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↠ DAY FIVE: THURSDAY, MARCH 12 ↞
After Andy and I saw and zoomed in on pictures from a trail camera that was posted at the rear of a farm hay shed where our beloved cat Lincoln had fled, we were able to make our first undeniable sighting.
This was Lincoln. This was our son.
And that positive identification allowed us to move to our next step: It was time to trap him.
The trap was placed inside of the hay shed due to it being the most consistent and most recent place we had seen Lincoln. Covering the trap sides and top with hay, we left the back hayless to give the appearance that the trap was an escape-able tunnel (this, we learned, was suggested).
Then we put food inside it, but left his water outside it.
The last step: We added one of our new cameras inside the hay shed and turned it to face the trap.
Now all we could do was wait …
* * * * *
Andy was again snoring—every night, the exhaustion of the day overtook him whereas adrenaline would not stop racing through me. Temperatures reached freezing and then dipped below, causing me to shiver despite having on two base layers—one of which was wool—a wool sweater, a hoodie with the hood up, a Buff, and fleece-lined knit hat.
I moved closer to Andy in an effort to warm, but when that did not happen, I woke him, asking if he could wrap the top of his warmer and larger sleeping bag over mine.
The weather had been all over the place. One day it was above 85o F; the next, it was raining, hailing, and snowing. Wind gusts were picking up, too, so much so that later this night, a large tree would snap and crash to the ground.
This was only a preview of what was to come because we had learned a large storm was set to move through our area Monday through Wednesday, and with it, 20o temperatures and high winds that would likely spawn tornadoes.
This brought a whole new level of tension and pressure. If we could not trap Lincoln in time or if the area changed or if he felt threatened or scared, he could be in a new place, and we would be forced to start the process to find him again, except next time we may not be so “lucky.”
There was no comparison to how much we wanted to bring him home now, so I had to force myself to see the positives and not play the “could” or “or” game. As I sat and laid and rolled over and sat again in our tent, phone in hand, looking at our trail cameras, I kept telling myself one message: We can do this. We can bring home our son.
* * * * *
Hours later, fog was setting in so much so that I almost missed the shadowy image inside the hay shed. I increased the light on my camera for a better look …
There was a cat walking next to the trap Andy and I had put down, and I now knew with confidence that the cat was Lincoln.
↠ DAY SIX: FRIDAY, MARCH 13 ↞
It goes without saying that each day Lincoln was gone was stressful, primarily because Andy and I lacked control.
Even if we had followed every cat-catching rule, there was little to do but hope—hope to spot Linc, hope to trap him, and hope to take him back home. That put a significant amount of hope into one Lincoln-bucket. At some point, hope would cease, and there would be no more to add …
But we had to move forward while we could, so I busied myself with improving the trap. I was hyper fixated on the task, which is why Andy greeted my uncle when he rode up in his pickup truck and telepathically requested to speak to us.
“Your uncle says he needs to move the hay,” Andy said when he returned, and I would have focused on figuring out if Andy was baffled, angry, or upset had it not taken me a longer amount of time to process his words. Surely—and I do mean surely—Andy had not said what I thought he said.
“Your uncle,” he repeated, “says he needs to move the hay. Something about someone with horses coming to get the hay today or tomorrow or something.”
I confess I lost my sanity, along with any chance of even one iota of it returning.
“Did he explain what was happening? Can he ask the person if they would be willing to wait?” My words seemed a question, but they were a statement.
“I don’t know,” Andy told me.
“Did he ask if there was any way the person would be willing to get hay from somewhere else?” Again, a statement.
“I don’t know,” Andy repeated.
“Did you tell my uncle that we would pay for the price of the hay due to him missing this collection? And if he is worried the person will not return for hay, I will pay the price of the hay for a horse’s lifetime!”
“L—” Andy started.
“Did you tell my uncle that we will gladly pay the hay person for the hay at another location? We can pay double the price due to the inconvenience!”
“L—I know,” Andy barely got out.
But I was erupting. Loss, pain, grief, anger, trust, more all created one hell of a reaction.
“Maybe you can talk to him,” Andy said, but my uncle had already left.
I’ll pause here to say one personality trait I take pride in is the ability to take in another’s view. I may not agree, but I do take time to not only understand another view but understand the impact of that view. This means I was well aware that my uncle is a farmer, and farming is his livelihood. Further, farming is not for the faint of heart, so forming sentimental attachments with animals serves no good as it weakens a person to deeds that need to be done. Also, I understood that we were walking and camping and searching and posting cameras on his property—and that he had allowed us to be there.
