Sophie’s Story: How to find a lost cat

I’ve been pretty vacant for a while. But as you may know, our missing cat Sophie returned from her mysterious – and heartwrenching -  absence on October 21. How do you find a missing cat? Sophie’s story – and our story – is after the jump.

For two solid weeks – 15 days and 12 hours – I fixated on Sophie’s vanishing. I castigated myself for allowing her to cheerfully bound out the door just before 6 a.m. on October 6.

I traipsed through countless lawns in central Lawrence, climbed into a bird sanctuary, staked out overgrown lawns, trudged through woods, discovered four resident strays, tossed tuna under porches, broke into four fenced-in yards. I stopped a garbageman from taking a neighbor’s dumpster before I could clumsily sort through it.

I unapologetically searched for my missing cat, hoping I’d see her head pop out of a brush pile, her hazel eyes offering recognition, right before she gratefully hopped over to me.

It didn’t happen. It never happened. My emotions ranged from frantic rage to pathetic desperation to panicked fear, solemn acceptance, uncomfortable sadness, and ultimately, just a resigned emptiness.

It would have been one thing if Sophie had died. Instead, she was just gone. But during those 15 days, I refused to believe that I’d never see her again. I just could not believe that early morning on October 6 was the last time. Even amid tears and resignation, I didn’t give up.

That’s why I’m writing today. Maybe you need this story. Maybe you’re wondering what to do. Maybe you searched and found this story. Should your cat, or dog, or other pet ever go missing, that’s the best advice I can give: Don’t give up hope. Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.

(You might think it’s a bit of a reach to co-opt Jimmy V’s cancer-speech for the loss of my pet, but I vehemently disagree.)

Through those two weeks, Ms. Faded Glory and I researched and hunted. We sought opinions from anyone – neighbors, friends, the web, vets, doctors and shelters. How, exactly, do you find a lost cat? We felt embarrassed, heartbroken, failed, and helpless.

Just about everyone knew of someone – often a friend of a friend or an old wives’ tale– who had lost Mittens or Fluffy for two weeks, yet the cat emerged later, emaciated, finally finding its way home. Of course, these are the easy stories to remember. Many more stories of cats long lost and never seen again were no doubt too tough for owners or animal lovers to solemnly recall.

And you have to hope you’re one of the good stories. You just have to, even as you prepare for the alternative, for tragic acceptance. Maybe the chronology will help you find your cat, maybe it’s just an entertaining read, maybe it causes you not to take someone or something for granted. That’s what it does for me.

Day 1

I called for Sophie at 7:30, my car running. I decided not to make the commute to Topeka. At 9 a.m., Sophie still wasn’t home. I blew off work, and hunted through our backyard, neighbor’s backyard, a wooded area, and under and inside all crevices immediately surrounding our home.

I used a flashlight, cat treats, and unabashedly slashed branches and brushpiles. At noon, I called the Humane Society. Later in the day, we alerted Animal Control. My wife came home, and we both called and hunted around for Sophie. I told my immediate neighbors about Sophie’s disappearance, hunted through their dumpsters, calling till my voice was hoarse.

That night, we again traversed the neighborhood. I told more neighbors. Of course, many of our neighbors were familiar with our outgoing Franklin the Cat – few had ever seen stealthful Sophie. Franklin, for his part, scratched and clawed our back fence, shouting for his playmate. Even he knew something was wrong.

We bought a baby monitor, and placed it inside our breezeway’s window well, adjacent to the pet door. If something approached, we’d hear it. Before bed, I set out some cheap, expired fish, and I slept in a bedroll on our porch, right below to the pet door. I heard nothing.

DAY 2

I woke at 4 a.m., walked through the neighborhood, and saw the fish intact.

That morning, I designed a flyer featuring Sophie, promising a reward, and printed 200. Ms. Faded Glory visited nearby sororities, fraternities and other homes, distributing our flyer. We printed color flyers – no black and white. We offered a $50 reward for any tips leading to Sophie. We blanketed a six-block radius surrounding our house, and including fraternities, sororities, and two apartment complexes. I searched the neighborhood with a flashlight till 10 p.m., softly calling Sophie’s name.

Franklin actually helped. He sensed something wrong immediately, and followed me around the neighborhood, bellowing for his friend Sophie. He marked new spots outside his normal roaming area. Inside a window well of a vacant home for sale, I found some feces. (Gross, I know.) I clean up after Sophie. It was almost assuredly hers. Hope.

