Bringing BooBoo home

I walked to our back door April 27, parted the curtains in the window, and as I peered out into our driveway, I burst into tears.

I made my way into the living room, and fell into Danny's arms, sobbing, "I don't want my BooBoo Kitty to be dead!"

"Neither do I," he replied, choking back his own tears.

BooBoo had followed his usual routine Tuesday morning of that week, coming in to check on us, getting a couple of nibbles out of his dinner dish, a lap or two of water, then politely asking to be excused, returning to the great outdoors. We fully expected to hear him within the hour, at the front door this time, as was his habit.

We never saw him again. We looked high. We looked low. We looked along the streets and alleys near our house. With hearts trembling with trepidation, we looked under things, afraid to find him -- afraid we wouldn't find him. He was gone, without a trace.

BooBoo Kitty was not sociable. He was a Walmart box kitty, meaning someone was outside of Walmart in April of 2003 with a box full of kittens. It was love at first sight. He lived with us, and just us, for his entire nine years of life. We were his people, and he had little concern for others like us, preferring to stay hidden until company departed.

He disappeared in the hours before sunrise, so we didn't think it likely that he got trapped in someone's shed or garage. Even if he had, during these lovely spring days and mild nights, he wouldn't have been shut in for long.

It wasn't until he wasn't there anymore that we realized how fully he had always been there. Part of every morning conversation, we would ask him how his night had been while we gave him a good rubdown. After his second trek out, he'd settle in for the day, usually finding a spot near Danny. Rested and refreshed, he spent his afternoons chasing the sun as it moved from window to window. After supper each night, he would decide if it was an in night or an out night, usually dependent upon whether or not I had a treat for him. Once the season changed, he always made the same choice. Out.

We surmise that he became prey to some predator and the predator won.

He was the best cat ever. And we decided long ago, he would be our last cat. Still, it will be a long time before I drag out the couch quilt and nap while watching television. BooBoo loved that quilt and he would share his warmth for as long as I laid there.

I wrote the preceding on May 1, my heart full of mourning for my beautiful, gray BooBoo Kitty. As the days, and then weeks, went by without a sign of BooBoo, Danny and I slowly removed all traces of our cat. After all, you have to dust and vacuum eventually. It was weeks before I got a good night's sleep, keeping one ear tuned in case BooBoo returned. Every night, as is my custom, I would look out the window in the back door, pulling the curtain closed as I turned the lock, hoping for a glimpse of beautiful gray. And every night, I would sigh inside, still missing him.

Early last Thursday morning, our routine was following its predictable course. Danny was at the kitchen sink ready to tackle the dinner dishes from the night before. I was in the office, coffee cup in hand. We both heard the plaintive meow. Danny was sure it was on the television. I froze in my seat. Then it came again. Danny was already out the door, calling for BooBoo. I followed and flew down the porch steps, my eyes sweeping back and forth.

At first glance I thought, "This isn't my kitty. Whose kitty is it?" As soon as I completed that thought I reached out my hands and picked up our very own BooBoo Kitty, terribly thin, weak and thirsty. He immediately began to purr as we hurried him into the house. I filled a bowl with water and began tearing through the pantry cupboard, certain that I had a can of turkey in there somewhere. I didn't find that, but I did find a can of Spam and immediately opened it and put just a smidgeon of it on a plate. It was gone in a flash.

I tried to throw some clothes on in a hurry, knowing I needed to get to Walmart for new pet supplies, but I kept coming back into the kitchen to touch Boo to see if he was really real; really there. Danny was carefully portioning out tiny bites of food.

Without bothering with a comb or a toothbrush, I headed out to the store, adrenaline rushing through me. All the way to the store, I kept saying, "thank you, thank you, thank you," the mantra occasionally broken by repeated outbursts like "I can't believe he's home!" or "I can't believe he's alive!" It was only 4:30 in the morning, so there wasn't any traffic and the signal lights were flashing yellow all through town. The temptation to speed was strong, but I kept my foot light, knowing that if I got pulled over, it would only delay my return.

The store stockers were just exiting as I was entering and I couldn't contain my joy for another moment. I told them the story in broken sentences, walking backward toward the pet department. I had to keep moving. BooBoo was home, waiting for his food.

The checkout clerk was the next one to hear the good news and I fairly danced into work that morning, announcing to everyone I saw that BooBoo had come home.

We don't know how he endured 23 days of what must have been solitary confinement, there wasn't a mark on him. All we knew was that he had come home.

Since his return, BooBoo has steadily improved. Other than the obvious weight loss, the only difference in his behavior is his attachment to his people. He stays close by throughout the day and is waiting patiently outside the bedroom door when we emerge each morning.

On the other hand, our behavior is slow to return to normal. I'm sleeping with one ear tuned to BooBoo's frequency -- just in case. He still occasionally wakes with a start and the plaintive meow is back until he realizes he's safe and sound, his world restored. Danny doesn't even take time to wipe the sleep from his eyes before getting BooBoo his breakfast and if I'm watching television, there's a beautiful gray mound of purring fur on my lap. We're eating supper a little later each evening because I hate to disturb BooBoo just so we can eat.

Boo's return has also expanded our definition of the word "restoration" and underscored our understanding of what hope really is. It is so much more than long-lost cats coming home; every new day holds forth the one ingredient that proves God is. Hope. Hope knows that something is -- in spite of all evidence to the contrary -- possible.

Welcome home BooBoo Kitty. You've taught us that waiting at the gate, peering down the empty lane that one day everything will be restored.

"Jesus looked at them and said, 'With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.'" Matthew 19:26 (NIV)

I don't have all the answers, but I know the One who does. Let's walk together for awhile and discover Him together.

Dawn