But this is also where I falter because while I take the time to understand another side, I expect others to do the same for me. We do not have to agree, but the common courtesy of simply listening, processing the situation, having empathy, and then making a decision is all I ask. Yet, it was that reciprocity that was lacking.
A couple hours of later, I found my uncle’s pickup and took my time walking to it because I was mentally preparing for the conversation we were about to have …
I started casual, telling him I had heard that someone may need to collect hay soon, and then I asked if he could alert the hay buyer of the situation to see if it was possible they could get hay from another location just this one time and that I would support both my uncle and the hay buyer due to the trouble. He shook his head because my logic was not his logic—and that was fine.
“Why does this cat mean so much to you?” he threw back, but when I answered with emotion, I realized my response served no purpose—and that was fine, too, because we were different people of different situations.
Next, I moved to humor with a coating of truth. “You have a chance to be a hero,” I told my uncle. “People will write stories and sing songs about you. Seriously—you can be a hero.”
“I ain’t no hero,” my uncle muttered while rolling his eyes. “People aren’t gonna write stories about me.”
Ah, but one person will. And instead of being a hero, let’s say my uncle chose to be a villain. But instead of burdening you with this, I will end saying the following:
Andy and I realized there are heroes in places beyond one pickup truck, and it is because of them that the hay in that shed was untouched. We will forever be in your debt.
* * * * *
That night my aunt texted me, asking if Andy and I wanted to join her and my uncle for dinner. They were having barbecue, potato salad, and coleslaw—and my mouth watered at the mere thought of those foods. She had invited us to eat with them other nights too—even encouraged us to sleep at their house. But I knew we had to decline. An invisible boundary line had been highlighted after the conversation with my uncle, and I could not further overstep. Mainly if it meant risking missing Lincoln.
* * * * *
It was around 8:00 p.m. when the picture came in …
If there had been any doubt in my mind as to whether the cat we had seen was Lincoln, the close up of the tabby stripes and spots and even cropped ear removed any suspicion.
But as much comfort as the picture brought that our boy was so close, this picture proved problematic: Lincoln was in the graveyard, and he had not been seen in this area before. That meant he was feeling more comfortable and more confident to explore, and these were actions we did not want.
“But it’s him!” Andy exclaimed. We were tucked together in our tent, hovering over my phone—staring at our picture the same way I imagine new parents stare at their newborns when they are first brought home. “We have to be grateful that this is simply him.”
We forced more pictures, too, but already Lincoln had vanished—our brief ghost cat in the graveyard.
Four hours later, I was still awake, listening to Andy snore and rechecking, then forcing picture after picture from all cameras. Where had Lincoln gone? I asked myself. How far was he exploring?
That’s when my answer came …
Ever faithfully, our boy had returned to the hay shed where he paced back and forth. I woke Andy the moment I saw him, and we had watched together as Lincoln walked. I had to believe the smell of food inside the new trap made him question what to do … so much so that he ended up leaving.
By now, adrenaline was rushing through Andy. For six days, I had been the sole one to keep watch overnight as he slept. The cameras’ images had turned into an addiction that could only be cured by seeing Lincoln, but even then, I still wanted to see more pictures and videos.
“You can go to sleep. I’m going to watch,” Andy whispered dismissively, and I knew he was not being rude. I recognized that focus and that important job, which is why—for the first time since Lincoln went missing—I leaned back, curled up in my sleeping bag, and immediately dropped into a deep sleep …
* * * * *
“Damn stressful!!!!” my mother texted me.
Since she and my sister had the ability to access our trail cameras, the three of us would have overnight watch parties—my sister joining when she nursed her newborn at various times and my mother having something similar to insomnia, though Lincoln missing only encouraged that condition. Anyway, we would message back and forth at all hours of the night to express exasperation and heartache and discuss what we saw. I had woken when my mom messaged at 1:55 a.m., and not only was I immediately alerted that something involving Lincoln was happening, but my mom cursed—and she never curses.
Instantly logging in, I saw several pictures of Lincoln perfectly sitting in the middle of our new hay shed interior camera …
He sat looking at the trap as if contemplating going inside it. Scanning and scanning, he turned his head left before looking directly into the camera, then right and into the camera again …
“I know,” I heard Andy whisper when I went to wake him, but he was still up. “I’ve been watching him.”
