Punky, the runaway kitty, threatens to ruin a Florida Christmas | Opinion
%20Pumpkinella,%20the%20lost%20cat%20of%20a%20Florida%20Christmas.jpg "Pumpkinella, aka Punky, the runaway kitty, threatens to ruin a Florida Christmas.")
Update: On her 11th day on the lam, Punky finally returned home on her own, hungry and in need of love, an end-of-year miracle when almost all hope of getting her back was fading. Thank you, readers, for all the good advice you sent our way.
This is one of those humorous “Oh, Florida” stories — only it’s not funny because it’s happening to me.
This entails a mad cat escape, an angry little chorus of sobbing children on the phone and a desperate search on a dark, rainy night during which people in several U.S. cities held vigil.
All for a runaway cat named Pumpkinella — Punky — for her October arrival in my youngest daughter’s life a year ago. She fled sometime Sunday after I opened the back door to let the dogs out.
As in any proper disaster, cue the helpers — a firefighter with all sorts of trapping experience in Jacksonville and a philosopher in Miami with political ideas about cat behavior — and we have a heap of sage advice and brilliant musings, but, unfortunately, no cat.
The brawn and brains of these gentlemen aside, 48 hours after Punky bolted — I had been entrusted with cat-sitting while the family was away — there was only a brief sighting by yours truly of our calendar-cute kitty.
This dilemma may not make for a good Nochebuena, but it’s great for political fodder.
“Cats? Like Republicans, they get you to think they care about you and then wander off to great distress and misery to celebrate their liberty,” says the philosopher via text.
Honestly, it sounds like some men I know from both political parties. I smelled a column.
“That’s it. . . . a parable of forgiveness,” suggests the philosopher.
“Cats are selfish,” he adds.
True, but unless Punky comes home, this critter sitter is in serious trouble, my cool mother-grandmother crown revoked as I become Grinch Who Stole Christmas.
Cats come home
Pumpkinella has a storied past.
She traveled for more than 20 miles from Orange Park on the west side of Jacksonville to the Northeast, riding on the coils of the car engine. She was burned and missing her hair in three or four places when the driver, my daughter’s neighbor, heard her meowing.
My daughter, a former veterinarian technician out on her daily run, heard the young woman scream, “OH, MY GOD!!!” She rushed to help and, little by little, pulled the baby kitty out of her hideout.
The neighbor didn’t want the cat, so my daughter brought her home, just to nurse her back to health — allegedly. She already had two others, Leah and Daisy, and two old dogs, Shiloh and Cody, all rescues.
It was love at first sight for my grandchildren Isabela and Theo, then 7 and 5, who became part of the care team.
My son-in-law was the lone holdout, but I knew he didn’t stand a chance against the charm of those three.
So Punky was given her well-earned name and a home. She’s one gritty feline.
“Punky has an M.O,” accurately notes the firefighter, an expert at “incident size-up.”
The philosopher and the firefighter, this night on overtime duty — he sends me a photo of a cat trap he just concocted at the firehouse from a laundry basket, a twig and a leaf so I can build my own — both agree on one important point: Cats come home.
But this darned cat is smarter than all of us.
To entice her, I not only leave her cat tuna at the front and back doors, but also build a trail of colorful pipe cleaners. It’s Pumpkinella’s favorite toy; she digs them out of the kids’ art drawer and spreads them all over the house.
It works!
All of a sudden, she appears, my first sighting of her in more than 24 hours.
There’s joy in Jacksonville, Charlotte, Miami and Savannah, where everyone who loves the cat has been on edge.
But when we lock eyes, my joy only makes her bolt again — and I haven’t seen Punky since. But at least the sighting soothed the children for the night.
Cat tale lessons
The clock strikes midnight.
It’s officially the first day of winter, raining and 52 degrees outside, aggravating my predicament and my worry. I lament that I left in Miami my tilo, the soothing linden leaf tea made by Badia. I seldom need it in these parts, where the temperature is always lower than in my hometown.
I will sit here, sleepless in Jacksonville, as long as I need to, I vow.
And I review the lessons of the night: Surround yourself with good, smart people who won’t leave you in your hour of need. Especially so, the wingman (or wingwoman) who need their REM sleep, but hold your hand a little longer.
People who know that forgiveness is better than recrimination for an honest mistake.
I visualize what I need: To believe in the magic of Christmas and Punky’s safe return.
Then, I fall asleep.
“Meow...” texts the firefighter at 6:49 a.m. “Inquiring minds want to know. The Punky safe, dry and warm?”
I don’t have good news.
But come afternoon, I get my miracle: The children who love Punky come home, embrace me as they always do, with great love and joy. No scorn.
There’s no Punky yet, but there is a Santa Claus.
This story was originally published December 22, 2021 at 6:00 AM.
