About a week after my last post, as I was leaving for a work week in New York, Caitlin started to become afraid of Prince Harry. He was so miserable that he would hiss, spit and swat at her even before she entered the aviary. He was not only NOT making progress, he was regressing in a scary way. The decision was made (tearfully) that he needed to be let go.
This was not at all what I planned, as evidenced by my “cat to-do list” that I carry around with me in my ubiquitous notebook. But ten days ago, after Caitlin told me she watched him fly out of the carrier and into the jungle of the ravine like a genie from a bottle, I sadly crossed off one important item.
I never thought for a second that Harry could not be turned; that he would rather take his chances in the ravine than stay any longer in the company of humans. But it just shows how A) cats have their own minds, and B) my own evaluations and plans often miss the mark. By miles.
Every day that I was gone, I would get a text from Caitlin, who kindly went by the ravine daily to check on Prince Harry. Nothing, she reported. No sightings. We were both in grief. Then after resuming my feeding duties yesterday, and calling my here-kitty-kittyies, I heard it: a plaintive meow that I recognized. I called louder, the meow got louder.
And then, there he was: handsome Prince Harry, curling his toes happily at the ground, rubbing comically up against the hedge, and begging for food.
His forehead is still a little pockmarked from his wounds, but he otherwise looked beautiful and healthy. He came within inches of my anxious fingers before spooking and pulling away. But he was sweet, and trusting, and goofy – the way I remembered him before his terrible fight.
And this morning, he was sitting on the sidewalk in the sun, waiting for me, establishing what I hope is a daily routine. As I watched him prance around, head-butt Margaret out of the way and gorge himself on the food, it struck me: Harry IS home now. He’s where he feels happy, comfortable and free. It’s not the home I’d planned on, but my wishes are not part of this equation.
It will be hard not to worry about him – he’s NOT a very expert stray. He’s very noisy, can be seen from a hundred yards away, and is too trusting. But I have to be okay with his choice, and let it go… let HIM go.
Saint Francis, watch over this sweet boy. And let him know the door isn’t closed. If he changes his mind, and wants a lap instead of a log to sleep on, I’m very happy to try again.