Moving closer to the trap, Lincoln began to pace again, and I imagined his little belly growling in hunger. Again, he could smell his food, but the new structure made him cautious because he began to pace again …
Realizing only his water bowl was out, he gave the area one last check before going to the entrance of the trap …
With bated breath, the three of us watched as one minute pushed the boundary of time and stretched beyond reason. Right when we felt we could wait no longer, another picture came in, and the heartbreak was unimaginable …
The door had triggered early, startling Lincoln who stood outside the trap with a curled tail and tucked bottom!
A common trap fear had been highlighted—if some cats realize that they were going to be trapped, they would refused to go near or into the trap in the future. Plus, Lincoln had direct experience being trapped at least once before (this, evident by his cropped ear which signified that he had been through a trap-neuter/spay-release program). The combination of these two trap experiences were not in our favor.
However, as we watched, Lincoln approached the closed trap door almost as if he longed to go in but could not figure out how!
Not wanting to miss this night’s opportunity to bring Lincoln home, Andy moved quickly and quietly to the hay shed to reset the trap …
“I SAW HIM!” Andy breathed as he flung off his shoes and threw himself into the tent. “He was in front of the other hay shed—the one where I originally put the camera—and he was just sitting there, and he looked at me, and I looked at him—and I wanted to talk to him and go to him, but I didn’t say or do anything like we talked about—I just went right up, fixed the trap, and left. But when I came back, Lincy was already gone.” He struggled for breath, though he had not run back to the tent. Without waiting for my reaction, he grabbed his phone and checked each camera but still, we did not see Lincoln then or for the rest of the night.
“[W]e are holding onto what feels like the world’s amount of hope swelling inside our two bodies,” I typed so that I could be ready to send a morning update as soon as possible to the many compassionate people who wanted to get Lincoln home.
↠ DAY SEVEN: SATURDAY, MARCH 14 ↞
At this point in our search, Andy and I operated like clockwork. Every morning we put on clean shirts and socks so that at the end of the hard, sweaty day, we had new scent items to hang off every trail camera. We started doing this after Carmen told us a story—I believe this is how it went. They had tracked a cat that had been lost for a while. Its family put out trail cameras, and one day dangled scent items from each camera. Not long after doing this, the cat was seen approaching and smelling one of its family’s scent items. It appeared to miss its family as much as they missed it, and while sad, that close proximity to the camera allowed for a positive identification, and the cat was rescued.
After clean clothes went on, I took to updating Lincoln’s Facebook lost post. So many of our friends and friends-of-friends (whom we did not know) messaged and called us to check in, offer assistance, and share personal stories of their lost and reunited cats.
All of these connections were touching and beyond meaningful, and I cannot say enough how they came at the most needed time.
Their energy carried us through the day and we moved in a flurry to get tasks done, but when night and I became stationary, my energy and positivity waned …
“In your heart of hearts, do you think Lincoln will never be trapped, so he will live now at the farm?” I texted my mom.
“Not at all,” she wrote back immediately. “I think tonight is the night.”
I asked Andy the same question before he went to sleep—I had to hear his answer. “I need you to be honest with me—not optimistic but realistic. Do you honestly think we will find Lincoln and bring him home?” My eyes started to tear.
“Tonight, L,” he responded with a fire in his eyes that made me believe. “Tonight. We will find Lincoln and bring him home.”
* * * * *
A little after 8:00 p.m., Lincoln was also operating like clockwork, returning to the hay shed for dinner. He looked directly into the camera at me with his little face so close that I felt I could pet it and then remove the piece of dangling hay from his chin.
It is important to point that we had improved the trap in multiple ways, including purchasing a larger trap to decrease the chance for early triggers, placing our smelly clothing above the trap to help guide Linc inside, and lying our dirty clothing on the trap’s floor to reduce the feel of metal so that the floor was more desirable.
I had also lightly scattered wet food outside the trap to lead him in, along with flinging it inside on the trap’s walls. Tonight, we had the benefit that Linc was hungry after going without dinner last night, so we were hopeful that we could be reunited.
Yet, he did not go into the trap at 8:00 p.m. Instead, he waited in front of it and stared at it, but he never moved closer …
* * * * *
“The opossum is back!” my sister texted about one hour later, and it was as if her howl from afar woke me.
“Oh no!!!” my mother gasped, and our watch party of three began again as our eyes followed the same large opossum who had strutted into the hay shed since we put out Lincoln’s food. This time, we could see the opossum also considering entering the trap.
“I swear to everything holy, y’all,” I wrote back. Despite the circumstance, knowing they were watching our cameras and we were messaging was a comfort of tremendous proportions as I sat in full anxiety and imagined them the same. Maybe misery loves company or maybe there was a common mission or maybe it was a combination of both, but we all hunkered down, held our breaths, and watched.