At 3:45 a.m., something took the bait of the fish outside the porch. A possum.

DAY 3

More fliers. More neighbors. More searching during the day. More research.

Sophie’s alert was now on Craiglist, Lawrence Journal-World online, Twitter and in print, and other various lost pet sites. She is microchipped, and we alerted Avid, the microchip company.

I went to the Humane Society for the first time, you know, just in case. While there, I filed a “more permanent” report. Crushingly, she wasn’t there – and as you know, it’s difficult to walk through a room of caged, helpless cats with no homes.

I fought through my tears, while the Humane Society attendant politely told me about Lawrence’s leash laws. For a cat, it meant that even with a collar, if he/she wandered off your property, it was technically a stray. Anyone could pick it up, or you – the owner – could be issued a ticket for negligence.

I told her, “Well, tell you what. I’ll let anyone write me a ticket for whatever amount they want if they find my cat.” I did not add, “You stupid bitch.” In the next few days, other Humane Society reps were much more helpful.

DAY 3 – p.m.

Almost immediately, we got our first tips. First, the sighting of a grey neighbor cat. Secondly, two sightings of a blue tortie that was nearly Sophie’s twin. Almost as friendly as Franklin, she ran around the neighborhood without a collar. We met her owner, who proudly boasted of four cats including the skinny, collar-less tortie. People, put collars on your pets. We got six more calls about this cat in the next 10 days.

Across the street, we got our first valuable tip. A visiting couple saw a gray cat in their parents’ lush, overgrown yard, resembling Sophie. They were certain – even adamant – it was her. They remembered a purple collar. They described the cat as “fast.” That was key. Sophie is fast – that’s one of the first things you remember about her.

I staked out their yard with wet cat food, clad in all-black, a flashlight and a lawnchair. A black stray approached, but nothing else. During the next ten days, I continually baited their yard, and always spent at least 15 minutes sitting in the lawn each morning, just in case.

Our next tip arrived from a sorority at 9 p.m. I considered this another credible tip, they described her meow to a “T” – like a fake cry, shrill and bizarre, like you weren’t sure it was a cat or a person mimicking a cat. That’s Sophie. Fast and with a distinct, phony meow.

They actually had her nabbed for a couple minutes, before the scared cat escaped. We searched, but could not find her. Around midnight, another sorority called, after chasing a gray cat into brush. We found this guy – a gray-and-white longhair living around the sorority/fraternity parking lot. Crushed, we returned home.

DAY 4

Starting this day – my birthday – I began each morning at 4 a.m., walking through our 2-block territory, especially the neighbor’s yard, and the sorority parking lots, softly calling for Sophie. I find our gray cat friend, our black cat friend, and our possum friend nearly every day.

I began setting traps using canned tuna. My “traps” actually consisted of just me, monitoring the tuna (or cat treats, or catnip), waiting as I circled the neighborhood. Often the tuna disappeared within 15 minutes – and I was always encouraged, even if I found nothing.

DAY 5

Another trip to the Humane Society, where a shelter director told me about a family who visited daily for three weeks looking for a cat. Then they quit. A week later, the lost kitty showed up, emaciated, looking for food. They say cats are almost always “underground” – so close by, so frightened that you have to unturn every single stone. I cannot find Sophie. I begin to wonder about a coyote, or perhaps if she was just so scared she’s still undercover. I press on.

DAY 6

Columbus Day, another tip, but not a credible one. Slowly fanning out into different wooded areas, parking lots, and under new porches. Today it rained and got cold for the first time.

Today I broke into two fenced yards and crawled under a neighbor’s porch. I point-blank left a note ordering a rental house to open their garage. A fraternity guy stopped me in his parking lot, asking if he could help me. I wore all black and swung a flashlight, I’m sure I looked like a burglar. I am coming apart at the seams.

DAY 7-10

Early morning walks, calling Sophie’s name. Searches through parking lots and fanning into denser wooded areas. Amazing how many stray cats you find when you’re looking for a cat – besides my gray and white friend, I’ve found an enterprising black cat, another spotted gray, and our friend the roaming collarless tortie again. These guys always roam right under your noses.

Another tip that night from a cat-loving family down the way. They saw a gray cat in a nearby intersection. Turns out to be another gray cat – a professor’s named “Phog.”

DAY 11 – p.m.

