Stretched out on the couch, I was reading, zoned out on a lazy Sunday night. Then, I heard the heart-wrenching cry of a cat.
My stomach twisted. It couldn’t be. My mind must be playing tricks on me.
It wouldn’t have been the first time I had thought I heard her cry: my lovely, loyal house cat who had been so cruelly let outdoors nine days earlier, only to get lost in the abyss of other-backyards, and God-knows-where-else. For days I had been shaking her food bowl, calling her name, making come-hither kitty sounds, to no avail. I put out flyers, posted an online ad, called the SPCA. I thought she was gone.
She cried again. A high-pitched whine. I jumped from my seat and ran to the back door.
It was her. It was my grey cat named Ginger, in all her tabby, striped glory. I opened the door and nearly fell on top of her, laughing and crying all at once.
After nine days of being outside – she had never spent more than half an hour outside a house before this point – she had not a scratch, not a limp. She may have lost a pound or two, but my cat really did come back.