Other than being curious, the opossum committed no crimes, and after several minutes, it sauntered away. My sister left as well, exhausted with her newborn and the stress of Lincoln’s disappearance. That left only my mom and me as Andy slept on my right. But I did not want to wake him, worried any noise, any move would trigger a change in the environment and that would affect bringing Lincoln to the shed.
Nearly another hour passed before our cameras triggered picture after picture, allowing me to track Lincoln as he walked from the hay shed where Andy had seen him after the premature trap closure …
as he snuck alongside the rear of the hay shed he frequents …
and as he waited inside that shed …
Again, he paced in front of the new trap before sitting to stare, then glance at the camera, and it was almost as if he knew I was watching—as if he were asking for my help.
But I was frozen, trying to hold breaths, blinks, and heartbeats so that Lincoln could simply contemplate bravery.
“He is right there! Why won’t he go in?!?!?!” my mother begged the question I asked myself even though I knew the answer. He was scared and confused and lost and alone, and I cried because I was also all of those feelings too, except I knew I was near Linc and Andy but lost and alone all the same. I sobbed for every moment that got the three of us here and how there was no end in sight. My tears made my phone’s screen unable to refresh pictures, so I wiped them off with my sleeve and waited.
There was this picture and nothing more …
Anxiety and fear overwhelmed me as I considered what this meant …
Our trail cameras had missed entries and exits from Lincoln every single time, so it was probable that Lincoln had walked away, disappearing once more into the night. However, the other option was obvious because it was the goal we had been working to achieve: Lincoln had gone inside the trap—and my stomach turned at the anticipation of what this would mean, but if I forced a picture, the red light would cast out, and he was so close to going in that even a tiny change like this could affect his bravery.
“Think of it as a marathon, not a sprint,” Carmen had said, but suddenly I was running so fast I was tripping.
At my heels, my shame, sorrow, and guilt over losing Lincoln; my uncle’s plan to dismantle the only unfamiliar place Linc associated with safety; an approaching storm with freezing temperatures and tornadoes; and my depleted annual leave that caused panicked over what Monday would mean.
Time was running out, and I needed Lincoln to be brave. I needed him to get into the trap. I needed him to be home.
As if the build up of emotion and significance of the moment affected all around us, hunting dogs started barking and howling, guns fired, Andy snored louder, and the tobacco barn’s tin roof slammed down in the wind.
Please have there be calmness. Please have there be calmness. Please have there be calmness, I kept repeating over and over in the ten minutes I had agreement with myself to wait before forcing a picture. Please have there be calmness. I was trying to bend the will of the world and manifest destiny …
Then, suddenly there was no sound—no dogs, no guns, no snores, no roof. Not even insects chirping. All was silent. And ten minutes had passed. I refreshed the camera.
The trap door had closed, and Lincoln was not in sight.
I wept and shook so much that I struggled to wake Andy, and all of my energy went into one question: “Is the trap closed?” I kept asking as he took my camera, and instantly he was awake.
“Yes!” he announced.
From there, we determined our plan—we would walk to the hay shed together, and I would confirm if our son was inside because he would find most comfort seeing me; and if he was not there, Andy would reset the trap because he was faster and smoother.
We walked up hand-in-hand, silent in case the trap faultily triggered again and Linc was still near. I climbed over the fence, dipped down, and peered in …
The two large green eyes of our son looked back me. He was not frantic or pacing or pawing. He was calm with a look that honest to everything said he was happy to be trapped because he understood what it meant. He looked at me as if he knew I would be there.
“IT’S HIM, ANDY! IT’S HIM! WE GOT HIM! WE GOT HIM!” and I sobbed and shook, but by the time I turned around, Andy was already running to the car, putting the next phase of our plan in action.
In seconds, I opened both fence gate, and Andy and I lifted the trap together, then placed it inside the car.
Our nightmare was over. We had lived a lifetime in a week, but we did it. We could finally bring Lincoln home.
↠ DAY EIGHT: SUNDAY, MARCH 15 ↞
“This morning, Lincoln purrs loudly, very vocally tells us his tales, and raises his own tail in happiness,” I typed. “He cannot get enough head butts and teeth rubs on our face, and one and half hours after waking this morning, he walked to a button: ‘Brush,’ he said for the few buttons we have left on the floor, so Andy brushed him. Then ‘Fly’, he activated, so Andy played with him and his favorite toy. Now—I kid you not—he keeps going back to paw the air above where the “I love you” button was (but it is in our tent, which we abandoned in our rush to get him home).
