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On my runaway cat, being neighborly, and the summer slowdown
My cat ran away last week.
Ian and I were in the Hamptons last week, the part with woods and bugs and our friend’s family pool — not the fancy rich kid part. We’re lucky enough to get invited regularly to get out of the city and breathe easier, if only a couple of days. Ian had just finished up a solo cabin retreat upstate, and I was overdue for some time away from my laptop and endless project planning.
I got up there Friday afternoon, and first thing I did was cannonball into the deep end. Then ate a tomato sandwich. I poured myself a gin-and-lemonade and dried myself on the deck, where I also cracked open Red White and Royal Blue for the first time (god that movie was awful??). I was ready to chill.
And I did! Until Sunday morning, when I got a text from my friend who was kindly catsitting Bingley for us. A storm blew through NY overnight, and our door has a weird sticking problem, and our friend thought the door had locked, but nature had other ideas and blew it open, and my sweet orange chonk of a cat felt the call of the streets and in the wee hours, ran away from home.
I blame my friend for none of this. That cat has been wanting to get out for weeks. (I now blame myself for getting him catgrass a week prior, which I think gave him a taste of the wild??? Who knows.) Anyway, Bingley set up camp in the empty overgrown lot five doors down.
Chaos incarnate.
I did all the things the Internet and well-meaning strangers advised: Put his litter box out so he could identify his scent/home; put out his favorite food; leave the door open in case he wanted to come inside etc. etc. I even bought and set up a tactical trail camera to track his crepuscular comings and goings; I’ve been chatting with some helpful rescues about borrowing a trap to get him back.
In the meantime, my willful himbo of a cat has taken to a new schedule: Sunning on the lot’s low wall between 6 p.m. and sunset. Coming to our garden for food around midnight, and then again at 3 or 4 a.m. Hiding in the tall, hard to navigate shrubs during the day. He has largely avoided me, only making eye-contact before slinking away. He has let Ian come close, only to claw and scratch him when Ian tried to grab him.
I’ve posted this whole saga on Twitter and Instagram, if you’re interested in following along; I’ve cycled through frustration, worry, annoyance, humor and acceptance over the last seven days. (We’re gonna try to trap him tonight. Fingers crossed.)
But, as I noted earlier in the week, there has been a blessing to Bingley’s stubborn rumspringa: I’ve gotten to chat with my neighbors a ton as I made my hourly and daily walks to try to convince the cat that he was being a fool. One half of the nice couple down the block, with a Basenji named Godwin, was also born in the Philippines and grew up in Orange County; we’re the same age! Small world. Our immediate downstairs neighbors have sent me regular texts about their walks with their newborn, keeping an eye out for a thicc flash of orange every time they perambulate.
The kids across the street from the empty lot? They set-up a lemonade stand, where I’ve stopped by to chat with them and their parents about Bingley, the other neighborhood cats, etc. They’ve been my eyes and ears on Bingley’s whereabouts when I’m not outside. And when I first didn’t know Bingley’s location and I searched on other blocks and neighborhood pocket parks, I got to chat with those neighbors, too, who have been so kind to holler at me that they didn’t see the cat, but wishing me luck regardless.
Meanwhile, Bingley continues to circle our house, inching closer and staying longer nearby than before. I know we’ll get him back soon (and will immediately want to run away again, after what I’m sure will be a traumatic vet and groomer situation). But until then, I’ll take the W that is feeling closer to this little slice of city I call home, where it took a cat running away to get out of my comfort zone and chat with former strangers and new friends.
Not a lot of links to share this go-around. I’ve been reading more, scrolling less. Books I have finished so far this month: Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow, City of Girls, Less, Yellowface, Poetry Unbound, All About Love, The Inheritance Trilogy, and The Secret to Superhuman Strength. Next I hope to finish: Trust Exercise, The Last White Man, The Absolute Book, Home Remedies, and Saving Time.
ICYMI: I am getting back into freelancing, because I miss working on my own writing and stuff. This week, Eater published my little ditty on cooking with a rice cooker (it eases my mind when I don’t have the energy to cook anything more elaborate). The piece also inspired inspired this podcast episode about food safety, namely the risks of cooking a raw chicken in a rice cooker. It's a short, sweet listen, and I'm glad to hear that my initial trepidation about cooking chicken in rice may not be that risky, after all?
Everything about this TikTok — from the light instrumental score from Avatar: The Last Airbender (“The Avatar’s Love”), the Appa stuffy, smiling baby, playful-attentive dad, and mama giggling off camera — is just sweetness overload, a bubble of tenderness and love.
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Did you know there are seven different kinds of rest we need as humans? I didn’t! The discussion came up in a private Slack group I’m in, and someone shared this link. Good stuff.
On a related note, a newsletter I was recently turned onto, Recomendo, shared this NPR piece on non-exercise activity thermogenesis, or NEAT. Essentially, researchers have been studying how “even small behavior changes can amplify or diminish how much NEAT you get, and this can shape your health in powerful ways.”
I love this combo poem (“The Orange” by Wendy Cope)/BTS art practice/voiceover combo. Soothing.
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Earlier this month, The NY Times reported on longtime bartender Joe Petrsoric retiring from his post at Broadway mainstay Sardi’s after 55 years. I took my friend Matt there for a martini one night — classic gin & vermouth, up, twist — and it was nice watching regulars coming in to wish the man of the hour luck. (In case you’re unfamiliar, the upstairs bar at Sardi’s is just classic Broadway. Stiff drinks, perfect pre-dinner choreography, but probably best for a post-theater night cap and people watching.)
"Did you try using lasagna?"
this a a breath of fresh air (courtesy of Bingley?) :)
thank you!