Max escaped last weekend. She fled through the back door sometime Sunday. It was Monday night before I realized she was missing.
Our door sometimes blows open on windy days if unlocked. I noticed it standing open on Sunday, and secured it, thinking how lucky it was that I noticed it before a cat did. Honestly, I didn't even notice that she was gone.
She has gotten out before; in the past, I have left the back door open when I went down the back stairs to the basement to do my laundry. Once she pushed open the screen door and I caught her on the landing. Another time I didn't notice she had escaped but I found her within the hour, two floors below looking bewildered and lost, searching the closed doors for her home.
This time, it took a little longer. Sam was trying to tell me, I think. He was exceptionally loud and talkative. I think in hindsight that he was attempting to alert me to her absence. What all his talking did, though, was distract me and prevent me from realizing that Max, who is always quiet and aloof, was actually gone.
Monday night, panic struck as I stood in the bathroom doorway looking down at Sam, who was yet again yowling.
"Good night, Sam," I impatiently responded to his yowling. That was when I noticed.
In my nightgown, I began searching the apartment, looking in her usual spots and calling her name. At this point, though, I knew she was gone. I asked my roommate if she had seen her, but she couldn't remember either. I went out the back door, remembering finding it open over the weekend, and panic started bubbling around in my tummy like indigestion.
I called as I walked all the way downstairs, where I knew she had to be. Unless she got outside, I thought and stopped myself, remembering finding Rocky out in the road two days before being approached by his panicked owner searching for him. "We just moved here," she said, visibly distraught. "I'm really worried. He doesn't know the neighborhood." I had to give her a box to carry him home and I remembered watching her walk away, stooped and bent with the weight of loss that is unique to losing a pet.
I pushed the memory out of my mind and continued calling Max. I thought I heard her collar jingling. Afraid I was hallucinating, I called to her again and walked to where I thought I had heard it. There were stacks of boxes I hadn't seen before. Someone new must have moved in, I thought to myself. I wonder who it is?
Just then, I saw a little black head pop up over the top of the boxes. The white fur on the corner of her mouth looked like drool and her white whiskers stuck out like fresh highlighter in a dusty old book. Max looked at me with panic and desperation and immediately began trying to figure out how to get to me. She looked down and around her, finally jumping up on top of the boxes. I reached over and picked up her full-figured cat body and she laid against me, purring, as I purred over her and carried her home.
Max does not behave this way, normally. When I first met Max, she was walking around the neighborhood, meowing loudly with the desperation and determination of a female cat in heat. She was so small, though, I thought surely she wasn't in heat already. I was in the process of moving out of that apartment, and hated to leave her. She would come up to the porch when I came out of the door. She would meow to me and rub against my legs. The thing that really endeared her to me was how she would lean against my legs with her whole body while I pet her, and then fall on my feet in purrs.
I took her with me when I moved and she seemed happy and grateful to be an indoor kitty. She seemed content to sit in the windows and doors watching the leaves blow and the squirrels play in the trees behind my building. She and my other cat developed a tentative bond that lasted until he became very ill, finally passing away. Max refused to go in the room with him the last couple of days, but sat outside the door watching him with alarm as he struggled to breathe.
She is a very loyal companion, but she can be very hard to love. She likes to be petted, but not by everyone. She has specific ideas of how and how long she likes being petted, and if you are not in on this, she will attempt to draw you in line by pawing at you or snapping. Most people figure it's not worth the effort.
When I brought her in from her two-day basement adventure, though, she was so happy, she let me pet her for while, my way, even, and she even rolled over on my feet the way she used to do when she first won my heart. I was so happy and relieved to have her home.
My mom once told me "Charity, the thing is, people fall in love with you so easily. You're funny, you're smart, you're beautiful. But then..." In my mind and memory, she trails off and looks out the window, pondering why it is that I'm so alone, confused at this conundrum. The truth is, I pretty much blocked out what she said next, because it was something like "but then you make it impossible for them to love you."
I know that's true, though. I value my independence highly, but I always want to know what everyone else is up to. An analogy for you gamblers out there: I want to know what cards all the people at the table are holding before I reveal my own.
So I really like Max. And maybe it's partly because I have put all my issues onto her, but I like to think that we see eye to eye on things somehow. Sometimes she sits in the window when I'm working, never looking at me, but never leaving the room. Sometimes she sits on the end of my bed, on a little folded blanket covered in black cat hair, placed there in a surprisingly successful attempt to limit her contact with my down comforter and the afghan my grandmother made that I have thrown over it. She will just sit peacefully, napping or looking out thin slits of eyes at something only she sees. Sam usually comes up to her at some point and she will lick his head with motherly affection before hopping down and moving to a new place where she can settle down undisturbed, leaving Sam her vacated spot to do with what he pleases.
I really love Sam. There is something very special about a little kitty who talks constantly and always wants to play, and who sits right in front of you looking up with big eyes waiting for you to get him whatever treat he is thinking of at that moment. But sometimes I just want to be left alone. And that's when I appreciate Max, who loves me anyway and is happy to oblige. I guess the downside to this type of independence is that few people notice when you're gone. When I finally noticed Max was missing, I wondered how long it would take people to notice if I disappeared one day.
Max and I do things our own ways. I once read that Virgos such as myself like domestic animals because we can take care of them and control them; apparently we like the fact that our pets depend on us. This makes us feel in control and we are comforted by this. I thought that was very interesting. But I think the thing I like about Max is that she depends on me, but maintains her independence in spite of this. She is independently dependent.
She reminds me of myself.
Left: Max considers whether or not to show me her newly pearly whites.
