As we drove down the neighbour hood street, just a block from our home, I spotted it. A shadowy figure of a cat scampering across the street. My heart skipped a beat and a flicker of hope ignited which was quickly extinguished by my brain. In the four months that Baracca, a homeless cat who had been mooching off of my husband for years, had gone missing I had had many false sightings. Any time I spotted a cat sleeping in the sun or dashing across a courtyard, I thought I had spotted Baracca. Of course I was always wrong and left disappointed, but I couldn't stop myself from continuing to hope.I watched the cat run behind a parked a car and squinted my eyes in an effort to make out the details.
"It isn't him," my husband said, knowing already what I was thinking.
But something inside of me told me to double check. I was sure it wasn't him either, but I also knew that if I didn't check I would spend the rest of day wondering if it had been our cat. By stopping, I could confirm that the latest Baracca sighting was false.
"Stop the car," I ordered as I unbuckled the seat belt.
"It isn't him, " the Italian repeated. "There is a cat that looks just like Baracca who lives right around the corner."
"I don't care. Stop the car anyway," I insisted.
My husband, an extremely patient man, pulled over with me opening the door before the car had come to a complete stop. The cat, still hiding behind the parked car, watched me with a cautious look, ready to run at a moment's notice.
From a distance it looked like our cat, but up close I was stunned to find that he had an uncanny resemblance to our cat: same color of fur, same tattered ears, same bent whisker. The cat kept his distance from me, not an ounce of recognition in his bright, yellow eyes.
"It's him!" I yelled to the Italian who was waiting in the car, the driver side window rolled down. "It's him! It's him!"
The Italian turned off the car, got out and walked over. Hope filled my heart as tears filled my eyes. After months of worrying and wondering, was it possible that our cat was safe and sound? And right in our own neighborhood?
"It's not him," the Italian said as he walked toward the cat. The cat, uneasy about all of the attention, walked to the back of the parked car in effort to keep a safe distance.
"It's him, " I argued. "I'd know that rotten cat anywhere."
The Italian held his hand down, calling to the cat who refused to move from his position which cause me to believe that I had been mistaken. Baracca had always come to us when we called him. For nine years he had been coming to our house for his daily free meals. In that time, he learned to trust us; even being brave enough to enter our home once in a while. This cat hiding behind the car looked as if he had never seen us before.
We stared at the cat, repeatedly calling him but he just sat, staring back. Always moving farther from us if we tried to approach. Then, when the attention had become too much, the cat ran away seeking the safety of a fenced-in yard. Rather then running away entirely, the cat turned around and walked back towards us before sitting down inside of the yard. It was as if he knew we couldn't get in.
We stared at him from the sidewalk, still unsure if it was him for certain. And then it happened. The cat spoke to us. He called out with the saddest excuse for a "meow" that we had ever heard and in that instant, we knew he was our cat. We used to joke that Baracca had never been taught to meow. Often the cat would open his mouth and not a single sound would come out. When he did manage to get out a sound, it was always a high pitched, sad little screech.
After being missing for four months, Baracca had been found. I wanted to scoop him up and give the old flea bag a big hug. I wanted to take him home and give him a proper meal. I wanted to scratch him behind his years and tell him how much we had missed. Instead, I was forced to watch him from a distance. Was it possible he had forgotten us after all of these years? Had he left on purpose or had something happened to him and he couldn't remember his way home?
When it became clear that Baracca wasn't going to let us get near him, the Italian climbed back into the car and turned it on. I stayed staring at my found cat, sad that he didn't seem to remember me.
"Let's go home," the Italian called from the car. I took one last look at the cat, blew him and kiss and turned to walk towards the car. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cat get up and make a move toward me. I stopped walking and turned back suddenly. As if on cue, the cat sat back down quickly. I called him a few more times, but he just stared back at me blankly.
"Have you ever heard of kitty amnesia?" I asked the Italian as we drove back home. The Italian smiled. "After all these years he just doesn't come to our home any more? I don't get it."
"Cats have no loyalties," the Italian explained, in an attempt to make me feel better about being abandoned by our cat.
"That cat is a jerk!" I said with a giggle.
"Yes he is." the Italian agreed.
And though Baracca might be a jerk, he is alive; not just alive but well. It was quite clear that our old vagabond cat hadn't been missing any meals. I still watch outside, hoping that as the weather warms up he might just go for long walk and find his way back home.
