How to Cope with a Lost Cat: Our Story Losing Lincoln (Part One)

I remember bits and pieces before Andy’s and my beloved cat named Lincoln fled in fear.

For instance, I remember telling Andy that we had not camped in a long time and how I missed camping. That made me think of our boys—our two cats named Lincoln and Lysander. I hated leaving them, so I wanted them to learn to camp with us, but Lincoln needed more harness and leash training. That’s when I told Andy that I wanted to bring our boys to my aunt and uncle’s farm, a safe and new place to train Lincoln.

“This will either be the best decision or the worst decision,” I remember telling him, “but if it is the worst decision, we will learn from it and grow.”

There is cruel irony in all of this as I look back now because it is as if that one sentence unknowingly and unwantedly manifested destiny.

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↠ DAY ONE: SUNDAY, MARCH 8 ↞

Lincoln was more nervous than normal when I gathered him in my arms as the four of us went to leave to head to the farm. I thought it was because he wanted to stay in his comfy bed or he wanted to play with Andy and his favorite toy longer or he felt uncomfortably smushed or insecure when I carried him with other items.

Once I put these things down, he will be fine, I thought.

Andy closed, then locked the front door, causing Lincoln to do a final squirm. Not wanting to pressure him, I put him down and let him walk back to our door.

“It’s okay,” I whispered between calm pets. “You’re okay. Mummy, dad, Ly, Lincoln go walk.”

We try to speak in “button language.” Buttons are recordable devices that animals can touch to activate recordings. In other words, animals are incredibly intelligent, but people cannot speak their language the same way that they cannot speak ours. Buttons, though, bridge the communication gap. For us, along with Lincoln and Ly using buttons, Andy and I also model buttons use, so before we left, I had just activated “Mummy,” “Dad,” “Ly,” “Lincoln,” and “Walk,” buttons. This is why I knew Linc understood what was happening.

Linc may feel calmer once we get going, too, I rationalized. After all, our adventurous Ly can even be a bit skittish before walks, but the moment we are outside, he perks up and happily trots ahead of us. With this in mind, I scooped Lincoln up and held him close to my chest. We were only going to the farm, and the farm was a quiet place.

The drive took 35 minutes, and when we arrived, the four of us got out of my car and walked about fifteen feet. There was a cow not too close but not too far, and Linc had never seen a cow. The cow was unimpressed, lying on the ground with her legs tucked, which told me she was not going to move suddenly and scare Lincoln, so I whispered to him while pointing out the cow.

“Cow,” I cooed. “Look—cow!”

On my right, out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Ly stretch forward in his dad’s arms as Andy repeated similar words to him. “Cow. See the cow?”

Ly was thrilled, and to my delight, so was Lincoln. Linc equally stretched forward with big eyes full of interest. He was calm and did not move as he watched the cow turn its gaze away from us. All was peaceful.

We could sit for hours on the grass simply staring at the cow, I thought, so I lowered Linc to the ground, and he was fine … until I lowered myself behind him.

Maybe Lincoln was too focused on the cow, and he became startled when I crouched. Or maybe Linc’s harness scared him as it sometimes does. Or maybe—but Lincoln was slowly moving backwards away from me. I loosened the tension on his leash and calmly but quickly walked toward him, reassuring him. I knew this backward walk could lead to trouble—it is often how cats escape harnesses. He would be okay if I could get behind him … if I could hold him …

Yet, he kept backing away—a bit faster with each step—and even though I tried, I could not close the gap between us. Then Linc’s back hit a fence.

Terrified at the unexpected contact, he became frantic, jerking backward through the bottom of the fence and ripping off his harness before turning to flee.

His body stretched in the air as he flew above the ground, then all four paws tapped the earth at the same time to thrust him up again. I will never be able to describe how fluid and fast his movements were. Under different circumstances, I would have stood in awe of him—so beautiful, so graceful, so efficient as he blurred in the air. Yet, in this circumstance, he had changed—he looked like a wild animal running for his life.

In one movement, I tried to open the fence gate, but it was locked, so I climbed over, and the heavy metal chain clanged against the metal gate. Fear tightened in my throat as I called to Lincoln, then yelled to Andy to put Ly in the car. I did not know at the time, but Andy was already placing Ly inside and turning on the air conditioning.

By now Lincoln was approaching the right side of a hay shed that stood in front of us, and I knew I could not clear the same path in time to catch him—there were too many rutted areas and large limbs on the ground—so I took off at top speed to the left of the shed. While my decision would compromise the sight of our son, my hope was that Andy could maintain eyes on Lincoln while I cleared the barn to cut Linc off.

But when I got behind the barn, Lincoln was gone.

In seconds, Andy was racing to me, using the same path as Lincoln. I remember his voice was loud as he yelled, “WHERE IS HE?! WHERE’S LINCOLN?! L—WHERE’S LINCOLN?!,” and each question made it more apparent that I did not know.

