The sound of a cat crying moves my mother like no other sound. Even more, the squeaks and infant meows of three tiny kittens crammed in a rusted-out propane tank, which, at the time, a few years back, merely came to my mother as distant cries in the woods. After finding them she was anxious to find they would be safe. It was winter. She made calls to friends and searched the internet for a plan. But the meows ceased.

A few days later, she called me, her voice rushed and woven with worry, calling me and my friend Jared to beneath the porch where the squeaks and meows called once again. “just pick them up, they can’t do anything to you!” she insisted. 

“Im trying!” I replied, my body crammed under the porch reaching out to retrieve the kittens, “They are scary!” Their frightened little bodies shook and hissed like angry snakes which granted them more respect when it came to reaching a hand towards them. Eventually we handed out all four from within the porch chambers.

Today, after all his other siblings found other homes, we have Benjamin, a handsome Tuxedo cat who likes to snuggle only on his terms and timeframe, rarely wants picked up but allows it, loves greenies, and might be the only cat I’ve ever loved. He would press his body between my shins in a figure eight pattern and then sprawl out as long as he could lay as I scratched his belly.

I like to think of him as a diplomatic kitty, versed in knowledge and understanding, which comes across in his clean-cut suit he wears daily, a lot like his namesake – the founding father, Benjamin Franklin.

I rarely see him nowadays but for the time while my mother was out of town and I began working on a bathroom renovation for her, Benjamin now relied on me for food and general comfort. 

The bathroom renovation is long overdue. Sitting straight on the toilet meant having two feet in the shower. So all business was done at 45 degrees. Every surface was old and dirty and a mold spot was growing from a leak in the shower. 

I essentially ripped everything out to the studs. 

On Saturday afternoon I woke from my post bike ride nap with a call. Her tone was demanding.

“Where is Benjamin?” 

“Uh I don’t know” 

“When did you last see him?” 

“Uhh..” I found it odd when I shook the Greenie jar last night he didn’t show — that’s his addiction. Shoot, could be Thursday… Wednesday? “I’m not entirely sure.”

I was planning to work on the bathroom after my nap but something about losing my mom’s cat, maybe the only cat I ever loved, put a shameful damper on productivity. I could rationalize that he likely escaped when I was taking in new materials and removing old. The door was propped open for a short time. My mom, as distraught as she was, understood. She gave Benjamin more responsibility, saying “It was his decision to run out the door and if he wants to come back, he will.”  

Sunday was stained with the terrible feeling that the good handsome boy was out in the wild. Maybe he got into a tussle with a racoon. Or maybe he needed to find himself down in the valley with all the cottage kitties of Mt. Gretna. However, mostly I worried he was scared out of his cat mind. And I was ashamed that I had let him be this way. 

Even the regenerative and hopeful feeling of completing a bathroom remodel diminished. Now, all the clean white subway tile with crisp black grout lines, white shiplap, and black hardware, while certainly attractive, could remind you less of a modern farmhouse aesthetic and draw your thoughts towards, well, a black and white tuxedo cat – memorializing Benjamin’s escape. 

We put out flyers Sunday afternoon. It was a sad time.

But later that evening I received a text from my mom. It was a picture of Benjamin sprawled out across the floor, probably wanting his belly scratched. I was filled with relief.

I like to think he saw his wanted signs and turned himself in. Or his finding-himself-adventure came to a halt after seeing he was wanted back home, where the Greenies are tastiest. Who knows. 

And now, the bathroom remodel can still have a tuxedo cat aesthetic – without the sadness.