The Cat Who Came Back

The thing about humans is they don't understand doors.

A door is not just for going in. A door is also for going out. And sometimes — sometimes — a door is for going out and staying out for a while.

My name is Suki, and I am a cat, and three days ago I walked through the back door when Lily left it open to carry in the groceries, and I did not come back.

Not right away.

Let me explain.

It started with a smell. Not a regular smell, like kibble or the lavender soap Lily's mom keeps by the sink. This was a wild smell. A green, muddy, electric smell that came riding on the wind and curled right under my whiskers and said, Come find me.

So I did.

I am a cat. That is what we do.

I squeezed under the fence — the loose board Lily's dad keeps saying he'll fix — and I was in the alley. Then I was past the alley. Then I was in a part of the neighborhood I had only ever seen through windows.

The world, I discovered, is enormous.

There were gardens I had never sniffed before. I found one with tomato plants so tall they made a jungle, and I walked through them like a tiger. A real tiger. My paws were silent on the warm dirt, and the tomato leaves brushed my ears, and for three whole minutes I was the most dangerous animal on earth.

Then a sprinkler turned on and I ran.

But I didn't run home. I ran forward.

By the time the sun started melting into the rooftops, I had crossed two streets, investigated a drainpipe, and had a very important staring contest with a toad. I won. The toad blinked first. Toads always blink first.

That first night, I slept under a porch that smelled like cedar and old paint. I curled my tail over my nose the way my mother taught me, and I listened to the sounds of the world settling down. Crickets. A far-off train. Someone practicing piano, badly, with the window open.

I thought about Lily.

Just for a moment.

She would be calling my name by now, walking through the house shaking the treat bag. She does this thing where her voice goes high and tight, like a little bell someone is squeezing too hard. Suki? Suuuuki?

My ears twitched. But my paws stayed still.

The second day was the day of the bird.

I need to tell you about this bird.

It was sitting on a fence post near a creek I didn't know existed, and it was the most orange bird I had ever seen. Not cat-orange, like me. Sunset orange. The kind of orange that makes you stop walking and just stare.

So I stared. And the bird stared back.

Now, birds don't talk. But this one tilted its head in a way that clearly meant you're lost.

"I am not lost," I said back, with my eyes. "I am exploring. There's a difference."

The bird flew away. Birds always fly away. That's the trouble with birds — they never stay for the whole conversation.

I drank from the creek, which was cold and tasted like stones, and then I found the most extraordinary thing: a field. A real field, with tall grass that went swish swish swish against my sides as I walked through it. I could hear mice tunneling underneath, tiny highways of sound running every which way.

I pounced eleven times. I caught nothing. It was magnificent.

That night I slept in the field, right in the middle of it, with the grass bent around me like a nest. The stars were so bright and so many that I couldn't look at them for long. They made me feel very small, but not in a bad way. In a true way. Like the world was reminding me how big it was, and I was saying, Yes, I know. That's why I came.

I thought about Lily again.

She'd be putting up signs by now. I know about the signs because the neighborhood is full of them — pictures of cats and dogs with the word MISSING at the top. Lily would pick my best photo, the one where I'm sitting in the sunny spot on the kitchen floor looking extremely handsome.

My chest felt warm and tight, like a ball of yarn someone was winding.

The third day was the day it rained.

Not a nice rain. A mean, sideways rain that got inside my ears and made my fur stick to my ribs. I hid under a dumpster behind a restaurant, and I smelled French fries, and I was cold, and my paws were muddy, and the field was far away, and the tomato jungle was far away, and everything smelled like wet metal.

A dog walked by on a leash, and its owner held an umbrella over both of them.

I watched them go.

Here is a secret about cats: we always know which way is home. It's not something we learn. It's something we are. Home sits inside us like a compass needle, always pointing.

I had felt it every moment — in the tomato garden, by the creek, in the field of stars. A tiny tug. A quiet pull. Like an invisible string tied between my ribs and a small house on Maple Street with a loose board in the fence.

The rain got colder. I got smaller.

And the string got stronger.

I came back on the third evening, just as the streetlights blinked on. I squeezed under the loose board. I crossed the yard. I sat on the back step and I meowed once, loudly, with great dignity.

The door flew open so fast it made wind.

"SUKI!"

Lily dropped to her knees. She scooped me up and pressed her face into my wet, muddy, magnificent fur, and she said my name four more times — Suki, Suki, Suki, Suki — like she was making sure the word still worked.

"Where were you?" she whispered.

I purred.

I wasn't going to tell her about the tomato jungle or the toad or the orange bird or the field of stars. Those were mine. A cat needs things that are just hers, adventures folded up and tucked away like secret treasures.

Lily carried me inside. She toweled me off — which I allowed, because I am generous. She put out a bowl of the fancy food, the one that comes in the tiny cans, and I ate every bite while she sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor watching me like I might disappear.

"Don't do that again," she said.

I looked at her. She looked at me.

We both knew I might do it again. We both knew she would leave the signs up a little longer next time, just in case. We both knew that she would always, always open the door when I came back.

That's the thing about love. It doesn't keep you from leaving. It just makes sure there's somewhere to come back to.

I finished my dinner. I licked my paws clean — all eighteen toes, thank you very much. Then I walked to Lily's lap, turned around three times, and lay down.

Her hand settled on my back, warm and steady as a heartbeat.

Outside, the rain stopped. Somewhere, a cricket started singing.

I closed my eyes.

I was home.

And home, I have to say, is also very good.