I also remember my own howl, then my guttural sobs so harsh that I could not speak. Violent shakes overtook my body as Andy clenched my shoulders and looked into my eyes trying to get an answer to his question—his question—his question—

But the realization that I had lost Lincoln—that I was holding him and put him down, that I could not close the gap between us in time, that I held the leash connected to the very harness he franticly pulled off, that I did not know where Lincoln went—it was an overwhelming suffocation.

To this day, both Andy and I cannot remember what I said—did I see Lincoln flee under the barbed wire that divides the farm property from woodland, which would mean Linc disappeared into an unknown wooded area? Or did I say I never saw Lincoln reach the space behind the barn, which would mean Linc made an abrupt decision to dart into a small side opening of either the hay shed or neighboring tobacco barn to hide. We talked and asked and pleaded with ourselves to remember over the course of days as it turned into a week … but we still do not remember.

The farm I felt I had intimately known since being a child suddenly seemed unfamiliar, which prompted Andy and I to split up. He raced down and around the barbed wire, then vanished into the woods. Meanwhile, I remained behind the hay shed, pacing and calling for Lincoln but knowing my voice was meek and my efforts powerless.

That’s when I phoned some of the most important people in my life to get help to find Lincoln. I called my mom who has an uncanny ability to find the smallest of things in the largest of areas. I called my sister because she and my brother-in-law are logical, rational, and composed, having the ability to know what to do in any situation. I called my cousin Corey because on top of growing up as close friends, this was his family’s farm, and I knew I could rely on his kind soul to notify the right people. I called my aunt because on top of the farm being her husband’s (my uncle’s), she is my second mother, and I knew she would act quickly. Then I called my good friend Tabitha whose heart and knowledge of animals is stronger and better than anyone I know.

And here is how amazing Tabitha is: After moving seven states away only two months earlier, she immediately jumped on a video call so I could explain and show what happened. In her calm, reassuring voice, she told me cats rarely go far from where they escaped and that she felt confident Lincoln was close. She offered support in what I could do and support in contacting others who could help. Then we hung up.

By this time, my family had arrived—my brother-in-law, cousin Josh, uncle, mother, and father—and the search party began. Some rode a four-wheeler to comb a large amount of land, my brother-in-law combed the same woods Andy took off in, and my mother and father stayed behind to walk back and forth calling Lincoln’s name.

I will pause here to note that, despite desperately trying to do good, this is when I realized my rescue effort attempts were faulty in multiple ways, and I will explain what Andy and I learned in another post because it is our sincerely hope that the information can keep others from making the same mistakes.

And maybe these mistakes cost us Lincoln because on Day One, we did not find him.

I heard mumbles of how cats find their way back home all the time … but this was not Lincoln’s home. He had not seen this land, this area, this county—he had nothing familiar to associate to bring him back. Added to that, we were 35 minutes from home, so the reality of him navigating busy country roads, zooming interstates, loud city streets, and scary railroad tracks for miles while cars, planes, and people whizzed by seemed so illogical that even the most optimistic person would know the view was faulty.

When the search party dissolved, my parents promised to take and care for Ly. Meanwhile, Andy and I remained steadfast to a plan: We would wild camp past the barbed wire fence in the wooded area Lincoln ran. That way he had our scent, had our voices, and us. We would stay until he was found. Therefore, we messaged our managers, explained our situations, and took the week off, promising our return earlier if we got our boy.

Before Andy zipped home to get our camping supplies and Lincoln’s belongings to use as scents to encourage him back, I gathered items from the car—a water bowl, cat food, blankets that Ly and Lincoln had laid on during the drive. Then I stayed in case Lincoln returned. Standing with the items and a trap Josh offered, I was suddenly alone.

In the course of three hours, I had held our son then lost our son. I had been full then gutted. I had felt peace then devastation. I collapsed in my own lap and stretched back cursing the universe. And I wept, and I wailed—and I did all of this behind the hay shed where we were convinced Lincoln had disappeared but also where we had no proof.

It would be five days later when I would remember Josh posted a trail camera at the back of that hay shed the day of the search. Five days later I would see these pictures.

After I had drained myself of emotion, I picked up my phone and began to research:

• “What to do if you lose your cat.”
• “Tips for finding a lost cat.”
• “How to find a lost cat.”

Inactivity did not help, but activity of any size was a step forward, and that movement tricked me into thinking I had a tiny speck of power in a situation where I lacked control.

I learned about hanging scent articles along tree branches so the wind could carry the scent, and I read about the importance of having a scent article at the location of disappearance to bring the animal back to that location. With this in mind, I hung one of the blankets on a low lying limb beside the hay shed.

I could not escape the feeling that a trained K9 could find Lincoln. It made sense to me—dogs were trained to smell drugs, gun powder, weapons, people, more. Surely, there was one who could smell missing pets.

“Hiring a cat tracker for a lost cat,” I typed and this lead me to find Professional Pet Trackers. I admit, I did not read much about them—only enough to know that they claimed to find lost dogs and cats, so I wrote our plea in an email, telling them what happened and how much we care about our tabby. “Lincoln is our son,” I typed. “We do not have children and cannot have children, and our two cats are our world. They mean everything to us.”

