Caroline Paul - Lost Cat: A True Story of Love, Desperation, and GPS Technology

M eanwhile, Tibbys twin sister, Fibby, talked to us all the time. Here is a speculative interpretation of her meows:

And yet I missed the one communication I needed to hear:

he day before, Fibby had seemed uncomfortable. But she purred when we petted her and ate what we gave her and batted her kitty eyes. Everything is fine, I said to Wendy. We made plans for the weekend.

It was a beautiful sunny afternoon. We left the house to enjoy it. An excursion! Wendy was right, I was feeling better.

When we returned that evening, we couldnt find Fibby anywhere.

Fibby? Wendy called. Fibby?

We listened for kitty feet.

Nothing.

I crutched up the stairs. She wasnt on her favorite part of the bed. She wasnt on her favorite part of the rug. She wasnt on her favorite chair. Instead, I found Tibby. He was sitting in the middle of the study, and something in the way he stared at me made my stomach drop.

Fibby, Fibby, I began to call, at first calmly, but then with rising urgency. There was a puddle of urine on the bathroom rug.

We finally found her in the back of a closet. Her head appeared, then her two front legs. She made it a little way out, then collapsed.

Oh no, I said, dropping my crutches, getting onto the ground. No, no, no.

I pulled her onto my stomach. She swayed, couldnt get her balance.

Fibby! I cried to her unfocused eyes. Fibby!

Wendy stumbled away to call the vet.

We drove to the all-night emergency room. I expected to wait for hours behind the Very Sick, but the assistant peered into the cat carrier, frowned, and whisked it to the back room. The vet came out moments later, with the assistant trailing.

I heard a large abdominal mass. I heard very, very sick. They led us to an examining room and spoke in quiet voices, as if we were dangerous.

I dont understand, I kept saying to Wendy. How could a tumor grow in her stomach without my knowledge? How could I have missed something so big and so bad?

The vet said, Shes bleeding a lot. Then he enumerated the options, none of them good. He spoke slow and low, like a Secret Service agent giving directions on where to place the snipers. Snipers were bad but snipers were necessary, his tone said. He didnt react to the fact that I was weeping. He said, And all of that might not even work.

I just dont want her to suffer, I told him through the tissue against my face. If it was your cat, what would you do?

Actually what I said was, Dkpppt jjersss kiii ablutt her sfffffg. But vets are used to translating wracking sobs into a native tongue.

Id put her down, he said.

Put her down? I must have misheard. You put down a foot, you put down a baby, you put down someone you dont like. But all those things can be brought back up. If Fibby was put down, she would be gone forever.

Fibby was slack in her cage. Her pupils were dilated. She whimpered with every breath. We cooed and whispered and ran light fingers along her cheek. Put her down? Only yesterday she had arrived from the pound, it seemed. Only yesterday she had been a ball of fur and ears I could fit into my palm.

Tell me what to do, I tried to communicate. I wanted to do what she wanted to do, and what was best for her. These are two different things in humans, but in animals theyre often the same.

Her whimpers continued. I put my head in my hands. I took a deep breath.

Put her down, I said.

Wendy carried her to a small room. I turned down the lights. Carefully, Wendy put Fibby in my arms. She was so light. How did she get so light?

The vet said, Tell me when, as if he were pouring coffee. I was weeping, rocking, whispering to the kitty clutched to my chest. I wanted more time, but she was clearly in so much pain.

When? Never, I should have shouted to the ceiling.

Instead, I said, Now.

Fibby died quickly. Drugs are so efficient.

Shes gone, Wendy said to me. She took Fibbys limp body from my arms.

Where? I said, bewildered. Where did she go?

Just two days earlier shed head-butted Wendys arm, asking for attention. A day ago shed scrunched up her face like an old man shaving when Id tickled her chin. Last night shed eaten her tuna treat.

Wait, we could put the camera and the GPS on her collar.

Wait, please. Please.

But she was gone, and we could not follow.

I n the thirteen years we had been together, Tibby had never greeted me upon my return. But that night he was sitting near the top step of the landing. They say that cats dont have many muscles in their face, which is why they seem so much more stoic than, say, a sobbing Homo sapien. But the pupils of his extraterrestrial eyes were dilated. His tail was slack on the floor. His two front paws were together, one slightly in front of the other, like the feet of a ballet dancer about to leap, and the hair on his back was raised. He didnt need facial muscles. It was clear he was asking a question.

Wheres Fibby? Wheres my twin?

He stared as I leaned on my crutches. He stared as I wiped my cheeks. He stared as I buried my runny nose in my sleeve. When Wendy appeared beside me, Tibby stared at her too. Then he abruptly got up and walked to the den. After a few moments, he came back, glanced at us once, and went into the guest room. There, he peered into corners and under chairs. After covering every crevice, he reappeared. He sat down. He let out one deep Pavarotti meow, so loud and anguished that it startled us both.

Shes gone, Wendy told him.

But he rose to search another room.

For days Tibby looked for Fibby. We know this because the GPS unit remained on his collar. The pink lines now told a story of kitty grief.

First he searched in and around our house, his tracks scribbling circles in the backyard, the living room, and upstairs.