Weekend at Twiggy’s

To find a cat, one must think like a cat. It requires one to shed their human thoughts and consider the world that is at your paws. Where do you go? How do you entertain yourself? What to do?

It was 12:47 pm when the dread set in. A heavy run back up the stairs nearly distracted me from noticing the natural step that wasn’t performed, the action usually associated when opening a door. It was the actual opening of the door. Because it was open. And Twiggy the Cat wasn’t in sight. 

I had been gone 4 minutes and change but 240 seconds is a fortune for a feline. Heavy boots stampeded around the house, hoping to meet the gaze of her golden orbs. No such luck. A frantic sprint down was not fruitful either, no sign of a grey tail shirking behind a pile of boxes.  My wishful thinking was being met with a dark realization, one that I couldn’t resort to just yet but knew was inevitable.

After a pathetic battle with the can, a bait of the finest sea chicken was laid out in the living room, as I vacated the premises with bated breath. Working under the assumption that she was still inside, I took notice of the current state of the apartment - the position of the toys strewn across the floor, closet doors shut to adventure and the levels of the nutrition bowls. My intent was to give her space, a quiet jungle to reemerge in. As I locked the door, I heard a quiet meow, a whisper from a siren who wasn’t there. 

The streets weren't kind and the worst of my imagination came forth. Gone forever. Playing out how I would break the news of her disappearance wasn’t fun. Multiple times my head replayed a similar conversation with her owners — people I wanted to remain friends with —  and each ending required me to start over because I didn’t like that it ended with “I lost your cat”. 

I needed to catch a flight but I needed to find Twiggy. I held out hope. The smallest sliver was all I could muster, but it was enough to keep me from suffering a manic episode of anxiety and depression. She will be there. She has to be, I told myself, loud enough to echo for a heavenly body to hear. 

Twenty minutes later, the house was intact just as I had left it, expect for the absent air of a particular presence. Nothing had moved, not a thing touched and my trap had failed. It’s over. I couldn’t bring myself to imagine how I would make this failure right. This was my operation. I was given a responsibility and was irresponsible with it. I was to be held accountable, to take ownership of a problem I had no idea how to solve. 

So I closed my eyes and prayed. I asked the universe for a merciful God to find me in a moment of need. To keep this beautiful, tormenting creature alive, sheltered and within my grasp. Not being a religious individual, I wasn’t sure how much of a request was kosher; I limited myself to getting through the ordeal, to see another day in my friends’ apartment, with or without Twiggy. 

After my private dialogue, I collapsed, exhausted and overwhelmed. A humbled heap of emotions, slumped on the floor, unable to pick up or continue on. And in that moment, a siren murmured a meow. Using the little joules left inside my hollow soma, I looked up to see two small yellow moons shining in the darkness of the blackhole that was beneath the bed. 

There she was. And I assume, there she had been. And as we shared a stare, it became all too obvious that this was planned. Seeing a packed bag and sensing a departure, Twiggy concocted a master plan to keep me around a little longer. I missed my flight and lost a life along the way, playing the fool in her Faustian drama. My conclusion is baseless, purely an anecdotal experience, but among the few things I know as truth in this world, this is all too certain. In the jungle, one must know of the big cats lurking. If you can’t see them, it is too late.