What a Lost Kitten Taught Me About Hope

Aurora as a teenage terror.

Three months after finding a kitten on a deserted forest road and deciding to keep him, my Google search history featured phrases like “how to calm crazy cat” and “cat pupils dilated.” My curtains and arms were punctured with claw holes. There had been many sweet, cuddly, hilarious moments, but there were frustrating ones too. Aurora bounced off the walls of our tiny cabin, getting into trouble or attacking my feet when he was bored.

In an attempt to expend some of his infinite energy, I had taken to walking Aurora on a harness and leash up and down the quiet dirt road in front of our cabin. On a sunny day in early May, I had him out for a walk when a coworker approached to say hi. Aurora panicked, bucked against the leash, and backed out of the harness. I watched helplessly as his little brown body zigzagged up the side of the hill and vanished into the balsam trees in the span of a second. 

I ran after him, calling his name, but the forest was silent. I fought my way through thick branches and fallen trees, up the steep hill that ran along the road we were walking on. No movement, no cat.

The first hour I was worried, of course, but felt certain I’d find him. As the hours passed and night fell, the desperate realization that he could be anywhere set in. I put food, water, and a familiar blanket or toys out on the front deck so he’d smell home and return.

Until well after dark, I sat on the hill behind my cabin, thinking that maybe if I was still, the kitten would feel safe enough to come out. As I sat there shivering, my phone lit up with a text. My stomach flipped when I saw it was my ex, saying he wanted to talk.