For Thursday, June 11, 1998 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 719 words

Cat tonic

When we own pets we feel the same joys and sorrows that we feel with our children, but to a lesser degree because we're human.

Our 13-year-old cat Scatman disappeared eight days ago from the telling of this tale. He has been snipped most of his life and sleeps in our flowerbeds, cuddled up with his snipped mother, Felix. She's 14. Scatman is overweight and phlegmatic. He's been known to belch. Felix is as thin as a Popsicle stick.

For over a decade, they've come into the house to eat, kiss up, sit on whatever we're reading, drop fur, and meow to get out. In the Ninter (el Nino + winter) they've come in to get warm and dry. He is black.

Two weekends ago we went for a boat ride with some friends and came back Sunday morning. We'd set out only dry food for Saturday, so we knew the cats would be cranky and standing at the car doors when we pulled in. However, only Felix came to greet us. That put me on immediate alert. I know how well Scatman likes his vittles. His absence affected my pulse.

I called for him continually as I unloaded the car. I checked his favorite haunts -- under the neighbor's pines, in our garage, under the house, the back yard; we spoke with the neighbors, and stopped short of putting up a Lost Cat poster. He was gone, not lost. That was that. Our minds drifted over ugly, horrible images. We didn't know whether to hope he was dead or alive.

Every nasty thing that cat ever did to me became suddenly loveable. At dawn, if he caught us sleeping, he would lie on my chest and tug on my lower lip with his paw, claws out slightly. Or he would walk across our pillows, dragging his sagging belly over my forehead. He would walk on my keyboard, or sit on it. I have a few of his poems.

Felix, missing her snuggle buddy, adopted me. She'd sit up close to me, look at me, and meow, as if to say, "Where is my fat, cuddly son? You must know where he is. You are human."

I apologized to her profusely. We held each other and rocked and wondered where her son might be. Felix washed my beard, several times. We watched TV together. We let her sleep on the bed.

Each morning, at feeding time, I would open the front door, always expecting Scatman to be there. He never was. Susan and I grew quiet about his disappearance. A small callus formed over the hurt, and we tarried on. One cat in the yard.

This Monday morning, sipping coffee while propped up in bed with my wife, while Felix napped quietly at our feet, I said, "Honey, I feel good. School ends this week. It has been a good year. I'm happy. Except for Scatman disappearing, all is right with the world."

We played some Harry Belafonte from my MP3 music collection -- "Jump in the Line."

And then it happened. Susan had already left for school. I fed Felix her half can of cat food on the front porch. I stored the other half in the refrigerator -- a new step in my morning routine. I took my briefcase out to my van, as always. I set it down to dig for my keys.

I heard a meow. I'm deaf as a stump in one ear and have tinnitus in the other, but I heard a meow. It wasn't Felix. She was eating. It came from the neighbor's house. "Scattie?" I called. "Meow." "Scattie?" Meow."

I ran down the bank. I stuck my nose in the draft vent under the floor boards. "Scattie?" "Meow." I turned, and he was standing beside me, limping.

My God, he was alive! Alive. I couldn't believe it. A shudder of pure euphoria swept over me. I sat there in the dirt, in dress pants and tie, and hugged my cat, who was alive.

Somehow he had dislocated his hip. He apparently crawled off to heal or die somewhere. I don't know what brought him out of hiding. Perhaps it was the smell of the Friskies. It was "Bits O Beef," his favorite.

Tonight, our house is a very, very, very fine house.