In the cold cold ground
One month ago, I had three cats. Today I have two.
Zoe, our nine-year-old long-haired tabby wandered off into the woods sometime in February and didn’t return until a month later. I found her as I was heading out to work, stretched out on our driveway, at least five pounds lighter, stiff as cement. She was battered and bloody. Her face was fixed in a snarl. She had not been dead long.
For a sweet, naïve housecat, this was surely not a pleasant end.
We brought Zoe home in 1995 from the SPCA. She was twice as big as all the other kittens in her litter, with huge paws and a feisty demeanour. For a long time she ducked when we reached to pet her or pick her up, evidence of questionable encounters with humans in the past. As she grew older (and especially after we had her reproductive bits removed) she became less and less feisty, more and more trusting. She wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier, I have to admit, but she was gentle and loving and mellow. She rarely asked for attention, but basked happily in it when offered. She was soft, docile and sweet-tempered. Like many cats, she loved a warm, unoccupied lap.
Occasionally her feisty roots would resurface - usually in the company of one or more of our other animals - as an annoyed flick of her tail or ear-pinned expression of disgust. She didn’t appreciate their rambunctious ways.
Most of the time, though, she just slept and ate. She weighed, on average, 16 pounds. Her belly nearly touched the floor when she walked. In the heat of summer, she liked to spread her impressive girth out on the cool tiles of our kitchen floor.
As far as she was concerned, danger had long ago stopped lurking.
Likely contributing to her death, was the fact that Zoe could not meow. Her voice box was inexplicably faulty. Her language came out in a squeak. Even her purr was barely audible, heard only as a breathy rumble through her nose. She was a silent cat.
So, when we first discovered she was missing and began frantically combing over the property and surrounding area searching for her, there would have been no way for her to call out to us. No way for her to contribute to her own rescue.
I don’t know how she survived for 30 whole days. I’m sure some primal sense of survival kicked in. I do know that every minute out there must have been frightening, lonely, baffling, painful.
She had never strayed far from the house before, skittish and lazy as she was. But we are living in a new house now with alluring smells and fascinating nooks and crannies. I guess she wandered off and lost her way. Perhaps she fell or got stuck. Maybe she left on purpose.
Although it might have been better for her, I am glad that she wasn’t eaten, because that means the rest of my animals are not at the same risk. At least that’s what I tell myself. But at the same time it kills me to know that she instead travelled a long, anguished, solitary road to her death. I hate that I couldn’t save her, find her, help her. I wish I had done more, tried harder, looked in more places, spent more energy, not given up.
Worst of all I feel tremendous guilt for not feeling sadder. I did cry for her. I do miss her. But the truth is that she wasn’t my favourite cat. I can’t help but think that we would have been more vigilant in our search had it been one of the others who was lost.
But maybe that’s not true. I’m not sure what else we could have done. At some point we just had to abandon the idea that she might still be alive and stop looking.
Didn’t we?
She is buried now at the foot of a cute little tree in our yard. A plucked daffodil lies over her grave, and others grow nearby. At least now I know where she is.
*****
This morning on my way to work I drove by three deer trotting down the side of the road. The doe was fat and beautiful with probable pregnancy.
The circle of life continues.