Then I called Lincoln’s microchip company and listed him as “Lost,” and for whatever reason, it felt like we were admitting defeat. How many pets were listed as “Lost” and never made it home?

Before darkness settled, Andy returned, and we took one another’s hand and walked to the hay shed that Lincoln had run past. It was dinnertime, and we had heard that feeding a lost animal at the site of escape sometimes brings it home.

“Time a’eat dinner! Time a’eat, Lincoln! Dinner!” we called as we do every night around 5:00 p.m.

We sang the same made-up songs that we do when we feed our boys every night—like the one about Lincoln rubbing his body on our legs when we announce it is time to eat to all the way to when their food is placed in their food stands. And we asked our invisible Lincoln if we were going to see him dance by puffing and flicking his tail in excitement—like he does when the wet food can is popped and again at his first bite. And we maximized the noises Lincoln loves to hear—like the sound of the dry food bag opening and the kibbles hitting his bowl; and the sound of the wet food can popping open and the food being scooped out to be served.

But there was no tabby pressing his head and sides into our legs. There was no tabby dancing around us with his shimmering tail. There was no Lincoln.

That evening, Andy had emptied his car of all camping equipment and Lincoln scent items—his bed and blankets, his toys, his litter box, and more. While he unloaded, I set up our tent and campsite.

Darkness soon settled in when I got a call from Tabitha’s friend, Peggy. Her expertise is in cats and cat behaviors, and along with helping other organizations, she founded a nonprofit group called SOS Cats RVA, which focuses on trapping, spaying and neutering, and returning strays; her organization does more too—it also builds and distributes cat shelters, rescues and gets cats adopted, and assists felines with medical aid. Peggy is a heavy hitter, and she offered us strength in information …

“Lincoln isn’t looking for his scent,” she had said, recommending us to remove the litter box we had just put out. “He wants your scent.” Additional rationale she shared also made sense: That litter box smell signals to predators (such as other cats, foxes, and coyotes, who are popular in the rural area where Linc went missing) that there is a new cat, so those predators turn their attention to hunting down the new visitor, and that puts Lincoln in danger.

She also offered us supplies. Importantly, Peggy cared about Lincoln even though she had never met us or him.

We talked most about fear—how Lincoln was so terrified that he was physically paralyzed by his fear and no matter what, he could not make himself come to us. Coming to us—or even making a tiny noise—would mean a predator could find him, so he was focused on not coming out, not moving, and not making a sound.

“He is not in ‘find mom and dad’ mode,” Peggy had said. “He is in survival mode.” Essentially, I learned his fear was so gripping that the only way he felt he could survive was to ignore us and hide. “I’ll bet he heard you calling for him. I’ll bet he even saw you when you searched—he may have even been looking right at you. He is so scared that he physically cannot come to you—to the two people he loves and trusts most. He literally cannot make himself go to you because he is so scared. But he is doing what he needs to do. He needs to survive, so he is hiding, and he is hiding perfectly.”

It all made sense, yet it destroyed me. To think that our cat—who we feel in every way is our son—was immobilized by his own fear and that it was my fault was more than I could bear. My chest felt like it was being ripped in half, slowly and torturously, as I imagined Lincoln too petrified to come to us—his ears alert, listening to us aimlessly call his name and cry. His large green eyes scanning, scanning, scanning in terror as we walked by. Lincoln seeing us as a predator, as an enemy.

Peggy promised to check in often as Andy and I crawled into our tent. Inside, we forced down a few bites of a rotisserie chicken Andy had picked up after hearing the strong scent could attract Linc. The chicken served little purpose, though. It had gone cold and Peggy had warned that Lincoln would not be considering food or water for days because it would mean leaving his hiding spot.

“It is most important to take care of yourselves,” Peggy had said because the disaster could be ongoing, and we needed our strength to continue.

“You need to eat more,” Andy whispered, passing bits of chicken my way, but I was overcome with the realization that my instincts and actions were all wrong. Every single decision and move that lead Andy and I to the inside of a tent where we were using our fingers to pull apart the only food we had all day—all of it was because of me, and all was wrong down to the chicken purchase that I recommended Andy make. We were not keeping the figurative light on for our terrified tabby; we were opening the door for his harm.

I do not know what made me think of Chouffe then, though I admit I have thought about Chouffe multiple times a week every week for four years. I suppose in that moment, though, I thought of Chouffe because I needed hope to exist …

Chouffe is a tabby cat who accidentally slipped from his carrier in a rural area at a veterinarian center 30 miles from home in October 2021. His family opened a Facebook page after his disappearance, and their videos, pictures, and posts are so heartfelt that it is heartbreaking.

And I felt connected to them.

I first learned about Chouffe when we adopted Lincoln. Linc was a stray living in a feral cat colony, and after months of visiting the colony and being greeted by the most affectionate Lincoln, one day he left his brambled home and followed Andy and I to our car in the pouring rain. From there, Andy plucked him up, put him into a carrier, and we took him home.

I posted in as many places as I could that this perfect, lovable stray tabby cat needed a home. And people wrote back, saying the stray we found actually had a home. They said he was Chouffe.

