It Wasn't Just About the Cat

My heart is doing that thing again—fizzing and jolting like someone shook a soda can in my rib cage–and I’m trying to figure out if it’s hormones, anxiety, or the universe sending me a glitch report. No hot flashes. No real warning. Just the unnerving reminder that I am no longer in charge of my own operating system.

Meanwhile, outside, one of the ferals went MIA.

I should pause here and explain that I live with five cats. Two are sweet and affectionate. One is gloriously indifferent. And the remaining two—ferals I rescued off the street—exist solely to side-eye me warily and bolt like I’m brandishing a chainsaw every time I get too close. All five live strictly indoors, but they have access to a secure catio—a fully enclosed outdoor space that lets them sunbathe, sniff, and judge me from the outside in.

Gladys, the smallest one was the escapee. Our relationship is such that she accepts food, ignores my friendship, and never lets me forget she once lived by claw and hiss. 

Last week, in the dead of night, she unexpectedly bolted through the catio screen, chasing a friendly neighborhood cat so aggressively that the only thing it left behind was a trail of urine. 

I nearly panicked. Heart racing, chest vibrating, collagen retreating deeper into the abyss of my midlife decline, I was already rewriting the ending in my head.

This was new. None of my rescued chaos goblins had ever left. They hide, they glare, they take over the living room—but they don’t leave. I expect wild things to stay wild, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t glued to the outdoor security camera, waiting. 

My palpitations kicked up to triple time. I worried it would become a cardiac event. I tried to act normal, but the remaining four cats peered out into the yard where she’d disappeared and looked concerned. Rue followed me around like she was preparing to inherit something.

Gladys had never let me get close, but her absence took up space anyway. I told myself she wasn’t mine to keep. That it’s always a gamble with ferals. But the truth is, she’s part of the family just like everyone else.

I waited. I watched. I braced for the silence to stretch into something permanent. And then—an hour later—she returned.

Just like that. She meowed at the door. I rushed to open it. She strolled through. Eyes sharp. Tail high. As if she hadn’t caused an entire emotional spiral and minor crime scene.

It shouldn’t have felt like victory. It shouldn’t have mattered so much. But it did.

In a week when my body seemed to be breaking up with me one system at a time—shedding hair, moisture, and dignity as part of the exit strategy, Gladys returning home felt like a cosmic nod. Like the universe reminding me that not everything that runs away stays gone.

Sometimes things do come back. Sometimes your presence isn’t the burden you imagined. Sometimes they find their way to you again—whether they’re cats, or calm, or pieces of yourself you thought you’d lost to age and time.

She’s asleep now. Curled up in a sunbeam like she never left.

My heart’s still fluttering, but it’s quieter.

And for today… that’s enough.