Our cat’s loss of limb gave us hope and renewed our faith.

I’m sitting in our garden on a stunning Spring day, watching our cat Monkeybutt joyfully sniff the air and scope out the low-flying birds. It’s something that 6 weeks ago, I thought I’d never see again.  If faith is indeed the evidence of things not seen, that sight was the most wonderful evidence of the power of faith I have experienced in a long time. 

Monkeybutt was rescued from a family that had 13 cats, and none of them were allowed inside. This dude is an outdoor cat, happiest when he is roaming the neighborhood, making friends with all the other animals, irrespective of species. He would galavant for hours, and I would keep track of him with a GPS collar that allowed me to see exactly where he was in real time.  At night when it was time to come in, I would check the GPS, walk to whatever house he was visiting, call his name, and he would come running.  

It was our system, and it never failed. Until it did. In the late afternoon on Sunday March 6th, when I went to check on his whereabouts, I discovered the GPS went dark.  I went to the street where it was last active and began to search. It was nearly a quarter mile from our home. I knocked on doors, asked if anyone had seen a black cat wearing a large collar. One neighbor said yes, and told me where, but a search of that area turned up nothing. I was panicked.  It was the day we feared since Monkey came to us 4 years ago. With a cat that spent that much time outdoors, there was always a chance something really bad would happen.  By the next morning Josh and I had begun talking about him in the past tense, and tearfully reminiscing about his Monkey ways. 

I fretted, I cried, I had a conversation with God, and I reached out to my most spiritually supportive friends. They encouraged me to believe he was OK, that he would come sauntering up the driveway, “pretty as you please.” As the hours slipped away though, so did any lingering optimism. Late in the afternoon my friend Amy suggested going outside to Monkey’s favorite spot and just sending a message out to the universe, letting him know that if he was hurt, it was safe to come home, that “we are here, and waiting for you.”

I grabbed a towel to sit near his favorite tree, intent on sending that prayer of positivity and love. That was the moment I noticed a “black something” under that Palo Verde tree. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Monkey, 24 hours — practically to the minute — after he went missing.

He was curled up in a tight ball, motionless. Was he alive?  I got down on my knees and thanked God for this beautiful vision. Then he lifted his head and I saw his face was a mess, his eyes were scratched and swollen. He looked like a prizefighter after a rough 15 rounds. And when he tried to get up, it was clear he was in excruciating pain.

I rushed him to the emergency vet, where x-rays painted a pretty disturbing picture. Monkey had clearly been hit by a car, and had 14 fractures in his right rear femur. The doctor told us it was possible, but highly unlikely, that the leg could be surgically repaired, and he recommended amputation. When Dr. K said that word, I froze. It was just too much. I was already emotionally wrecked. But Josh asked the only important question, “What would relieve Monkey of his pain?” There was only one answer: amputation.

Well, it is six weeks later, and  Monkey is recovering beautifully. He gallops around the house, albeit like a newborn pony who’s not quite settled into his gait. And in terms of the personality that endeared him to everyone in the neighborhood, that is unchanged. He is affectionate, persistent, strong-willed, and curious. 

I have to be honest, I am curious too. I want to know what happened to him that night, and how it happened. More important,  I want to know how he got home.  In the 24 hours after he returned, and before the surgery that healed his pain, I would watch him try and make his way across the house. The 30 foot trip from the bedroom to the living room took about 20 minutes. He would stop in agony every couple steps, and have to rest.

So how the hell did he make it back from a quarter mile away? Did Angels literally carry him home after I sent that prayer? Did  God whisper in his ear that he could make it, and that the life he loved wasn’t over?  I believe those things are possible. Others would offer a less spiritual explanation: injured animals are simply driven by instinct to seek their place of safety, it is hard wired, and absolute. The world certainly has scientific evidence of that. For me, those two belief systems don’t have to conflict. Where does that hard wired instinct come from? Maybe it’s just God whispering in their ears that they can make it, that the life they loved isn’t over.  

I don’t know if that is true, but I do know this. I came away from this experience having learned some powerful lessons. 

1) There is always hope. In the darkest hours, my friends refused to let me forget that. It was exactly what I needed.

2) Cats are extraordinary creatures. I almost feel unworthy of their bond.

3) I need to ask for grace and gratitude every day.

I may never fully understand by what manner of “things unseen” Monkey was delivered back to us. But as I watch him sniff the flowers and scheme about those low-flying birds, I believe it was something miraculous, and I want to honor that gift every day.