Devonne Brown

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As bad as I hated him, I was losing my mind with worry. I thought I would kill him when he got out at two in the morning and ran across the patio. Instead of stopping, like he usually did, he ran under the fence and disappeared into the night, really disappeared. Gone.

He always came when I sang the kitty song. I called his name, then sang “kitty, kitty, kitty, kiiiitty,” four times. He always came. He didn’t last night. 

I walked around the house in my pajamas singing that damned cat song in the middle of the night looking for him, listening for him, waiting for his return. I walked up and down the street too. At least I had on my robe. I looked and sounded ridiculous. 

I felt so stupid when the police car stopped and asked what I was doing out and about at two-thirty in the morning. The boys in blue don’t usually see healthy senior citizens wandering around in their bathrobes and pajamas in the wee hours of the night. 

“I was getting ready for bed after reading Gone With the Wind so I let the dog out, and the cat, Norris, escaped. He usually just runs across the porch, lies down, and waits for me to pick him up. This time he really escaped. I have to find him. He’s eighteen years old. He’s as much a part of the family as my kids, even if he is an asshole.”

“He can’t have gone far,” said the cop, “go home and put his litter box outside and wait. Pick up your search in the morning. He just wanted to go sight seeing.”

“He’s being a dick,” I said. “If he gets killed, my kids will kill me.”

“Try not to worry ma’am. Go home and wait. He’ll be back.”

I trudged back home, but just like the officer said, under the porchlight, there the damned cat sat.