My Florida
By Melody Murphy [melody@ocalasgoodlife.com]
The Ballad Of Shadowsox: Final Verse (And Reprise)
W
e have come to the end of the epic tale of my parents’ cat, Shadowsox—once a stray, then an outdoor cat, now an indoor cat and a living legend. When last we spoke of Shadowsox, he was on the lam, having gone spectacularly AWOL from my backyard on a full-moon night last May. I was supposed to be keeping him for a few days. The next morning, my friend Laura shrewdly deduced that he might have dashed across the road and hidden under the cemetery office. So she went and left my phone number with the staff. Later that morning, they called—someone had heard a cat meowing beneath the building. I rushed over, got down on my knees, and called his name, shining a flashlight into the shadows. No sign or sound. But the silence seemed aggrieved. That afternoon, I got a text that made my blood run cold. My mother said they would be back that day, earlier than they’d planned. I had not yet told her their cat was MIA. I gathered my courage and called to tell her the awful truth. To her credit, she took it far better than I’d expected. Then I had a brainstorm. I said, “When you get here, we’ll all go to the cemetery and walk around calling for Shadowsox. He may come if he hears your voices and Beau barking.” (Beaujangles is his canine cohort.) We went. On our second pass by the office, who should be waiting for us at the entrance to the crawl space but Shadowsox. “What took you so long?” his imperious expression said. It took a while to coax him out with food and collective cajoling. But at last, my stepfather was the hero who seized him, and clang, into the carrier went Shadowsox.
I had strong words with him through the bars. Anarchy was in his eyes.
16
OCALA’S GOOD LIFE retirement redefined
I had strong words with him through the bars. Anarchy was in his eyes. Sometimes a song ends with a reprise of the final verse, which is how Shadowsox chose to close his ballad. In July, when my parents were moving out of their house in Georgia, the cat got rattled by all the commotion and took off again. When it was time to leave, there was no sign of him. A few days later, we went back. No luck. That afternoon, we had to leave again without him. My mother was beside herself. John was glum. Beau moped. I kept thinking about Shadowsox. I know the habits of cats. They hide and sleep by day. Twilight is cat-catching time. I knew if I were there at the right hour, if I were patient and applied myself, I could catch that cat. Three days later, I clocked out at 5pm on a Tuesday and drove to Georgia. I picked up some fried chicken and sat outdoors at dusk to have my dinner, letting the aroma do its work. Then I walked around the house and its ten acres, jingling my keys and sweetly calling the cat. I’d begun to have a hunch about the backyard shed. Sure enough. There, under the shed, was Shadowsox. He meowed at me pitifully. I sat down in the grass with his food dish, feeling a strong sense of déjà vu. This time he came right out. He was hungry and lonesome and had grown tired of the fugitive life. I texted my mother with photo proof: “Please tell Beau he doesn’t have to be sad anymore. I have come to Georgia this evening and caught his very own cat to bring back to him.” Incredulous joy abounded. Feeling heroic, I drove south through the piney woods, gazing with satisfaction at the stars and fireflies. Beside me in his carrier, Shadowsox meowed every so often. It was a contented sound. I chose to think he was saying, “Never again.” It’s now six months later. So far, so good. {Strum of final chord.}
