Ode To Mittens

       My cat is missing.  She has been gone now for quite some time, but I still find myself calling her name at the back door before bed each night.  I still catch my son walking to the shed after school each afternoon to check if any of her food has been eaten.  It seems silly maybe, to care so much about a missing cat when there's so much hatred and foul play in the world.  But I can't help it, she was mine.  A neighbor of mine found her as a small kitten wandering the woods behind their house.  She was no more than two pounds, her white and calico fur matted to her tiny body, her tail crooked halfway down from a break that healed incorrectly.  My neighbor brought her to me because she feared that her dogs would kill the poor little thing before she'd had a chance to grow into the cat that she was to become.  My son took to her instantly, carrying her around the house like a baby.  He fashioned a tiny bed for the kitten using his stuffed dog's toy bed and a blanket, and pushed it up against his own bed where he could reach his slight hand down at night and feel her warm fur.  Much to my amusement, he named the miniature cat Mittens, even though all of her legs and paws were white, much like she was NOT wearing mittens.  She slept in his room for the first few weeks, never having to use her own legs because he would carry her up and down the stairs to bed.  He fed her, played with her, and snuggled into her thick fur like she was his best friend in the whole world.  And she loved him too, playfully chasing his heels while he got ready for school and sharing his pillow when she tired of her own bed.  One early morning my son came running into my bedroom, panting and frantic, terror-filled tears dropping down his normally serene cheeks.  When I calmed him enough to make out his words I discovered that the kittens tail had fallen off at the point where it had been broken before.  A laugh suddenly burst from my chest at the thought of my dear son thinking that he had pulled his cats tail off.  I explained to my puppy-eyed boy that her tail would have fallen off anyways and that he had done nothing wrong.  He seemed to feel better, but I noticed that he moved her bed a little closer to the closet that night.  After a few surgeries on her tail she was as good as new, and she became quite bobcat-like as she aged.  Her belly and hips rounded out, her nails grew long and sharp, and her piercing green eyes seemed wise and knowing.  Three months ago I could count seven cats that happily chose us to care for them and give them homes.  Mittens was the only female, which worried me slightly at first, but I quickly noticed how the male cats seemed to take a wide berth to avoid her.  She had grown to be the sassiest and strongest cat in the yard.  A slap to the face was an expected occurrence for any poor male who got a little too close to Mittens' perfectly groomed coat.  She didn't worry herself with people very often, ignoring me when I called for her and coyly walking away with a sway of her nubbed tail.  But when my son bellowed for her she would react like a little kitten again.  I could see her cheeky facade drop away as she mewed to him and raced to reach her food bowl before he could get there to fill it.  Yes, Mittens was more than a cat.  She was a family member, a friend, a being with feelings and a soul, a memory.  The last time I remember seeing her was on a Thursday night.  I came into the kitchen after laying the baby down and looked through the window while I rinsed out his bottle.  Mittens was sitting primly, with her front paws perfectly together, beneath a beam of moonlight.  She seemed to be staring straight at me from across the yard.  I immediately felt a stabbing pain of sadness.  I was unsure of why, maybe I felt guilty that I did not invite her inside so late at night, or maybe something inside me knew that would be the last time I would ever look upon her sapient face.  I turned my gaze away from her ghostly form and continued with my nighttime routine, pushing her image from my brain.  By morning she was gone.  I have searched the woods behind the house, calling her name for hours and even braving the neighbors to ask if they'd seen her.  I still half expect to find her sleeping beneath a bush somewhere, ignoring my call like usual.  But the haunting fear that I could stumble upon her hurt or dead little body keeps me searching invariably and disturbs my sleep at night.  I need to know she's safe somewhere, not in pain or afraid.  Maybe this is the way of the world, but I can't help but feel that a part of my family is missing.  Mittens, I will keep vigil for your return, or await the day when I will meet your bodiless soul in the meadow where we will cross the Rainbow Bridge together.
Who are you missing?

"Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened."
- Anatole France