I recently posted about my excitement at the imminent arrival of a new puppy. I've now had a
cat-shaped curve ball thrown at me which has left me sad, confused and
desperate - one of our beloved resident cats, Milky Joe, has gone
missing.
I last saw him on
Saturday night, when he was snuggled contentedly in the crook of my knees as I
lay on the sofa watching a bad horror film. I could feel his deep, happy
purring vibrating against my legs, his reassuring, heavy warmth resting against
me. I'd occasionally reach out and squeeze him, his dense fur soft under my
fingers, just to make him purr louder. I love the way that cats close their
eyes and seem to smile with their whole being when they're well-loved,
well-fed, and being adored. And he did, no, does, that a lot.
And now he's gone
off somewhere, where I can't reach him, and I am desperate to see him and
squeeze him again. He never goes off for more than a day, so something's
happened to stop him coming home. I just hope he's hiding, spooked by the windy
weather, or stuck somewhere behind a shut door that someone will open any
minute now.
My youngest son
and Milky have a very special bond. My son was there when our other cat,
Violet, Milky's pretty and scatty mum, gave birth to him and four other
kittens. Poor Vi was so exhausted with all the pushing and licking of kittens'
faces and eating of placentas (sorry) that by the fourth one I had to step in
and gently wipe the membrane from the tiny ginger and white kitten's face so
that he could take his first breaths. Milky Joe had arrived.
My son, who was
four at the time, was right next to me, watching in open-mouthed shock/awe. In
that moment, we both fell in love with our ginger boy and knew that he was the
one we'd be keeping. Nearly five years later, he and Milky have grown together
- he's the only one that Milky will allow to carry him round like a rag doll.
Milky's the one that sleeps on my son's bed every day, the one that I know he's
with when he goes quiet and retreats to his room. They do a lot of
contemplative cuddling.
Both of my sons,
and me, are now distraught. For many children, when a pet goes missing or dies,
it's their first devastating experience of grief. My youngest is occasionally
hit by waves of missing Milky. He'll happily be playing Minecraft, immersed in
the moment and forgetting that something is wrong, then I can see his face
change and fall as he remembers, and he looks at me, and I know what's coming.
The day after the Milk disappeared, he said "I'm worried I'm never going
to see Milky again!" So I have to tell him that he is coming back - or
should I be preparing him? I can't, because I'm not going to let the thought
that he'll come back go.
I'm amazed at how
when I tell people about Milk's disappearance, nearly every one of them has a
story of a happy feline reunion to tell - 3 days, a week, 5 weeks - there's
more online, of people who've witnessed a long-lost cat sauntering back in
through the cat flap after months or even years, a bit thinner (or fatter if they've
adopted another smitten owner), but generally acting as if nothing has
happened. I'm hoping that's going to be our story to tell.
He's the most
gorgeous, loving cat and his absence is like a big fat hole in the middle of
our family. I know worse things can happen, of course, and I pray that they
don't. But for now we're all focused on getting Milky home - I've called the
local vets, animal shelters, council, micro-chipping people; posted leaflets
through doors, put up posters, talked to people, meowed at closed garage doors
nearby, called out, tweeted, facebooked, registered him on lost animal search
websites...
There is hope as
long as there's no bad news. I know he's close by. I just have to find him.
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