As I am ending the fourth day of a relentless search for my lost cat, Ricky, I am compelled to come to the conclusion that the quirky cat I grew to love so dearly has probably succumbed to the streets of New York City. As a declawed house-cat (trust me, it was not my choice to declaw him), he probably couldn’t even catch a pathetic baby rat on the outskirts of Riverside Park. The thought of my eccentric pet, the pet that bit your elbow if you bent it a certain way, suddenly having to fend for himself, is devastating and outright calamitous. To cope, I have accepted the thought that he is ultimately in a better place, perhaps a place where he can freely knock things off desks without getting yelled at.
I have had to put down a few pets; some due to old age, some because of sickness. No matter the cause, it’s probably the most traumatizing and saddening occasion that a human goes through, especially if they are codependent with their pets (like I am).
This is different, though. In the past, we sensed our animals were sick and prepared ourselves for the euthanasia. We never prepared ourselves for a missing cat, who was otherwise extremely healthy and energetic.
After constantly breaking down into tears, my mom received a text from a random number. They exclaimed that they may have found our cat, and sent pictures to prove it. The pictures proved to look exactly like Ricky, which triggered an emotional response from all of us. Was this really our cat? How did he make it from the Upper West Side to the West Village? Are we sure it’s him?
We hopped in a cab to the West Village, and got out at a restaurant alleyway. It wasn’t Ricky. I felt defeated, hurt, and confused. If this wasn’t Ricky, where was he? However, being the softy that I am, I made my mom take this poor stray with us back home. The cat seemed pretty freaked out, yet possessed a calmness that let us pet it and carry it all the way back uptown.
I imagined the pain and suffering that the owner of this cat was going through. Or were they? What if they purposefully let this cat go? Regardless, we posted ads about this new cat we found, hoping someone would claim it. No one did.
No one found Ricky, either. This begs me to ask the question: “does everything happen for a reason?” If we hadn’t lost Ricky, we would not have found this adorable new cat.
This new cat, who I named Charlie, is adorable and very good-natured. I felt as though something karmic forced me to rescue him. Although I don’t have my neurotic Ricky back, I’m happy I could save this cat from the streets and alleys of New York City.
Although the death of a pet is traumatic, it’s important to look at the bigger scope. In the moment, it’s hard to believe that everything happens for a reason. What the fuck would the reasoning be for a dead/missing cat? But, I digress. Everything does happen for a reason.
