Changing the Litter Box

The Saturday right after Thanksgiving, our male cat, Nate, shot out our garage door and into the night. Dallas and I shrugged and decided not to give chase since the temperature was dropping and our cat always came home when he got cold enough.

Except this time.

Sunday, I left for Denver on a business trip and there was no sign of Nate. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my belly. Driving out to the airport, there was a grey tabby laying by the side of the road. I turned the car around and went back for a second look. I was unaware that I was holding my breath until I let it out in one big, wet, exhale upon the realization that the dead animal was not Nate.

It took the kids about three days to notice that our boy was gone and they were understandably upset. I was heartbroken, convinced that Nate had met with something either bigger, faster or hungrier. The weather had been uncharacteristically harsh and I felt that there was no way a domesticated cat would be able to survive. Dallas and I both began taking different routes through the neighbourhood in an effort to spot him. We went for short walks equipped with cat food and a flash light. I stepped out on to our front walk every night for a week and called him. After ten days, I gave up.

Dylan, on the other hand, was convinced that he had eyeballed Nate with another cat. He claimed to have seen him a few streets over in the yard of an empty house but by the time we got over there to have a look one night, there was no sign of either cat. Strangely enough though, the house that Dylan led us to was an exact replica of ours. I felt the smallest tingle of hope which trickled away with each passing day.

I began to think about visiting our local humane society to pick out a new kitten. Dallas, however, vehemently disagreed. "We'll have three cats when Nate comes home", he said in the beginning and then as time passed, "I'm not ready".

In my entire life, I have only ever been attached to one other pet. When I was eight, my parents came home with a miniature schnauzer we named Nicky. She was the runt of the litter, lucky to be alive and I loved that animal more than my sister, Shaun Cassidy and Laura Secord chocolate. When my parents divorced, my mum took Nicky down to New Brunswick to live on the farm with my grandparents. Nearly ten years later, when I was in college and hadn't laid eyes on Nicky in years, I sobbed upon hearing that she had died.

So late last week, while in the throes of PMS irrationality, I walked into the laundry room to find that the litter box needed to be changed. This is Dallas's job, not mine. I have a well developed gag reflex and I simply cannot manage to change the waste receptacle at the end of the AUTOMATIC litter box. Yes, you read that correctly and if you have cats this could possibly be the best thing to happen to you. EVER. Anyway, I had mentioned the smelly situation to Dallas the night before and again this night but it had slipped his mind and he was comfortably in bed. Irritated because I cook and I clean and I launder and I grocery shop and I work and I whine, whine, whine, I was apoplectic that to add insult to injury, I WAS GOING TO HAVE TO CHANGE THE BLASTED LITTER BOX!!

Furious, I put on a pair of latex gloves, grabbed a few Wal-Mart bags and began dry heaving. After double bagging the used receptacle, I banged open the garage door, walked to the side of the house and threw the contents into the bin. I stomped back through the garage closing the overhead and into the house, slamming the door behind me. I sighed noisily as I picked up dirty clothes and threw them into the laundry basket. I heard our female cat meowing over and over again like a bloody lamb bleating, wanting to get into the other bathroom where manchild was having a shower. "Jesus", I thought, "She is so freaking needy". Maddeningly, the meowing continued. I wrenched open our bedroom door, intending to do God-knows-what about the noise when I realized the sounds were coming from the garage. I opened the door and Nate flew inside and ran directly for his food bowl in the kitchen.

"NATE!!!"

Dallas got out of bed and we both made our way into the kitchen. We cracked open a can of wet food and watched as he gulped it down. He was scary thin, somewhat ragged and the tip of his tail was sore but our boy was ALIVE.

This week, he has eaten like a horse and slept like a newborn. His personality has either changed or he isn't fully recovered. He has taken to sleeping on our bed, which he never used to do and he is a much more affectionate cat. I cannot express how happy I am that he found his way home.