in.
Until that day, three years ago.
My daughter had gone off to college, giving her older brother strict instructions to watch over her beloved cat.
Goldie slipped out one night. I told the boys not to tell Kathleen, because I figured he’d be back the next night.
But he wasn’t. A day later there was a huge ice storm. I thought sure that would drive him home. But it didn’t. A week later, my oldest son, Chip, wracked with guilt, confessed to his sister that Goldie was gone. Even though it hadn’t been his fault, he felt responsible. He had been tramping the neighborhood for hours on end, hanging up “Missing Cat” posters on every telephone pole, and knocking on doors, asking if anyone had seen our wanderer.
Kathleen, of course, was very, very upset. She came home for the weekend and searched and searched. A few people swore they’d seen him, but none of the leads panned out.
Most of my friends advised us to give it up. Goldie, aging and with no claws to defend himself, had most likely succumbed to a stray dog, opossum, raccoon, or marauding grizzly bear. Nota bene: There are no grizzly bears in St. Louis. I was just seeing if you were paying attention.)
Three months went by. Three months of snow, ice, cold, torrential rains, and dreams. Several members of our family, myself included, kept having strange, vivid dreams about Goldenrod. Kathleen swore he was under some kind of porch. My dreams didn’t tell me where he was. I would dream that he had come home. The dream would be so real, I would wake up convinced he HAD come home…only to be disappointed.
Chip came home crying one evening, saying that he’d found Goldenrod’s body. It didn’t surprise me; I’d kept an eye open whenever I was driving, expecting to see his sad little white-and-gold body along the side of the road. We got a spade and a cardboard box and went to retrieve him for burial. All we found, though, when we reached the location Chip had indicated, was a much flattened squirrel. Goldenrod, it seemed, was still “in the wind.”
In early June, I was driving home from grocery shopping when my cell phone rang. It was Chip. “I’ve found Goldenrod,” he said. “He’s alive.”
I didn’t believe him. It’d been over three months. Chip insisted. He said that a man in the neighborhood had called him and told him there was a cat fitting our cat’s description living underneath a shed about a block and a half from our house.
“Are you SURE?” I asked Chip. “Are you SURE it’s Goldenrod?”
“Positive,” he said. “I’m looking at him right now. But he’s too scared to come out.”
We got a can of cat food and coaxed him out from under the shed with it. He was horribly emaciated and dirty, but it was Goldie. When we took him to the vet, she said he was in great shape, other than being malnourished. That was an understatement. He was literally nothing but skin and bones and big green eyes. He walked around the house in a daze. It was like he couldn’t believe he was home.
But he was.
Kathleen had gone on a camping trip with her friends. Chip couldn’t wait to tell her. He called her on her cell. “I’ve got somebody here who can’t wait to see you!” And he sent her a picture from his phone. Kathleen was quick to point out that he was found in a place very like the one she had seen in her dreams. I have no explanation for that, but it’s true.
I have to give full credit to Chip; he worked so hard, trying to find that cat. And, wonder of wonders, it paid off. We gave the man who’d called in the tip a $50.00 reward. He tried to refuse, saying that he loved animals and he was just happy to help, but we insisted.
Why didn’t Goldenrod come home? He was only a block and a half away. I have a couple of theories. Possibly he got hit on the head or something happened to disorient him so that he couldn’t find his way. Clearly, he was terrified to leave the small, cramped haven underneath that shed. I’m certain he’d been chased, and possibly attacked, by other animals, which so traumatized him that he didn’t even go out to try to find something to eat. As thin as he was, he wouldn’t have lasted much longer. It may even have been our own two exuberant German Shepherds who did some of the chasing. Occasionally they’ll take off after a rabbit or a cat. They may have run Goldenrod off when he tried to come home.
But, whatever the reason, he did make it home, none the worse for his ordeal. The only fallout was that, when he first got home, he ate and ate and ate until he was rather a fat cat, when he’d always been a bit on the skinny side before. I think, like Scarlett O’Hare, he said to himself, “As God is my witness! I’ll never be hungry again!”
He also showed no inclination to wander for a couple of years. In fact, if picked up and carried to the door, he would object, vigorously and violently. He wanted no part of that nasty “outdoors” place. Lately, though, his bad memories must have been fading, and he has shown some interest in the great outdoors again. Well, I figure he’s only used up two of his nine lives at this point. And since he has demonstrated an eerie ability to send us prescient dreams about his whereabouts, I hope he’ll be a little more specific, and let us know WHICH porch or shed he’s hiding under, next time.
Welcome home, you stupid cat. We missed you.
