Missing Conan

Imagine loving a cat for 10 years, an abused stray you adopted and nursed back to health, gone missing one night when a visiting friend accidentally let him outside. Not realized until the next morning. Has anyone seen Conan?

Now picture this feline declawed and defenseless out in the elements with no tracking device or ID. A day passes and you search up and down your street. The wild thunderstorm from the night before could have disoriented him. Where did he find shelter? Is he still hiding? Is he hurt… or worse? Or did a kind neighbor take him in?

You create and post flyers across a square mile of light poles and you walk early each morning and late in the evening calling his name while rattling his favorite kitty treats.

A second day passes, then a third and fourth. You post online and call shelters and animal hospitals, local vets and even the police. All the while you feel deep down that YOU are to blame. YOU let this happen. The guilt and sadness consume you.

A fifth day passes and a sixth. You receive a voice mail from a stranger who spotted an orange cat more than a mile away and your heart races as you hurry to that location only to find… nothing. You call his name repeatedly as neighbors peek out their windows, but don’t get involved. So, you return early the next day, speak with a neighbor and learn that there is an orange cat who has lived there for years. And your heart sinks again.

Your family is supportive and takes shifts searching on foot, on bikes and by car. Local friends take up the cause and cover a widening area without being asked. They get the word out on social media… trying to do something to help. And you start to realize after nearly a week that perhaps your precious pet was hit by a car or scooped up by a hawk or turkey vulture, and you sink into the sadness that you were not there for him when he needed you most.

You get a call on day seven from someone who saw your flyer and thinks he spotted your cat in a neighbor’s yard about a block and a half away. And you anxiously run to the house and scan the overgrown property packed with broken bicycles, rusty propane tanks, old yard furniture and more. And your heart skips a beat when you see an orange cat peek out from a trash pile about 30 feet away, pause for a few seconds to stare through you, and scurry off into the overgrown brush.

Was that him? He looked… different. And he didn’t come to me? Why didn’t he come to me?

The locked gate, tall fence and multiple No Trespassing signs keep you from exploring further, but you return the next day to find no trace of a cat. No one home. Nothing. And you walk home dejected, feeling that after eight days, your window has closed, and you will never hold your friend again. You will never get to tell him how sorry you are. You will never get to say goodbye.

On day nine, you receive a text at 7am from a new neighbor across the street and one house over – a stranger who lives a stone’s throw away – calling you with a sighting. Not just a sighting, but an image of a cat included, walking along a path with the sun rising behind. And you know in an instant that it’s Conan.

In a sprint, you bound across the street heart pounding with anticipation. The young neighbor introduces himself and says he saw the cat scurry to an adjacent yard. Your eyes quickly scan the landscape and find the feline gingerly ascending the steps of a wooden deck. And you call out voice cracking with emotion because you are sure it is him.

Seconds later you scoop up the cat, who is shaking and purring, and perhaps a little traumatized. He’s skinny and hungry and thirsty, and moments later you find yourself fumbling with cans of cat food back home while your furry friend rubs vigorously against your shins, meowing loudly as tears roll down your face. He’s home. He’s really home.

Within 30 minutes, Conan is sleeping in your lap and you quietly wipe tears of joy that he’s back in your arms and in your life again. Nine days after he slinked out your front door.

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This article is dedicated to my wife Tara and her love of animals.