Immediately, Andy and I found a picture—we would have loved nothing less than reuniting a lost love with family—but our tabby was not Chouffe. Chouffe has a large patch of white fur on his chest, and our stray had none. I was shattered because our tabby had no one but he craved a family and because another tabby did have a family but he was so lost he could not find it.

Chouffe has stayed with me, and I thought of him again in our tent as I hesitated then found their number and texted them …

I introduced myself, told how I found out about Chouffe, provided a picture of Lincoln to show ours was not theirs, then I told of Lincoln’s escape.

“I am so sorry to ask this of you,” I typed, “because we understand your heartbreak and have always wanted you to find him, but if you could please provide information on what helped or hurt or advice, we would so appreciate it. [Lincoln] is everything to us and we do not know what to do without him.” Then I thanked them for reading and apologized again.

Andy moved more chicken my way.

“I can’t eat. I have to work,” I told him because the realization of Peggy’s biggest piece of advice hit me. She told us to spread the word about Lincoln—post and hand out fliers, knock on doors, and talk to people. The more eyes searching for him meant the more hope in finding him. So far, we had not posted anywhere; and now, darkness covered us as we sat in the woods alone. Therefore, I did the only thing I could do…

I took to my laptop because Andy brought my most powerful weapon: my computer. Next, I created a Facebook post and uploaded Lincoln’s picture.

I admit I did not want to do it. Andy and I write about Ly on walks, hikes, and paddle boards; we boast about our cats using buttons to communicate; and we post pictures of our children from the most mundane to important reasons. Announcing our son as missing meant I was publicly confessing my faults, and that felt humiliating, shameful, and painful … but we needed to find Lincoln, and I refused to prevent even one chance from him being spotted.

This was the start to learning humility in multiple ways.

Never once—this day or any day—did words of blame come from Andy’s lips, and the harsh reality is that if roles were reversed, I knew I would have cast blame onto him immediately in an effort to understand. So, again, I apologized over and over for actions I had not done but ones I felt remorseful over.

Suddenly, my phone lit up. It was my friend, Andrew.

It is interesting looking back. When I was at my lowest of lows, our friends, family, and community seemed to have an uncanny ability to know because that is when they sent us messages.

In appreciation, I wrote back, hoping his words held truth and that they could affect our fate.

Then I opened up about what I had been grappling over—prayer and God and Christianity because in those evening hours, I had silently spoken to someone—maybe someone called “God”—asking over and over again for Lincoln to have the strength to come out, for Lincoln to be able to find us, and for us to be able to take Lincoln home. I formed a mental mantra and pleaded for this one request, swearing not ask for anything ever again. It was only Lincoln, and it would always be only Lincoln.

Then I admitted my faults in either believing or not believing, but I admitted them to Andrew in this way:

I pondered over what I wrote.

I was neither Christian nor atheist. My religion had no name.

It was the religion of karma and reincarnation where one’s soul is forced to repeat wrongdoings on Earth until lessons were learned. If someone abused animals, his or her soul will come back as the very type of animal that was abused. If someone was cruel to another person, his or her soul would return as a person in a similar situation. And this would repeat and repeat until, finally, lessons were learned, then the soul could dissolve.

Andrew’s response came minutes later. He, an atheist or believer of a nameless religion too, typed the following message back:

I sat with my phone in my hand mentally so far from Andy, our tent, and our situation that I do not know how long it took to return, but when I did, I saw our friends—they had shared Lincoln’s Facebook lost post and they asked for Lincoln’s lost flier so that they could spread it. In fact, they reached out so quickly that I had not even made his flier yet, so I started on that. Even the book publishing company where I work put out a message to find Lincoln. I was overwhelmed and amazed to find so many people cared.

Next, with Peggy’s advice, I opened a PawBoost listing. This is a national database for lost (and found) pets that spreads not only through the real and online community but across shelters, rescues, animal control, and partners who help lost pets. Clicking on the option to make Lincoln the number one most seen pet locally and nationally came with a high price for only seven days of publicity before renewal (which meant paying the same price again for only the next seven and so forth). However, we vowed not to have regrets in the search for our son.

Eight o’clock at night came, and I received an unknown call: Professional Pet Trackers read my email and wanted to talk about its services. Only six hours after I hit “Send” on a Sunday, a woman named Megan offered help.

She spoke to me about how her cat went missing at the height of a hurricane, and she reached out to Carmen who had a dog who could track cats. The remarkable experience lead them to starting a business because K9 tracking for lost pets is real and because they could help many people find their lost loves.

She told me about their services—consulting, on-site tracking, and infrared drone flying—breaking down the prices of each. “If you choose tracking and the drone, we can come in three days,” Megan said. “Just let me know what service or services you would like—if possible by tonight—and I will hold this spot for you.”

“I have to ask,” I said at the end of our call as tears filled my eyes once more. I did not want to risk knowing, but I had to have an answer. “Your cat—did you find him?”

“Yes!” she said without hesitation. “Carmen and her dog picked up his scent. We brought him home after six weeks.”

