I am writing this entry several weeks later. On Wednesday, Gregg took Frankie over to my parents' house. We had made sure that he had on a little black and white collar with his rabies tag (which gives the name and phone number of the West Alabama Animal Clinic) securely attached to it before he left the vet's. Frankie hid in the garage, but they coaxed him out for a meal and some attention. I stopped by after work and again we coaxed him out for food and petting. After finishing his meal, he wandered into some bushes near the fence in the backyard. Since he didn't seem to want to reemerge, I decided to go home and call mom in the morning to make sure he had shown up for breakfast.
When I called my mom in the morning, Frankie had not shown up yet. I wasn't terribly worried, because Scaredy Cat often wanders off for long periods of time, always returning for a meal eventually. By 5:00, when he still hadn't shown up, I started worrying. I went over to my parents' house and searched every nook and cranny of the garage, and walked around the block several times, calling for Frankie. By the time I gave up and went home, I was frantic. I started thinking about the stitches in his eye that needed to come out, and the wire in his jaw, and how he would be able to eat out on the streets with it. Gregg and I were both terribly upset and got into a fight. I walked around my neighborhood, thinking that Frankie might have made his way back to his old home, crying and calling his name. Nobody got a lot of sleep that night, and Gregg and I were both sorry we had gotten involved with trying to help cats.
When I woke up the next morning, I caught a quick glimpse of Frank Sinatra, Frankie's namesake, on the news. In the car on my way over to search my parents' block again, I heard on the radio that Sinatra had died. It seemed like a bad sign. My mom thought so, too, although my dad said we were being superstitious.
Over the days that followed, I made numerous trips over to my parents' neighborhood, particularly in the early morning and twilight hours, walking through the streets looking for a sign of Frankie. Gregg and I made made one particularly lengthy search for him, stopping everyone who was out working in their yard or walking their dog, and telling them to be on the lookout for a little black and white cat with one eye, wearing a bandana and a rabies tag. If they saw him, we asked them to call the number on his tag. No one had seen him. One boy mentioned that a lot of cats congregated in the parking lot where a drugstore used to be, and we swung by there several times, but never saw a cat. My mom drove through the neighborhood looking for him, too. We saw many happy, well-fed cats lounging on their front steps, including one tuxedo cat who looked heartbreakingly like Frankie, but no sign of our boy.
As the days passed, our tactics grew more serious. I found a great web page created by the Pet Action League which had tips for looking for a lost cat, and adopted many of them. I filed reports at the Houston SPCA, the Humane Society of Houston, and Animal Control. I drove out to the SPCA and Animal Control and searched the cages myself. I made two sets of signs, one in English and one in Spanish, with a photocopied and rather poor picture of Frankie on it and a description of him. I took signs to area vets, pet stores, and grocery stores. I handed signs to the neighborhood security patrol in my parents' neighborhood, and the mailwoman. I gave more signs to dogwalkers, and handed them to the other tenants in my fourplex. After a three day interval, Gregg called the humane societies and animal control, and went down to the SPCA again looking for Frankie.
By the start of the second weekend, we had lost most of our hope of finding him again. Gregg and I felt awful that we had made such a terrible mistake in putting him in an outdoor home despite our concerns. Frankie had been gone for nine days.
Driving to my allergist's that day, I still couldn't resist detouring through my parents' neighborhood in case I might catch a glimpse of Frankie. At the allergist's, I read a People magazine article about Sinatra. It described him as having "tough-guy glamour." That's what little Frankie had, I thought sadly.
When I walked in the door of my apartment, the phone was ringing. It was my mom. "Someone's found Frankie!" she said. About five blocks north of their house, and one block west, a woman had picked up Frankie, and called the number on his tag. My heart was singing. I couldn't believe that after all this time, he was safe and sound. I called Gregg to give him the good news, and rushed over to meet my mom at the West Alabama Animal Clinic.
The vet tech told us that he was doing fine, and continued to help another customer. I couldn't wait any longer, and asked if we could see him. They brought Frankie out and sat him on the counter. He trotted over to me and began rubbing his head and cheeks against my hand in pleasure. His bandana was gone, he looked thinner, and his toes were a little dirty, but otherwise he seemed no worse for the wear. We decided to take him back to Gregg's and my apartment until we could find him a permanent indoor home, despite my allergies and our no-pets lease. As Gregg would tell him that evening, "You've spent your last day outside, Frankie."
RESCUE . . .