Another tip, from a family outside our search range, but nearby my normal stakeout spot in the tipster’s yard.

A gray cat has been snacking on their porch. I rush over to the house. The cat’s there, hungry, crying, but It isn’t Sophie – it’s yet another unfamiliar, gray stray. Skinny and fearful, the family tells me I can take the cat if I’d like. I briefly think about it, but that would be giving up. I continue to feel terrible for lost cats, hungry and alone. Ms. Faded Glory was sure this was real – we hadn’t received a tip in a while, and it just “felt like” something different. Alas, no.

DAY 12

This day was unseasonably hot, but I trek into an overgrown bird sanctuary. Pretty sure you’re not supposed to be able to get in. I search the woods, and see nothing.

At four in the morning, I set tuna right by the door. Something’s always taking it, and I’m sure – now – it’s one of the gray cats, plus the newest tipper probably proved my “credible,” early tipsters wrong. I hear gobbling on the monitor, and rush to the pet door. It’s the possum, visiting again. Apparently, as a cat hunter, I’m quite good at catching possums. I am discouraged. No more tuna bait.

DAY 13

A knock at my door. A strange tip, from the cat-loving family: They actually relay a trip from an elderly couple, just outside our flier range, and through a park. They saw an unfamiliar cat across the street, poking through a gutter.

I immediately take tuna over to the brush area. I visit with the couple. This description actually resembles Sophie. Even now, I regret lumping her in as grey – because she’s not. She’s grey at first glance, but if you really see her, she’s almost black or orange with a tortoiseshell, and the couple claimed she was fast, with spots and black, pointy ears. My hope is still intact.

DAY 15

I write my “sort-of” farewell piece to my missing cat. I listen to Speed of Sound about 100 times. At midnight, it’s my Dad’s birthday. I’m overnight in Salina, Kansas on business. My phone rings at 12:30.

It’s my wife.

She went to bed at 11:30. At midnight, Franklin, agitated, began leaping up and down from the bed. He grunted and meowed at something outside. Then, he devised a way to leap into the windowsill, peering into the yard. He growled and meowed, something he does when he’s hunting. He normally never leaps into this particular windowsill. Ms. Faded Glory is up.

She hears rustling in the baby monitor. She wakes up. Without the baby monitor, she might have slept right through.

She thinks she hears a meow. She puts on her glasses, and in the full-moon night, sees something sprint through the back yard. Toward the pet door.

Ms. Faded Glory rushes through the house, frantic, to the breezeway, flashlight in tow. Franklin follows. In the breezeway, she hears the meow – Sophie’s cry. A clear peal, the almost-phony, contrived meow. If she’s agitated, it always sounds like a phony meow. Like someone imitating a cat.

Sophie sits right outside the pet door, looking up, meowing loudly. Incessantly. She had found home – I’m convinced she actually meowed in triumph, not terror. She may have searched for her familiar yard for days.

Ms. Faded Glory snatches her up. Her collar’s missing. She is unhurt. Her fur isn’t matted, she doesn’t appear to have lost weight. Was she stuck in a home? Did someone take her? Was she simply roaming, lost, wayward?

We don’t know. But she’s home.

That’s our story. It’s long and detailed, and probably more info than you could possibly want. But if you’re ever searching for a pet, you know how this feels. Don’t give up hope. Flyers work. Craigslist works. The Humane Society and Animal Control can help. Neighbors are largely good – tell them about your situation. Don’t be shy, and for God’s sakes, don’t stop your search.

The baby monitor also turned out to be a godsend for us. The cat isn’t going to come back, even if it senses you waiting in the yard. In fact, it is hiding, in survival mode. The monitor worked great for us – Ms. Faded Glory would have slept through Franklin’s pestering if she hadn’t heard something on the monitor. And keep looking. Find your time, just to search. They say cats come out most often between 2-4 a.m. This is hogwash; a frightened cat will adjust its schedule based on animal and human traffic – and lack thereof – around them. Search when you can possibly find the cat. For me, squirrels were gone in early morning, and the neighborhood quiet. Don’t be afraid to call the name – even if you’re just talking. If he or she is close, they will hear.

For me, the morning walks were something more. They always reassured me. At least I was doing “something” – even if my search was fruitless. If I had stopped searching, would Sophie have come back? I don’t know. If I had stopped searching, I would have had to confront the obvious, and relent. And give up. I couldn’t do that.

You shouldn’t either.