Her story seemed too good to be true—a cat brought home after six weeks during a hurricane all due to one tracker and her K9.

“What if they are scammers?” I asked Andy through tears once we hung up. We had been warned about people feeding on sorrow. Plus, the price to risk for a scam seemed steep, though looking back now, for a chance to find our son—we would easily pay this again and again and …

“They may be, but I don’t think they are. We have to take the risk.”

He was right, and I vowed to listen more after I had made all mistakes that lead us here. This company was the only chance we felt we had, so we paid for all three of their services and felt immediate relief.

* * * * *

That night I did not sleep. I sobbed so long and full that I hyperventilated and no longer shed tears but still cried. Panic consumed me. I pictured Lincoln terrified and hiding, crouched in dirt, twigs, brambles, dead trees. I envisioned him in pain and bleeding after being cut from barbed wire or jabbed from downed limbs when he ran. I imagined him trying to walk all those miles home, exhausted and barely alive after the journey, then being unable to make it to us. I tried not to think about him being hit by a car or being caught and sitting for the rest of his life in a cold animal shelter cage. I pictured Ly and wondered how we could explain that Lincoln—”his pet,” as we say—was gone; this, after we had lost our cat Peach to cancer only months earlier. I saw our tabby boy’s little face and how happy he was each time we met at his stray colony, how he chirped for us, rolled over for belly rubs in the dirt, played with sticks and twigs. I remembered how many fleas were biting him when we brought him home and squeezed Revolution between his shoulder blades—how the next day, our bathroom floor was peppered black. And I realized again and again that I was Lincoln’s chosen human—the one he loved and trusted most. He chose me, and I did not protect him. I did not keep him safe.

“I now know the answer to that age-old question,” I told Andy. “The one that asks, ‘Is it better to have loved and lost or not loved at all?’ It is similar to ‘Is it better to have tasted utopia or not at all?’ I now know the answer: It is better to not have loved—to never have had utopia.”

My heart felt as if it were being clawed knowing I had given Lincoln love and a utopia only for him to lose both, and there was no way I could tell him or show him that I was sorry. There was no way I could apologize, and I would never forgive myself.

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↠ DAY TWO: MONDAY, MARCH 9 ↞

With Peggy’s advice at heart, Andy went to a print shop solo, then walked the streets, spreading word about Lincoln’s disappearance. He slipped fliers into page protectors and put them up at intersections and in businesses, and he handed out half sheets to people.

My thought was handing people half sheets reminded them of Lincoln, what he looked like, and multiple ways to help versus fliers that only requested calling if there were sightings. Many critical steps could happen before Lincoln could even be seen.

“Cameras find cats,” Peggy had said, pointing out that there were trail cameras, game cameras, and ring cameras that many people already had access to and used, so I stressed monitoring cameras by putting that bullet first.

While Andy took to the physical streets, I tackled the online ones. Armed again with my computer, I contacted cat rescue organizations, animal rescue organizations, and our veterinarian center. Meanwhile, my aunt offered to send out Lincoln’s flier and contact her neighbors. With her recommendation, I signed up to Nextdoor, a social networking app for people in the same neighborhood, and I made a post in the area Lincoln went missing. My sister also signed up to Nextdoor, spreading the word about Lincoln’s local disappearance too.

Around this time, my phone dinged: It was Chouffe’s family. They apologized for the delayed response and empathized over Lincoln’s escape. They recommended setting up trail cameras that send pictures to your phone, putting food out, and notifying neighbors. They shared that they hired a professional tracker who was able to verifying a sighting was of their beloved Chouffe. Turns out, the tracker they hired was the exact one we hired.

Then they shared more on their story, and combined with what I knew and what they shared, there were major similarities in our cats’ escapes: Both of our cats were once strays who were trapped, neutered, and released. Both were large tabby boys. Both were lost in rural areas that were 25 to 30 miles from home. Both were microchipped because both had families that love and miss them.

“I wish you all the luck in the world,” Chouffe’s family wrote, and I cried. I cried because I had texted them when I maybe should not have; I cried because I wanted to know them, to help them, to find their Chouffe; and I cried because they had not found their son, yet they were offering help to find ours.

Our worlds felt harsh but in that harshness, they had paused to message me back. Again, “humbling” is the best way I can describe this.

Wanting to prove I was worthy of their time, I leaned towards overcompensating. I took to the land. Walking up and down the barbed wire fence, I felt there had to be a clue as to whether Lincoln went past the wire. I looked at every barb—most were uncovered but some held cow or deer hair. Then I spotted it—a lower barb containing two very fine, very short tabby hairs, and the spot formed a straight line from where Lincoln had run after he escaped.

I couldn’t believe it—they were undeniably Lincoln’s hairs. It was our first clue as to where Lincoln had gone—our first tangible evidence that our son did, in fact, go into the woods.

As happy as I was to have proof, it was also heartbreaking. The hope that Linc had hunkered down in the hay shed was gone, and instead he had left the semi-safety of the farm for woodland that ran acre upon acre—so vast state parks have less land. I choked on the feeling that Lincoln, Andy, and I were tiny and insignificant and the world so large that it was unsearchable.

