Lost and Found
What my missing cat taught me about community
At just over a year old, my cat Chulo was the mascot of our Boston cul-de-sac. All the neighbors knew and loved him. His friends included art school students, a greyhound named Charlie, a retired New York drag queen, and Manny, who smoked a pipe and walked his Maine Coon on a leash.
I let Chulo out in the mornings on my way to work, and he was always waiting patiently for me on the porch when I returned in the evenings. Until, one day, he wasn’t. My roommates hadn’t seen him either. I stepped onto the balcony to call for him every half hour, becoming increasingly worried. Eventually, I began knocking on doors, one by one.
“Chulo’s missing?” my neighbors asked, surprise and concern on their faces.
“I’m sure he’s just visiting someone,” I said, trying to convince myself as much as them.
But as it grew dark, my worry turned to fear. I retired shortly after eleven, but could hardly sleep. I imagined Chulo outside in the cold. He had never spent a night out. When dawn revealed no sign of him, my fear turned to panic. It had been twenty-four hours since I’d seen him. I had to accept he was officially missing.
Chulo wasn’t just my pet — he was my baby. I couldn’t envision my life without him. I told my boss I wasn’t coming in. Instead, I printed dozens of fliers with Chulo’s portrait in the center. I stapled them to utility poles with one hand and contacted animal shelters on my flip phone with the other. At lunch, I scoured lost-and-found websites for a familiar face among the grainy photos.
A few months earlier, I had joined my neighborhood’s online forum, where members shared local news. I logged in and wrote: Hey guys, Chulo didn’t come home last night. Please keep an eye out for him. I included a photo of him, though his picture was now on every telephone pole within a mile radius. Almost immediately, neighbors responded with sympathy and encouragement.
Whenever my device vibrated, I hoped it was someone with news of Chulo. I was still hanging fliers as the sun descended. I couldn’t believe I was facing another night without him. But I needed my rest because I knew I would wake up the next day and do the same thing all over again.
The following morning, I chugged a protein shake and hit the streets with my posters and staple gun. One street away, I came upon an oil truck idling in front of a brown Victorian with pink shutters. This was a common sight in early fall, as residents filled their tanks for the winter. The homeowner had left their basement door ajar for the delivery.
Then I remembered my curious boy, who found open doors irresistible. I recalled how he wandered into my cellar door while I removed items for a yard sale. There were so many places to hide, especially for an all-black cat. Call it mother’s intuition, but I sprinted home and frantically typed a followup memo in my neighborhood forum:
If you filled your oil tank recently, please check your basements for Chulo!
It was a long shot, but I was praying for a miracle.
As the light of day disappeared, I collapsed, exhausted. My friend’s birthday was that evening. I wasn’t in the party mood, but I figured I would go to get my mind off things. I had done everything I could for Chulo. I donned a last-minute Halloween costume and tried my best to enjoy the company. She could see I was struggling to be present.
“You’ll find him,” she assured me, ever the optimist. “I know you will.”
I excused myself every fifteen minutes to check my voicemails. Each time the robotic recording announced, “You have no new messages,” I withered. Finally, on the fifth or sixth try, a garbled voice pierced the din.
Hi Laura. It’s Manny…
My heart skipped a beat. Manny was fond of Chulo and often called to let me know what mischief he was up to. There was only one reason he would be reaching out.
I think we have Chulo here…
I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I grabbed my keys and made a swift exit. Dialing Manny back from my car, I learned he had read my community post. When he opened the door in his kitchen leading to the cellar, a cat bolted up the stairs. He said it looked like Chulo, but he couldn’t be sure.
The lanky cat in a crate in Manny’s foyer was devouring some kibble. A fine layer of gray dust coated his fur, but his tiny cry and gold dinner plate eyes were unmistakable. It was Chulo, alright. He started pacing in circles as soon as he saw me. When I crouched and pressed my fingers through the metal wires, he rubbed his cheeks against them and purred.
He had been just six houses away, behind a two-inch wooden door. If I had stopped shouting his name long enough, I might have heard the tiniest of cries from Manny’s garden. Chulo melted in my arms, and I sobbed tears of gratitude as I carried him back down the hill to our apartment.
Losing Chulo reminded me we’re all more connected than we like to admit. While he was my responsibility, I wasn’t the only one who cared. When I’d done everything I could, it was my neighbors — and the container we had created — that brought him back to me.
Read Chulo’s origin story:
Read about Laura’s other cat, Bean:
