Page 126 of Love to Loathe Him

Nothing. Not a meow, not a purr, not even a judgmental flick of her tail. This isn’t good.

Winnie’s an indoor cat. She’s never ventured beyond the garden. Something’s wrong, I feel it in my gut.

“She can’t have gone far,” Lizzie says, trying to calm me down but looking equally freaked out. “Let’s go have a look around the streets.”

We knock on the next-door neighbor’s—the one with the Tabby who’s always leading Winnie astray.

But Winnie’s not there.

We spend an hour walking around the neighborhood, me calling Winnie’s name like a deranged cat lady while Lizzie meows at every bush we pass.

But there’s no Winnie. No Winnie in the bushes, no Winnie up the trees, no Winnie lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce on some unsuspecting pigeon.

When we finally drag ourselves back to the flat, there’s still no sign of her. No furry little body lounging on the sofa, no judgmental eyes staring at us like we’re the biggest idiots on the planet.

Where the hell could she be?

I search the house again, now in tears. And then, through the kitchen window, I spot it—the loose fence paling in the garden. How did I not see it before? Winnie must have squeezed through.

“Cats go missing sometimes,” I say, more to convince myself than Lizzie. “She’ll be back.”

But the hours tick by with no sign of her, and the panic creeps up my throat.

No. No, it’s fine. It’s only been a few hours. She’ll come back when she wants to sleep. She hasn’t had her supper yet.

Winnie’s a smart cat. Probably smarter than me and Lizzie put together. She knows her way home. She has to.

I google how long cats usually go missing for before coming home, desperate for some kind of reassurance.

But still I post on every Facebook group I can think of, my hands shaking as I type out a description of my baby. “Missing: one British Shorthair cat, answerstoWinnie. Please, if you see her. . .”

I hit post, watching Winnie’s face stare back at me from the screen.

“Cats go missing for a few days then come home,” Lizzie tries to assure me as we’re getting ready for bed at one a.m., both of us exhausted and emotionally drained.

“I know.” I sniffle. “I don’t know whether I’m overreacting.”

I don’t sleep a wink that night, tossing and turning, straining my ears for the sound of the cat-flap.

But there’s nothing. Just silence. Deafening, terrifying silence.

Please, Winnie. Please come back. I’ll never let Lizzie near you with a mirror again, I swear. I’ll buy you the fanciest cat food on the market. I’ll even let you sleep on my face and smother me with your fluffy butt.

The next morning, I stumble out of bed, groggy and disoriented and more upset than ever.

No jingle of Winnie’s collar, no soft padding of paws around the flat. The silence is suffocating.

She needs her specially formulated digestive care food. What if her gastritis flares up? What if she’s out there somewhere, in pain, and I can’t help her?

I knock on Lizzie’s door, my heart in my throat. She grunts in response and I peek in, hoping against hope to see Winnie curled up on her bed.

But it’s just Lizzie, blinking at me with bleary eyes, her expression slowly morphing from confusion to concern as she takes in my trembling lip.

“No Winnie?” she asks, her voice rough with sleep.

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

“Oh, babe.” She sits up, running a hand through her tangled hair. “I don’t have any temp work today. I’ll help you look for her, okay? We’ll find her, Gem. We will.”