“You’d have better luck finding a needle in a haystack,” my uncle had told me when I showed him a picture of our tabby child during the search.

“He blends in with everything,” and his hand waved to the fallen brown leaves, the brown limbs and downed trees, the brown dirt, the grey rocks, the black shadows, the sunlight on the ground.

I knew Lincoln was camouflaged. I knew his cropped ear—to those knowledgeable—would indicate he was intended to remain a stray. I knew we were in an area where people yelled cats off their properties and an area where people shoot cats for target practice.

“I know it will be impossible to find him. But we need to find him,” I had said. There was no plea in my voice, only a demand.

Now, though, the word “impossible” took on a different meaning as those two thin tabby hairs remained under the barbed wire. Finding Lincoln was not impossible—something impossible was rooted in logic. Finding Lincoln felt delusional.

When Andy returned, I showed him the hairs I believed were Lincoln’s. I felt like I was unveiling the most fragile secret, and I shook as I pointed feet away. I had marked the hairs with a stick that pointed at that exact location for fear of bringing my scent too close for when the tracker and her K9 arrived. But I wanted to protect those two cherished hairs. If the wind blew, if they left, if Andy did not see—I held my breath as tears streamed from my eyes. There were only a few moments of hope I felt while Lincoln was lost, and this was one.

Andy bent towards the hairs and gave a glance so quick I worried he had not seen before he stood resolute. “Yep—that’s Lincoln. There’s no doubt in my mind. That’s Lincoln’s hair.”

Hope beamed in my chest as we stood side-by-side and turned our attention to the open woods.

“We’ll find him, L. We’ll find him, and we’ll bring him home.”

Andy has a way of being overly positive—a trait that, at times, I both despise and admire.

Now, though, I was deeply appreciative because I needed him to believe so that I could believe.

* * * * *

The biggest move thus far came that night when my brother-in-law arrived in sheer darkness with night vision goggles.

“Hey,” he murmured so quietly that the greeting could have been the wind. I hadn’t heard a twig snap or a frog or insect pause in its music. Yet, there Nick was, standing on the other side of the barbed wire fence, ready as promised for his search.

A note on Nick that would not be obvious in my writing: Nick has a one year old at home, and his wife (my sister) had just given birth to their second child merely three days before our search for Lincoln, so this meant there was also a newborn waiting for him at home too. But Nick still came—the moment I called my sister when Lincoln went missing, he came. Two days after that, he returned to scour the woods at night. He also works a demanding job that requires long hours, on-call shifts, and call-ins at all hours of the day and night. And still Nick returned.

If I you had asked me to describe what a hero looked like, I would have described my brother-in-law.

He set off, methodically, meticulously, and quietly, combing the woods for Lincoln. He was gone for hours—so long that I texted him to ensure he was okay and knew his way back to us and our campsite.

When he arrived, he seemed a contradiction—happy but also deflated. “I thought I had him,” he said, and I could feel the warmth of hope coming from his body. “It’s really quiet back there—it’s surprising how there’s actually nothing, so it took me awhile, but I just kept walking. Then I came across something—something Lincoln’s size—and I hoped it was him. I kept following and getting closer … but it was a skunk.” His warmth drained and he stood, cold. “I saw two skunks, deer, and squirrels—all near a stream—so I thought that would be a good place for Lincoln … but it was only a skunk.”

I did not sleep again that night as I listened to the occasional light snap of twigs around our tent.

“Lincoln?” I whispered now and each night after this. “Is that you, honey? Time’a-go-to-bed. Mummy loves you, but time’a-go-to-bed, baby.”

The moonlight was bright, and it streamed into our tent so that if something stood outside our tent door, it would be silhouetted. As if on cue, I saw Lincoln walk up—nervous and slow, barely moving as he approached. Eventually, he gained confidence enough to lightly paw at the bottom of the tent to get inside.

“Lincoln?” I whispered, scared my voice would cause him to run. “It’s mummy, honey. It’s mummy,” and tears started to well in my eyes as he remained tense but did not leave. “Come to mummy, Lincoln,” and I started to sit up, stretching my arms out …

Then I woke up, and those tears that had welled in my eyes slipped down my cheeks.

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↠ DAY THREE: TUESDAY, MARCH 10 ↞

Never have Andy and I wished a day would end as much as we did the moment we woke because we were one day from the tracker, her K9, and an infrared drone operator’s aid in our search for our son.

In fact, I had been awake since 12:00 a.m. because of the dream I confused with reality. However, remaining awake has benefits like obsessively researching ways to find your lost cat.

I learned the first 24 to 48 hours are the most critical—it is when a lost pet may come out from hiding and that is when there is a risk it could panic and move further from its escape location. Determined we needed to act faster to find Lincoln, I took to Facebook again and typed an update.

“There has been no sound or sight of him, which is unnerving and heartbreaking, but trackers and animals rescue experts all say this is normal,” I wrote.

