Leann Sweeney

I hefted him off the cushions—he’s a Maine coon, a breed that weighs four times more than the smallest felines. Merlot stays lean, usually hovers around twenty pounds. I was hoping to keep him clear of the glass, but he was having none of that. He squirmed free and jumped right back on the window seat and proved himself amazingly nimble by staying away from any shards. While I examined the damaged window, he intently examined me as if to ask, “How will you rectify this now that you’re finally home, Miss Gadabout?”

The jagged hole in the lowest pane was large enough for a hand to reach in and unlatch that window. And it was unlatched.

“Someone’s broken in. Someone’s been in our house.” But stating the obvious couldn’t help them explain what had happened. Figuring this out was human territory. For a millisecond, I wondered if this—this intruder might still be here. I shook my head no. My cats are not fools. They’d be in the basement or under a bed if any danger still remained.

And exactly where was Syrah? My Abyssinian hadn’t made an appearance yet. I supposed he could have been frightened enough to stay in hiding, but no. He was the alpha cat of my little pack.

Okay, I decided. This break-in had upset him. That was why he wasn’t making an appearance. Either that or he was so angry I’d left him and his friends to be threatened by a burglar that he was hiding to teach me a lesson.

The thought of a thief frightening my cats produced anger and fear and the sincere wish that I’d had a human friend who could watch out for things just like this while I was away. Since my husband’s death, though, I’d been caught up in my own troubles and too proud to reach out to anyone. But making friends, getting to know my neighbors, might have prevented this whole episode.

I inhaled deeply, let the air out slowly. You can change that, Jillian. But right now you need to find Syrah.

That was what John would do if he were here. Hunt for the cat in a methodical, logical way. Solve this problem quickly. But I wasn’t John and my calm began to crack like crusted snow before an avalanche. Between the silent TV, the scared animals and the absent Syrah, fear now claimed top billing.

“Where are you, baby?” I called, my voice tremulous. “Come here, Syrah.”

I hurried toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms, Merlot on my heels. Poor Chablis would have been on his tail, but was stopped by a fit of sneezing. I began the search through all three thousand square feet of my house, the house that was supposed to be our dream home, the one John and I had designed ourselves.

But this was no longer a dream come true. John, at fifty-five, had been far too young to die of a sudden and unexpected heart attack. Though I was coming to terms with his death, letting go day by day, thoughts of him always seemed to flood my brain when I was stressed. And a broken window and a missing cat were certainly enough to produce that state of mind.

I rushed from room to room, but didn’t find Syrah hiding behind my armoires or beneath the dressers or under any beds. He wasn’t in the closets or the basement, either. I went outside and checked the trees and the roof for a third scared cat. After all, the intruder might have let him out when he made his escape. But leaves had been falling for weeks, and spotting Syrah’s rusty gold fur against the reds, browns and yellows of the oak, hickory and pecan trees in my yard would be difficult.

Syrah, however, is my most vocal cat, and when I didn’t hear any meowing in response to my calls, I was sure he wasn’t nearby. Cats have such good hearing that they can detect the sound of a bat stretching its wings, and I was nearly shrieking his name.

I finally gave up, and when I came inside I found Merlot sitting by the back door. I was trembling all over as I crouched next to him. He rubbed against my knees and purred while I took my cell phone from my pocket, ready to report the break-in.

“Are you trying to comfort yourself or me?” I asked as I dialed 911. The last time I’d had to do that—when John collapsed—had been the worst day of my life. This event certainly wasn’t as horrible, but punching those three numbers again made it seem like John had died only yesterday.

My big cat circled me lovingly as I stood, nudging me, trying to comfort me as best he could. He knew how upset I was.

“What is your emergency?” said the woman who answered.

“Um . . . um . . . my cat is missing.”

The dispatcher said, “Ma’am, this line is for—”

“I’ve had a break-in. There’s a shattered window and—” My mouth was so dry, the words wouldn’t come.

“Your name, ma’am?”