Penelope's Missing

This is what I'm accustomed to seeing when I look out the windows of the french doors onto the back deck.

That's Penelope, fast asleep on the doormat, blissfully oblivious to the world and totally content in his fluffy cat dreams.

He greets me every morning on hind legs, his front paws outstretched towards the door knob as I sleepily shuffle out in my pajamas to load up his food bowl, usually plundered overnight by the neighborhood opossum. Meowing feverishly, he weaves back and forth just out of my reach, kneading his paws up and down on the deck like he's ardently marching for joy. Eventually he'll rub against my ankles, and that's my cue that it's okay to reach down and pet him. Petting elicits immediate purring and more marching.

As I turn to walk back inside, he anticipates my path and runs to place himself between me and the door, meeting my gaze and meowing urgently. He tries to slip inside as I open the door, and I have to shoo him back out. Then he sits at the door, his face perfectly framed by the glass pane, and stares adoringly at me as I go about my morning routine. After a while he'll wander back to his food dish, then over to the water bowl, then over to a corner of the deck for his daily grooming, and finally back to the doormat to take up his devoted vigil.

From my home office I can watch him throughout the day. Napping is a serious endeavor. Sometimes he's curled tightly in a ball, nose tucked under tail. Other times he's sprawled on his back, legs in the air, paws slightly curled, his soft belly soaking up the afternoon sun. Sometimes his napping positions are so strange and his slumber so deep that I'll leap from my desk and rush outside to make sure he's not dead.

The fact that this feral cat who's spent his entire life on the streets of a somewhat rough in-town neighborhood is comfortable enough with me to let himself sleep like that on my deck makes me feel so special it's almost embarrassing. Earning the trust and adoration of this creature means more to me than a good number of my relationships with humans.

And now Penelope is gone. He hasn't greeted me at the door for the past two mornings. He hasn't shown up for food during the day. His post at the doormat sits empty, the glass pane of the back door framing nothing more than errant leaves and potted plants.

My greatest hope is that someone else has been charmed by him and given him a permanent loving home. My next greatest hope is that someone else in the neighborhood is feeding him. My greatest fear is that he's been hurt and is lying somewhere cold and damp, shivering and alone in his pain. My next greatest fear is that he's dead.

I accept that the lifespan of an urban feral cat is usually fairly short, fraught with peril, and void of security. My boyfriend and I manage a colony of feral cats. We've had them spayed and neutered, vaccinated, and we provide them food, water, and shelter from the elements. We enjoy seeing them around the yard and get a kick out of their antics. We've even named them.

But somehow there's not the connection with them that I feel with Penelope. When Penelope first showed up on our doorstep, he was limping terribly and was ghastly skinny. In this state of utter vulnerability, he presented himself to me, put his life and well-being in my hands, and the bond was forged.

I can accept him moving on to another loving person. I can even accept him being dead. But, what's killing me is the not knowing. I hope I get to see him again.