I have for you a fictionalized account of absolutely true events. This one will blow your mind and remind you of all that’s good in this world…
It was going to be a weekend getaway. We hadn’t had a vacation in years and thought it would be nice to take four days and go somewhere. Four days to relax and chill out.
Of course, we brought Maggie with us. She’s the cat everyone thinks is a dog – follows us around, meows just for mom and dad. We can even walk her on a harness.
We call her our four-legged child with fur. She’s our baby. So naturally, she came along.
We stuck Billy Joel’s greatest hits in the CD player and made it to “River of Dreams” when we had to pull off at a rest stop to go to the bathroom. Hubby decided to let Maggie stretch her legs a bit, too, and took her for a walk. The looks he gets when he does this never cease to make me chuckle. Apparently not a lot of people have seen a grown man walking a cat before. I stood for a bit and watched the two of them.
In retrospect, it really was one of those things you didn’t see coming. The dog came out from behind the building, spied Maggie, started tugging on the leash and barking, all before I could even blink. Scared me, my husband and especially Maggie. She puffed up to about three times her size and leaped in one fluid, cat-like arch backwards. Jumped right out of the harness. I had no idea she could even do that.
My heart hit my knees. My husband and I turned at the same time and tracked her movements, calling her name with as much composure as we could produce, given the circumstances.
When I saw her tail swish through the foliage and recognized the size and depth of the woods into which she had lunged, my stomach recoiled, my hand came up to cover my mouth and I whispered, “No. Please, no.”
I heard my husband murmur, “Oh Maggie, come back. Please.”
It was then that the tears started. Seeing him on his knees, cutting his hands on briars, searching in vain for our baby girl, brought the telltale prickling behind my eyes. I couldn’t stop the sob that clawed its way out of my throat.
All of which is why I’m standing deep in a forest with a flashlight in my hand, somewhere around midnight, watching through puffy, red eyes for my Maggie on the first night of what was supposed to be a relaxing weekend getaway. I’d do almost anything to have Maggie back. To have her safe. She hasn’t spent a night alone in eight years. She always sleeps between us. My baby.
I must admit, I’m amazed that we’re not alone. The search for Maggie has elicited help from so many people. The word spread through this tiny little town and people pulled into the rest stop with coffee, humane traps and flashlights. I tear up all over again when I think of how many people – strangers – have assured me in a comforting voice that “we’ll find her.”
The search is stopped around two. People are exhausted. My husband and I find a hotel room, although I know I’ll never sleep. We close our eyes for a few minutes at a time, but each of us wakes because the spot between us is empty. There are no paws patting our shoulders. No curl of a feline tongue as our baby yawns.
Very near dawn the next day, the search begins again. From time to time people assure me that they’ve spotted an orange streak running from them, but no one’s been able to approach Maggie. Hope is really a dreadful cycle. Up one minute and down the next.
Four days later, my husband reminds me that we’re both expected at work in the morning. We never did make it to our getaway. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to snap at him. I don’t care about work. So what if I lose my job? Does that even matter? Family comes first. That’s what my mother had always said. And Maggie’s our family.
I’m exhausted. When I crawl into the passenger seat of the car and watch as we pull away from the town, away from the forest where I know Maggie’s huddled under a bush somewhere, I feel tears track my cheeks. I’m utterly, completely defeated. The staff of the rescue group who had laid countless traps assures us that they have our number and will call us when they find her.
I feel like I’ve failed my only child. A parent’s worst nightmare. A horror like no other. It’s a bitter pill to swallow.
I move through my days like a somnambulist. I go to work, come home and go straight for the answering machine. But nothing. Once, only once, did they think they found her. We were in the car within five minutes. Turns out it was another orange cat that went to an animal shelter to be adopted. That experience spiraled me into a serious depression.
So much so that when the day arrived that the rescue group had trapped another orange cat, I almost didn’t go. What was the point? It had been weeks. My Maggie was gone and I really needed to accept it. But my husband bundles me into the car anyway, assuring that this is the last time we’ll put ourselves through it.
I’m silent on the ride. I’ve been silent for days. The guilt, the sadness, the loss just overwhelms me. I’ve never been responsible for anything like this in my life and I’m afraid I don’t know how to deal with it. I don’t think I know how to cope.
Even when we pull up to the front door of the rescue, I almost can’t bring myself to get out of the car. Once inside, I know I can’t go to the cattery. I can’t see cages and cages of unwanted felines. Especially knowing my Maggie is out in the wilderness. One of the unwanted. My husband goes alone.
When I hear the familiar meow that had been so absent from our home, I swear for a second I think I’ve lost what’s left of my mind. But my husband comes through the door, clutching an orange pile of matted, dirty fur, and I feel a warmth spread through my body I hadn’t known in weeks. A smile, the first genuine one in as long as I could remember, forms on my mouth and I couldn’t stop the tears if I tried.
She is filthy, covered in burrs, and a bit on the thin side, but my Maggie never looked more beautiful to me. She refuses to leave our arms, rubs her head against each of our chins in turn and purrs so loudly I believe they could hear it in the next county.
That night, I sleep with the sound of purring in my ear and the feel of a paw against my nose.
Maggie is a bit clingy after her weeks in the woods. She rarely, if ever, lets us out of her sight. She no longer leaves the house and if we have to take her anywhere, she stays in her carrier until we arrive at our destination. I still, sometimes, marvel at the second chance that fate and all those folks who never gave up allowed us to have with our girl.
I thank them every time I hug Maggie. Even though I know they can’t hear it.
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Jennifer Vanderau is the public relations coordinator for the Cumberland Valley Animal Shelter and can be reached at [email protected]. The shelter accepts both monetary and pet supply donations. For more information, call the shelter at 717-263-5791 or visit the website www.cvas-pets.org. CVAS also operates a thrift store in Chambersburg. Help support the animals at the shelter by donating to or shopping at the store.
