Speaking Cat

“Dad, have you seen Boots?”

Boots is our cat, a tuxedo with a white dot on her right shoulder. We hadn’t intended to own a feline, but there are reams of advice on pets for children with Autism Spectrum Disorder, and virtually all of them support the idea.

But that’s only part of the reason. We live next to a wooded area, and wild little denizens of the forest often think they’d like to make the transition to civilization. When my bishop’s wife offered a cat, I jumped at the chance.

James griped at being her caretaker, but it was all worthwhile. The rodents disappeared.

Now, Boots was missing. We’d kept her in the house for her own safety, but she always tried to sneak out. This day, our vigilance failed.

Even though we had to nag him to care for Boots, James was beside himself. I walked for what seemed like miles, calling and searching for this little cat, but without luck.

“Dad, what are we going to do?” James was at the point of tears and called for her repeatedly.

By the morning of the second day, I was desperate. I did some research and found a call that mother cats made, looking for their kittens. It wasn’t quite a meow, but a short noise that sounded like more like ‘rrr-ow,’ pronounced far back in the throat. I made a circuit of the house again, making this ridiculous noise. Back on the front porch, I scanned the area. No cat. I sighed and turned to go back in, but a movement caught my eye. Boots trotted up the drive and returned my call. I took her inside for a joyful reunion with my son.

“Boots! You’re back! How’d you do it, Dad?”

“Easy. I learned to speak cat.”

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family (and their cat).