A few months ago, I wrote about my transformation from a born and bred dog person into an obsessed and deranged ‘Cat Woman”.  I received a lot of comments, which is always nice. Some were from other cat people welcoming me into the feline lover’s fold.’ Some were from dog people who could not understand why in the world I would have a cat. And some were from disinterested people wondering why I was even bothering to write about it. I do not intend to make this a monthly commentary, but I do have another tale to tell. For any readers who identifies with the cartoon above, turn the page now and skip this.

Her name Is Molly.  She is four years old.  I got her from the SPCA in November to be a companion for my husband.  No one knows what happened to her in her former life; she was found on the street and was terrified of everything.  She spent her first week in our house, hiding under a chair. Since that time, she has slowly, very gradually, learned to trust, and become completely at home, She has free reign of the house and has captured our hearts.

She didn’t get the memo about being for my husband.  She tolerates him because he was here first, but she has attached herself to me with complete and utter devotion, seldom leaving my side and following me everywhere. Thus sets the scene for what happened last week when there was a deafening crash from the living room.

Molly was sitting on top of our glass table beside an extremely heavy glass vase that she had just knocked over. I don’t know how she did it because that vase is so heavy I can barely lift it.  Unbelievably, nothing was broken, but it could’ve been a disaster, and I was very cross. Cat lovers may be dismayed to know I was yelling loudly at her as she cowered under the dining room table before dashing away.

I hadn’t seen her again when I went to bed but assumed she would be waiting by the bedroom door in the morning, as she always does.  But she wasn’t. I softly and gently called her name as I went downstairs. I softly and gently called her name as I looked around the first floor. I softly and gently called her name as I wandered around the house.  I softly and gently called her name as I put fresh food and water in her bowls.  I looked everywhere but s she was nowhere to be seen. There are a lot of places in our house where she could hide, so I hoped she would appear when she got hungry.

By noon the fresh food was untouched and as far as I could tell her litter box hadn’t been used. There was no question that she was still in the house, but where was she?

My husband kept assuring me that all would be well, that I should just relax but I continued to worry.  My overactive imagination kicked in. What if she had been verbally and otherwise abused before she came to us?   What if someone else had screamed at her while hurting her?  What if I had awakened memories of those scary times? What if I had frightened her to the point where she would no longer trust me?  What if all these past months of gaining that trust had gone down the drain?

I had a lot of things to do that day, but I canceled all of them f them and focused solely on my quest to find Molly. I looked under everything. I looked behind everything. I went from room to room, over and over. I was a basket case of anxiety and remorse.

By mid-afternoon, I was well into the repeated rounds of searching.  When I got back to our bedroom, I noticed one of my husband sweaters on the floor. I folded it and opened the cupboard door to put it away, and there was Mally, curled up on a pile of sweaters and sleeping.  She yawned and stretched and was happy to see me but did run downstairs quickly to use the litter box and eat. Amazingly, there was no evidence of any mess, even though she had been there for 18 hours by then. Nor did she seem at all traumatized by the experience and seemingly still loved me.

So, all was well and we were free to live happily ever after but, curiously, she kept going back into the bedroom and leaning  against the cabinet, obviously wanting to get back into the upper part. When I opened that door, she immediately jumped back to that same sweater pile.  Why? I couldn’t understand until I realized the inside of that door has a mirror.  She is still trying to get back be with the cat in the cupboard who has captured her heart.