I begged them to keep sharing Lincoln’s Facebook lost post. “We simply need to know where Linc is right now …. This could take week or months. Please. The more people, the more hope—and everyone helping fills us with more hope than I can possibly word or thank you.”

I still struggle to explain how meaningful the words from family, friends, and strangers meant to us. It was hard to be positive without a trace of Lincoln, but more people reached out each day, asking about his disappearance and donating empathy, hope, and kindness. Their words continued to fuel me into action.

Researching further made me realized there was a great example of a lost cat who was brought safely back home. Enter Francine the Lowe’s cat.

This feline arrived in the garden center of a Richmond, Virginia Lowe’s in 2017 and soon had employees providing her water and food before naming her Francine. Over the years, locals came to adore Francine, making special trips simply to see or pet her. Her friendly demeanor only made them love her more and allowed her to became the store’s so-called mascot.

Here’s where the story gets more interesting: After 11 years at this one store turned home, Francine suddenly disappeared. Massive searches were held; 246 cameras and multiple infrared drones and traps were used as the search for her received local and national attention. Turns out, she had secretly boarded a distribution truck and traveled down to another state’s distribution center.

I took mental notes on Francine’s rescue, keeping track of what was done and who was contacted. Then, I did the same so that by the time Andy woke up, I was buzzing with plans.

I had already emailed everyone who helped get Francine home, such as infrared drone companies and multiple Richmond SPCA departments, but then I cast a wider net. For instance, if I saw Richmond Animal Care and Control assisted in finding Francine, I contacted every shelter, animal control, animal organization, and animal emergency center in and around the area Lincoln went missing. All were provided information on what happened, my request to keep eyes out for Lincoln, and Lincoln’s flier.

I’ll note, too, I learned that SOS Cats RVA and Professional Pet Trackers both helped in the search for Francine, and I cannot express to you how gleeful I was that they were on our side to find Lincoln.

“Peggy said cameras found Francine,” I told Andy. “We need cameras.”

By the afternoon, four trail cameras were posted, including one pointed into the hay shed (which Andy also called the hay barn) Lincoln bolted past and where we had set out water and food for him.

The moment they were connected to our phones, we obsessed over new pictures and videos; and when new pictures and videos did not arrive, we forced the cameras to take pictures and videos for us. But there was no Lincoln on any camera, and each check without our tabby made me more disheartened.

“It’s daytime,” Andy told me. “He won’t come out during the daytime because it is more risky. He will have more confidence when it is dark. If we are going to see him, we are going to see him at night.”

The conviction Andy had each time he told me this when I checked and rechecked the cameras—it was his conviction of truth, and I held onto it as my conviction of hope.

* * * * *

That night, Andy and I dipped into our tent with full bellies. I had stopped at a nearby gas station for batteries for our lights, and the woman behind the counter smiled at me.

“Here,” she said. “Would you like warm sandwiches? We are about to close so they need to go or else they will be trashed.”

I remember staring at her in wonder.

“Are you okay?” she asked me.

“I’m so sorry,” I started, stumbling on my emotion and stuttering on my words. “It’s just that my husband and I lost our cat—he’s our son—we put his lost flier here—I don’t know if you saw? His name is Lincoln—he’s a tabby. I was allowed to put up his flier—” and I motioned to the back of the tiny store where a different employee had let me tape Lincoln’s lost flier to the window … though saying “he let me” is a bit of a stretch. I essentially broke down when he told me no, I could not put Lincoln’s lost flier on the door, so when I began sobb at the counter with people waiting in line behind me, the flustered man quickly pointed to the back of the store—the very back corner—and said, “Go, go! It’s fine!”

“Oh, I did see your cat poster—I’m so sorry,” the woman said, and if empathy could have been tangible, I felt it hug me.

“You did?!” I asked as I started to tear up. “We’ve been wild camping—I mean, we’ve been living out of a tent since we lost him, and we haven’t showered and haven’t really eaten—no dinner—three days—and I only just realized when you asked—and your kindness—your—”

“Honey, take the sandwiches. Take all of them—unless you have a preference?”

I shook my head, openly crying in front of her.

“Here—here are four sandwiches” and she placed all of them into a carrier bag. “They’re hot too.

And you come back every night you need to for more. I promise, it’s fine.”

I wanted to hop over the counter and hug her because I could not speak words to thank her.

“What is your name?” I asked as I read her name tag. This savior was Michelle.

When I returned to Andy, I felt like as if I had hunted and brought back food to our den that would ensure our survival. I felt humbled, proud, and emotional as we unwrapped three bologna and cheese sandwiches and one chicken and cheese sandwich. They were warm and tasted the way a dinner tasted when you had not had hot food or a meal in three days—delicious.

With full stomaches, we climbed into our tent, warm in more ways than one. Night settled, and we held our breaths as the howl of prowling coyotes neared us. Twigs snapped next to our tent, and we continued to stealthily pop in and out all night, hoping to see our son’s reflected eyes in our lights. Still, there was nothing. No sign of Lincoln. No sign of any wildlife.

