My Teenage cat child, Bok Choy, is still missing.
I don’t know what to think. Had she been a sensible teenager, who never ran off with 40 year olds, or got pregnant at one year of age; I may have raised the alarm earlier.
But miss Ungrateful Choy has had patchy attendance in the family unit this past year, and 4 week stints gone AWOL are no rare occurrence. So it is hard to presume she is dead and move on in this instance.
I am positive she is with another human. That she’s been promising him for weeks that she’ll finally leave her family to live with him. The other human thought she would never actually go through with the emancipation. Neither did I. She could have at least told me.
But there are other, far more sinister, options out there. It is possible that the ‘other human’ knew that she would never leave her family for good. That the bonds of adoption through the ‘Trade and Exchange’ magazine are thicker than the promise of higher quality cat food. That she would never really burn that bridge, and become a one-human cat.
It is possible that knowing this, the ‘other human’ has fashioned a cat sized dungeon in the bowels of their home, and that ‘Emancipated Choy’, is in fact, ‘Captive Choy’, or even ‘Consitently Raped Choy’.
The thought of this is very upsetting to me. Mainly because I was planning on doing this myself, to cause the ‘other human’ the same kind of confusion and lack of closure I am currently experiencing. If I can’t have her, no one should!
I am tempted to find this person. I have been through the cat’s credit card statements, and there has been surprisingly little activity. She is obviously not buying food.
I am tempted to out this cat-stealing-asshole by sending a flyer throughout the neighbourhood, telling of the disappearance and subsequent rape of my son’s little sister. I might even shave my son’s head, hook him to a drip and photograph him crying to up the stakes a bit. Maybe he needs a kidney, and the cat is the only compatible donor. Yeah.
There are two things stopping me here. One is my laziness. The other is my lack of a printer.
Of course, there is always the option that she was hit by a car, and for the past 4 weeks she has been loyally clawing her way back home with her front two legs, as her back legs are paralysed and dragging lifelessly behind. That she is surviving by eating moths and bird poo, but nothing can break her spirit and will to reunite with her real family.
This could be awkward, as we have moved on embarrassingly quickly as a family, and replaced the vacuum she left with Johnny Cash, the lop eared bunny. I can only imagine the hurt in her eyes, and the shattered image of our family she held in the forefront of her mind to inspire her back from the brink of death. The stilted integration of the paraplegic cat back into our hearts, as Johnny Cash, athletic and nimble leaps onto her favourite spot on the couch and dares her to stop him with his molten chocolate eyes.
I don’t know what future I am hoping for, for the cat. Her captor has probably committed suicide and she is living off his decomposing flesh, while experiencing symptoms of Stockholm Syndrome and planning the release of her ‘tell all’ autobiography and TV chat show.
Or maybe some old lady down the road has flasher cat food.