Cat AWOLin’

Patchouli is gone. The little stinker has slipped his harness and is somewhere out in the Kentucky cornfields at the south edge of the Cave Country Campground.

I knew it the moment it happened—a big bus of a motorhome crunched past on gravel, a jerk came from the steps where Patchouli was tethered, and I got outside just in time to find his lead and harness lying flat, long, and empty on the grass, a red nylon compass pointing due south to where my frightened buddy had high-tailed it to the protection of tall grass and corn.

Two months ago, I would have freaked out. Somehow I remain calm. He’s been an indoor/outdoor cat, I remind myself. People have lost their felines at RV parks before, and they usually show up again, sometimes days later. He likes to explore, and has always been good about finding his way home by nightfall.

“OK,” I breathe. “It’s Sunday morning. I’m not due to leave until tomorrow. I can change my reservations for the next stop. I’ll stay here all week if I need to.”

I’m still worried, of course, especially that he’ll meet up with something a lot scarier than a moving RV—something big and hairy and full of hungry teeth. I alert others at the park to watch for him, showing pictures, describing what happened. All are sympathetic, but none had seen him charge off, so I really don’t know where he could be in that vast expanse of corn and grass and woods beyond the campground.

I park my hands on my hips and mutter into the corn. “Patchouli, you’d better have a really good story about your adventures out there!”

I try to busy myself in the trailer, but I can’t focus much. I go out every five minutes, walking the edge of the cornfield, crawling through shoulder-high grass, calling and shaking his container of favorite yummies.

This goes on for about an hour. My next door neighbors, meanwhile, button up their motorhome to leave, actions that I know will only keep Patchouli away from the area. Shortly after they pull out, someone knocks on my door.

It’s the lady of the pair, a little breathless from jogging from their RV, which has stopped on a road in the park. “We just saw your cat!” she says. “He’s running in the driveway, between the office and the laundry room!”

“Oh, thanks so much!” I charge to the north end of the buildings, hoping Patchouli hasn’t bee-lined it for the acres of cornfields beyond that side of the park. A guy in a golf cart is coming around the south end of the same drive, probably trying to stop Patchouli from retracing his steps, but something like a golf cart rolling on gravel is only going to make things worse. Another guy sits on the laundry room porch with a yappy dog. Great, another thing to scare my cat.

I wave down the man with the dog. “Did a brown cat just run through here?”

“Haven’t seen him.”

How could you have not seen him, I want to scream. He would have passed right in front of you! I turn back to the north end of the drive, hoping Patchouli has ducked into the cover of the flower beds nearby.

“Over here!” The lady who first spotted him is calling from her rig, pointing to somewhere beyond the buildings, the direction I’ve just come from my trailer. “He’s over there, behind the house!”

I backtrack and spot him. Patchouli has slipped through the garden. He crouches in the grass, wide-eyed and panting. I stop my run, flooded with relief, calling his name. But I’ve already startled him, and there’s no recognition for me or my voice. He bolts.

I trot after him, yelling, “Patchouli, stop!” (Hey, it’s worked before.) No good. He speeds off like a cougar chased by fire. Straight back into the corn.

Keeping my eyes on his point of entry, I find him in the fourth row from the edge. I’m worried he’ll bolt again, so I sit down outside the corn and talk to him. He’s meowing, eyes dilated, mouth panting, flopped on his side as if standing takes too much effort. He won’t come, but doesn’t seem ready to flee again.

I creep into the first row of corn—no easy feat through closely planted stalks. To my relief, he gets up and comes to me. I carry him back to the trailer, where he keeps meowing, breathing hard, heart racing. One stressed out cat. So much for a grand day out.

I stroke his ears for ten minutes, and he calms down a bit. He keeps biting at his shoulders, though, and won’t let me touch the area. He paces between me and the bedroom, but runs away when I try to examine him. I’m worried that he tangled with something nasty, and has been bitten or punctured. He abscesses easily.

I keep an eye on him, considering whether to call a vet—it’s Sunday, so only emergency groups are open. He eats, poops, but won’t drink water. Oh, great, hydrophobic. I watch him closely for signs of rabies, which I no longer vaccinate against because of vaccine problems.

Finally he stops his fretting and self-biting. Drinks water. Curls up on the bed to sleep it off. He’s back to his usual self by late afternoon. I find no marks on him at all; perhaps the shoulder biting was from his microchip, which may have become bothersome because of dehydration.

This evening he has no interest in being anywhere near the outdoors, and I’m already thinking about how he’ll spend his outside time in the future. Under an even more watchful eye, to be sure.