Andy fell asleep and snored next to me, no doubt exhausted both physically and emotionally. However, I needed to stay awake. I needed to check and recheck our trail cameras. I saw deer and opossum, but again, no Lincoln. So I kept checking and rechecking, checking and rechecking, checking and …

* * * * *

It was 10:11 at night when I got a text message.

My breath caught in my throat, though I steadied expectations. The chance encounter with a different cat was high, which meant the chance encounter with ours unlikely.

Immediately, I got back a one-word response of “Okay” as I waited for a picture. Two minutes went by, then a picture of a beautiful tabby—of a cat who undoubtedly could be Lincoln. The cat was sitting, leaning towards the camera on the back of someone’s black chair or sofa. The cat looked similar to Lincoln in its tabby pattern, white chin, and large, interested green eyes. Still something was off. Something was wrong.

“And …” I said, and here a once ridiculous fear I have harbored suddenly became real.

“I wouldn’t be able to identify Lincoln!” I have always told Andy from the moment we adopted our boy. “If I stood in a room full of tabby cats, I would not be able to identify my own son.” I felt useless, a horrible mother.

“Sure you would!” Andy always answered with a laugh. “You know what he looks like,” and we would stare at our perfect son.

“I promise you—I wouldn’t,” I would say every time before crying. It was a ridiculous imagined situation where I would, first, need to identify Lincoln and, two, be in a room surrounded by tabby cats so that I needed to find only ours. Yet, even though the thought was unrealistic, I could not stop hyper fixating on my faults. To improve, I even requested Andy sending me a daily picture of either a Googled random tabby cat or a tightly cropped Lincoln. If I answered correctly, it was not genuine accuracy because I was aided by the familiarity of a sliver of background. After failing, Andy would point out all the features that make Lincoln unique—the flecks of brown in his green eyes, his barely white chin, the tabby pattern on his forehead and legs, his black skunk-strip on his back, his cartoon paws that are full circles with the appearance of straight black lines drawn where claws were, and the list went on … but instead of finding comfort, I would cry more because Andy was able to see how Lincoln had all of these differences and because Andy was so confident … but I was still clueless.

Yet, this hypothetical situation and all those identify discussions somehow lead us here to where I was forced to play this game except—the sadder part—was that there was no room with tabbies so there was no guarantee just one could be Lincoln.

“And …” I said, shaking him out of his sleep. “Someone with an email address starting with “LauraJenny” just texted me saying she found our cat … and it looks like Lincoln … but I don’t think it is Lincoln … but I don’t know why.”

A minute passed when I got another text:

By now Andy had returned my phone to me. Within a flash of his sight, he was done. “That’s not Lincoln,” he told me.

But I had to understand—if it was not Lincoln, who was it? And who was the person sending the texts?

A minute went by before a reply:

That’s when I noticed the writing style—it was identical to mine. The road names were in the same order I put them, the word “near” also used, and the intersection only without no more description typed—all were precise to Lincoln’s lost flier.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “How and where?” I repeated.

Passing by the area? Heading home? Sure, people live in the area Lincoln was lost and, sure, they have to go to their homes, but I now felt anger rising as my heart pounded against my chest. How dare LauraJenny not provide more information. How dare she not even fabricate a better story. Now I was invested.

My question was cold despite wanting to keep the person texting, and her answer came back right away.

“‘He looked worried’?!” I yelled before repeating my question that was more an exclamation. “‘He looked worried’?!” My anger had turned to rage as I messaged back.

I don’t know why I was baiting LauraJenny, but she had baited me first and now I was not letting go.

Two minutes later, I got a text of “Ok” then a second tabby picture—again of a tabby that very well could have been Lincoln. The cat had gotten down from the furniture and was stretched on a wood floor.

But I saw now what Andy had seen. That cat—whose ever real or created cat that was—that was not our Lincoln for reasons Andy and I know but for reasons I will not say because I do not want scammers to outsmart owners. LauraJenny had wasted enough of my time, and I was done.

One minute later, the last response:

To you, LauraJenny, maybe you were trying to help. Maybe you really did save a cat, and I need to be less suspicious. But if you had ill will, may the fate of the words in my last sentence find you.

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↠ DAY FOUR: WEDNESDAY, MARCH 11 ↞

Anticipation pulled Andy and I from our tent early because today felt like the end-all be-all day: Professional Pet Trackers would join the search for our son.

“Good morning, Lincoln!” Andy and I called as we woke and got out of our tent. Since the start to our nightmare of Linc’s escape, we had clung desperate to routine, striving to create similar sounds and sights to pull Lincoln from his hiding spot. One of those routines was greeting our boys the moment we wake, so we maintained this for Lincoln, not knowing if he could even hear us.

Then there were their buttons—the ones that bridge the gap between our communication. After the insightful suggestions from our friends and family, we brought several of our sons’ buttons to farm. Between calls of “Good morning” and walks in the woods each day to search for Lincoln, Andy and I each held two buttons, so that we activated a repeated sentence as we moved: “I love you” “Lincoln,” we activated. “Mummy” “Dad” “I love you” “Lincoln.”

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