32 Hours Outside

My kitten, who is no longer a kitten but is still my kitten, did not fare well at first in our move. Aaron and I put the three cats in the basement at his condo while the movers took the furniture out of the first and second floors. They were nearly done and ready to move onto the basement when Aaron opened the basement door and Rococo bolted. She came tearing into the living room, but everything was gone. She then tried to go upstairs, but the movers were carrying down a dresser. She didn't try to go out the open front door, but started freaking out and tearing around the living room.

We tried to catch her, but that wasn't the best idea, clearly. Even more agitated, Rococo ran full speed for the back door, which was open to the screen door. She realized the screen was closed and jumped about four feet off the ground, hitting the door and knocking it clear off its track. The door popped forward and hit the railing, with Coco riding it the whole way down. She hit the screen with all four feet, bounced off of it, and ran around the house and out of sight.

This was at 12:15 pm. We'd been up since 4:15 am. The movers were at the house since 9:30 am and the end was nowhere in sight. We had the walkthrough for the new house at 12:45 and the closing at 1:30. A search party was mobilized and we searched for the cat until it was time to go to the walkthrough and closing.

I went back and searched a few times, gave all the neighbors my contact info and described Rococo. I had no faith that she'd return, and cried bitterly the entire way to the closing. And a few times on Saturday. I had planned everything so carefully to coordinate every detail so no issues would arise during what was a very full and hectic day. And here was the one thing I couldn't have accounted for, and the one thing I wanted to fix more than anything. And I couldn't.

The good thing about living around a bunch of older single women with cats is that they empathized. I was really touched by their willingness to help. And sure enough, when Rococo emerged at 8 pm the next night, being stalked of course by three big feral cats who hang out around the condo, Barbara called me and we came to get Rococo back.

However, getting her back wasn't easy. It took almost 45 minutes and a few deep painful scratches to finally catch her and get Rococo into her carrier. Aaron and I both were covered in dirt from trying to coax the cat out from under a porch and blood ran down my arm, but we got her back. What I didn't realize until the next day is that Rococo had badly cut the paw pads on her two front feet. That explained not only why she was so ginger on her feet, but also why she fought me so hard when I tried to hold her.

Fortunately, Rococo's feet are healing. She's no longer limping and other than managing to pick up fleas (for which we had to treat the other two cats) she seems fine. In fact, strangely, it seems like Rococo's misadventure has helped. She is so happy to be home, and the cats aren't fighting anymore like they were.

The best part is that although I unfairly blamed him for even opening the damned basement door in the first place, Aaron totally pulled through for me. We worked together to deal with an upsetting situation on a difficult day. And it worked out. Good practice, I guess.