We are so so so fortunate and aware many stories do not end like ours, which is why I want to share the full story of Lincoln’s escape soon, telling what we learned to help others and thanking the many who got us through this.”
This would be our last Lincoln Facebook lost post update.
It has now been four weeks since we welcomed Lincoln back home. We get asked often if he even realizes what happened, if he understands what we went through. You tell me …
When my alarm goes off for work, he jumps on the bed before I can even turn my alarm off. Then he purrs and purrs, so happy Andy and I woke up. This is new.
He has developed a new chirp, which he uses when he wants to be seen. Sometimes he will be in a different part of the apartment, and we hear his chirp; other times, he will walk up to us and chirp, but each time all he wants is affection.
He was once leery of Andy, and now Andy can pet him, kiss him, and wrap his arms around Lincoln to hold him. Andy is even able to rub and scratch his belly—new territory, too, because both of us were not brave enough to try that before.
Linc falls asleep quickly and deeply, rolling on his back with his legs splayed above his head and to his sides. Often his little mouth falls open, and he snores loudly.
But what is the most adorable and heartbreaking is when he does sleep—whether a quick nap or a deep rest—he will awake suddenly, quickly scan the room, then run to me as if terrified he has lost me. And when Linc is by my side, he chirps before collapsing and rolling over with his belly up. Then he purrs and purrs, rubbing his face, teeth, and gums all over face.
So that answer to the question people ask: I wish I could express to you how happy and thankful he is.
It is as if Lincoln genuinely understands what happened and as if he knows we will go through all lengths to ensure he is with us forever.
In the end, we are so fortunate and aware many stories do not end like ours, which is why we felt compelled to open up and share the details of Lincoln’s escape, all done to get him back, what Andy and I learned in the hopes of helping others. And I would be amiss if I did not speak of our appreciation because our story’s miracle ending is due to everyone who helped. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I say it again, but we are so humbled and filled with love and gratitude.
↠ OUR MASSIVE THANK YOUS ↞
(in no particular order)
Our trackers with Professional Pet Trackers for coming days after my email and immediately picking up Lincoln’s scent, which allowed us to rule out where Linc was not and where he could be. Megan, Steve, Carmen, and K9 Finley, you proved that trackers do find cats. Steve and Carmen, we will cherish your honesty, kindness, response, expertise, support, humor, and friendship. It is truly because of you that our reunion with our son happened and happened so quickly.
My aunt who is more like a mother, your support never faltered, and I am grateful we have become closer over the years, but I am even more grateful to have gotten to know you on a different level through this experience. When I think of you, I think of how bright your light of kindness and compassion shines. I hope your light warms you when it is dark, and I also hope you know how very much your light warms others.
Eric and Joey, We are fortunate to call you our friends. You both showed us patience and kindness and help that was so fast, we barely knew how to process it. You are why Lincoln remained safe. We are forever in your debt.
My immediate family for caring for Lysander, supporting with immediate and effortless searches, handing out fliers, increasing our cameras, creating and maintaining our watch parties, and giving me constant hope through my wails and yells. You kept me sane.
My cousins for answering my call and gathering support, for searching, for posting your own trail camera, and for teaching us hunting techniques that we did use. You aided our efforts, and we thank you.
Tabitha and Peggy for immediately answering, offering your support, and checking in. I am humbled by your friendship Tabitha, as I find I always am. You never question my calls or texts. You just show up, and I am always left not knowing how to repay you. Please know I consider myself lucky that you are in my life. Peggy, I am also humbled that you gave such a level of care towards us when we were strangers. Knowing you were on our side with expertise, support, and supplies gave us immediate calm despite our situation.
Our friends, friends who trump the “co-worker” label, and friends-of-friends for sharing Lincoln’s Facebook lost post, texting, calling, and providing advice, offering support, and sharing personal stories. All of this filled me with the hope when I was depleted. We thank you for your hearts. We thank you for your friendship.
Chouffe‘s family, who I struggle to write. You answered my texts and my questions, and you helped me—a stranger—when you needed help. My questions pried at the worst days you experienced, and I still apologize for reaching out while also being drawn to you. Your hearts are so good, and the world is cruel and unfair—and there is not a moment that goes by when I do not realize this. I am in your debt; and for all reading, if you cared about Lincoln, care more for a tabby cat named Chouffe. His family misses him terribly, and if I could empower all of you to put your goodness into something, it would be to bring Chouffe home.
Michelle for providing us free sandwiches after an entire day of sobbing and searching. We had not considered dinner or eaten for days, and your kindness still moves me.
For anyone else we missed, please know it is not in error.
