Within the span of 2 blocks on a recent walk, there were 3 signs for lost animals—2 cats and a dog. It made me wonder whether this stretch had a pet snatcher problem. One notice was offering a $1000 reward for their cat’s safe return. “She needs medications,” the message said.
We had a cat go missing once, many years ago. Chester was an indoor/outdoor guy who preferred to roam the neighborhood at night. We were occasionally awakened by the screech of a cat fight and would scramble out of bed to retrieve him, cautious to wait for his adrenaline-puffed tail to calm before daring to pick him up. We’d gotten uncomfortably accustomed to him being gone for a day, rarely two. After 3, we were worried. We searched every street and alley, tacked signs on telephone poles, stuffed flyers in mailboxes, and asked anyone who crossed our path if they’d seen him. This was in the dark ages before the internet, so our only resource for information was a recording at the animal shelter, cataloguing all the creatures who had been brought in over the last 24 hours, dead and alive. The list was updated at the end of each day, so it became our evening ritual to dial the number we morbidly renamed the “flat cat hotline” and brace ourselves for a description resembling our handsome orange tabby.
As days and weeks and months went by, our fear morphed into resignation and grief. After 4 months, we stopped calling the hotline. After 5 months, we talked about getting another cat, not because we thought Chester could be easily replaced, but our dog Barney seemed to miss having a playmate. After 6 months, we answered a newspaper ad seeking a home for “the world’s greatest cat,” and a dusty-orange, Buddha-tempered tabby named Spike entered our lives.
After 7 months, we got a call from the animal shelter—Chester had been turned in—alive. Apparently a family about 20 miles north of Seattle had taken him home (and failed to have him scanned for a microchip). Ultimately they surrendered him because he kept picking fights with their other cat. That was definitely Chester—he and Barney were thick as thieves, but he was aggressive toward other cats, including Spike whom he greeted with a guttural bellow.
The half-year it took to establish tenuous peace is a topic for another day, but ever since Chester disappeared, I always pause for lost pet signs. I read the names, “Charlie,” “Stella,” “Rocko,” “Bandit,” and send them well wishes to be safe and find their way home. I think about their humans—helpless and worried, the agony of not knowing, a pit in their stomachs whenever they spot a motionless shadow on the side of a road.
It seems anti-climactic to tell the story now, in part, because it was 26 years ago, and Chester, Barney, and Spike have all moved on to their next iteration. But also because we know how it played out—we got what we hoped for, what we had given up hoping for—our story had an improbably good ending: Chester came home.
When I happened upon the flyer in the photo above, rather than the heartbreak of a lost loved one, I was delighted to find an unexpected tribute to the signpost itself, an acknowledgement of the quiet work it does to hold the sadness of those who staple a page to its surface. It had never occurred to me to thank these steadfast sentinels or share the joy and relief of Chester’s return.
Reading this poetic note made me wonder about the intangible things we lose over time: childhood dreams, imagination, faith in human kindness, willingness to offer the benefit of the doubt. If I print a list of all that we miss, could these sturdy timbers bear the weight? Would strangers stop with concern and wish them well in finding their way home?
Always remember somebody wanted you back.
If you like this post, please share.
Thank you for posting!! Like many of your posts, they cause me to pause and reflect.... thank you
I was so moved by this, CB! Thank you!!