Baxter was missing when I arrived home today. Margo greeted me at the door – Bax’s regular occupation. It was odd, but I really thought nothing of it until I noticed that no large grey tiger striped blob lounged on the sun-warmed wooden floor of the dining room, nor curled contentedly in the soft down blanket covered bed, nor was hidden safely behind his favorite WUC (world’s ugliest chair). An hour of searching and calling later and I knew my baby boy was NOT in the house where he belonged. Roommates claimed no knowledge of the disappearance. Liars, but there you have it. I canvassed the neighborhood, dread a white-hot ball of lead in the belly. I feared most of all a fly covered carcass, tossed aside by a cruel rubber tire. I asked the next door neighbors who play music too loudly at odd hours of the night if they’d seen a fat grey cat. I cringed to limit his description so, but Baxter IS big-bonedand grey, hard to miss. So easily missed, so longed for once missed. Hours passed and still I called. My path crossed those of my neighbors who had taken up teh rallying cry — the reward offered didn’t hurt. Finally, defeated, I returned home. Struck by inspiration and the realization that he couldn’t have possibly cleared the front fence, I went into the back yard — the domain of my basement dweling neighbors. And there I called, hope almost lost. And there I heard an answering yowl. A frustrated, hungry, BEAUTIFUL yowl. From under the house. THE HOUSE. Baxter’s nose peeked out from a crack in the foundation. I knew his voice and I knew his nose. My baby boy, trapped by brick and wood and mortor. I clawed at the crack, tore a chunk from the foundation and cleared the space for beloved whiskers to push through and brush my fingertips. But the foundation would not give enough, so I found a vent. Wood and wire ripped from cement. Baxter was mine again and fed a fine meal of tuna for his misadventure.
He rests on my lap as I type. Warm, loved, home.
