Micchiato

 

Our old, blind tabby, Macchiato, went missing. He was here in the morning and after he had his breakfast, he demanded to be let out on the patio. The kitchen patio is his favorite place to spend the day. Normally he gets in a chair and snoozes the day away. Sometimes he’ll range out into the yard, usually not far and usually not often.

When the afternoon came and he wasn’t in his chair, we went looking for him. We walked the entire acreage, all along the brush line, calling and calling. He usually comes to his name but I’m afraid his eyesight isn’t the only thing going. I think he’s losing his hearing, too. Not finding him, we checked to see if he’d been hit on the road. He wasn’t there either — thank God! Cats get hit on roads all the time and it’s usually not the driver’s fault. They’ll dash out right in front of them. Still, it would’ve broken our hearts to find him dead, and he wouldn’t be the first one we’ve lost to the road either.

I called all our neighbors, asking them to keep an eye out for him. We have such good neighbors. They all sympathized and said they’d watch for him. Our closest neighbor is right across our little dirt road. Our other neighbors, on either side of us, are separated by hay fields and brush. It’s a long shot that Macchiato could ever go that far, but there’s a chance that if he kept walking, he could end up there. The back of our property is edged by more fields and eventually, woods.

I went back to working on my computer and story making but even that couldn’t distract me for long. An hour or so later, I’d just have to go out, walk the property, and call for him again. Tiger, our yellow tabby, went with me. “Why don’t you go find Macchiato and lead him home?” I suggested.

“Meow!” was all he said. 

Mike, my handsome husband, made at least two more trips around the property calling for him, and I made three. All to no avail. He was gone. The thought of him wandering aimlessly through the fields and woods adjacent to our property made me incredibly sad. Dying of exposure, thirst, or starvation, would be slow and painful. A fate I wish on no critter. It would be kinder to be eaten by a fox.

Ultimately, there just was no way to find him unless he’d yowl loud enough for me to hear him.

That night we went to bed with heavy hearts.

And I prayed a lot, too.

The next morning Macchiato was in his chair on the patio!

God is good!

"We think he might’ve been sleeping in the weeds and never heard us call," I said to my feisty redheaded friend and neighbor, Miss Rosie. "It’s for his own safety if we don’t let him out anymore,”

You could tie him out like we do with Flannel,” she said of her pure gray domestic shorthair; her fur so soft it reminded Miss Rosie of her favorite gray flannel slacks.

I still have all the collars and leashes from when our little Yorkies were still alive. Ginger, my favorite, developed cancer in her neck. Having her put down was the hardest thing I’ve ever done and yet, I loved her so much I couldn’t stand to see her suffer. She was 12 years-old and should’ve had a few more years with me. Itsy, at 15, was old and in pain. It was a lot easier to let her go. Both girls gone in the span of four months.

I dug around and found Itsy’s old harness. It would be small enough that Macchiato couldn’t slip out of it. Now when he wants to go out, I tether him so he can’t wander away.

He hates it, but it’s for his own good.

Let's call this one done!