An Exclusive Sneak Peak at Book 2!

“Hey baby, how are things going?” I asked cheerful and relaxed from a day spent lounging in the pool with my sister and her friend, thinking that my life had become so much more peaceful now.  

“Well, I have to tell you something” Simple Man states with a distinct tone in his voice that immediately sent my nerves on edge.

“Oh my God. Is it Frenchie?” I ask, feeling my heart sink like a rock to the pit of my stomach.  I know for sure Frenchie's kidneys have crashed without me there taking care of him.  

“Oh my poor old feller! It's just like Suzie Q dying when we were on our honeymoon.  Oh I hate not being there with him. What happened? Is he alive?  Oh no, no, noooooo!” 

“Honey!” Simple Man yells trying to get a word in.  “It's not Frenchie.”  

“What?” I'm completely taken aback.  Frenchie was the only cat with a medical problem that I knew of to worry about.  

“It's Sheba. She's missing.”

My knees buckled. I hit the floor, gripping my phone like it was the only thing keeping me upright. 

“What do you mean she's missing?”  I  heard myself screaming, but it was like my voice belonged to someone else. My pulse went wild. Anxiety took over my whole body. 

Not my Sheeeeba! I wouldn’t say it out loud, because mothers aren’t supposed to have favorites, even when the “children” are cats. But Sheba was mine in a way the others weren’t.  We have what I call a soul bond.  Sheba talks.  She has a very distinct and loud meow as well as eye contact, purrs, head butts, tail swishes, you name it.  I always know what she wants, how she feels, and definitely if something is bothering her. We pretty much have the same personality traits: a little wild, a little dramatic, not afraid to whine when we're not getting our way.  

I feel Sheba. She is my heart.  I couldn’t live without our early morning “love sessions” with kisses on the lips.  I mean wet, sloppy kisses because Sheba drools when she is happy.  I often get a drip on me when she is “making biscuits” (which is what I call kneading her paws) on my belly.  Oh my God! Sheba doesn't even have front claws! This thought knocks me back into reality. 

“When? How? Why haven't you found her? She must be close!” I am screaming now, hysteria setting in.  Simple Man begins to explain.  He thinks she pushed out of a small hole in the screen porch.  

“Why would she do that? What hole?” I am in utter disbelief that my Sheba would run away. 

This was my first trip back to the states since we moved to Costa Rica.  The plan was to stay a couple weeks visiting Mama and my sister.   You need at least that amount of time to make the travel journey worth the hassle.  What I didn’t realize when we bought a house in the jungle was this: we’d also bought ourselves a four-to-six-hour drive from the international airport, depending on traffic, wrecks, and whatever weather-related chaos Costa Rica felt like serving that day. 

We were on John’s Island, South Carolina, where my sister was house/pet-sitting for a friend. We stayed in the guest house of a traditional old Southern home with a large wraparound porch.  The grounds were gorgeous with huge majestic oak trees covered with Spanish moss hanging from the branches like lace. 

The pet list was… ambitious. One huge dog, two cats, chickens, ducks and  a couple peacocks!

Even with all my pet-sitting experience, it was a comedy. Rounding up the feathered pets and herding them into their chicken coupe was quite the challenge.  The chickens were pretty well trained to strut inside to eat and find a roosting spot, but there were always one or two stragglers that didn’t follow the schedule.  We had to feed the ducks first outside of the dwelling before coaxing them inside.  Then there were the peacocks.  Don’t get me started.  They were a whole other ordeal.  Two were young and skittish and would hide; the older one ran laps around the property just to prove it could.  All you could do was have a good laugh, praying you could get them all corralled before dark.

Now if you’re thinking the dog and cats were a lot easier, think again.  The dog was the size of a small pony and in full guard dog mode.  He was super aggressive around his food, which made it almost impossible to feed him.  Luckily, he trusted my sister.  

I made the unfortunate mistake of getting too close one evening and got bit in the butt, sort of. I had a hole in my pants and a bruise where a tooth scraped my skin.

There were rules with the two cats that made them difficult to deal with, too. One had to come in for the night without letting the other one out. And the one inside was totally afraid of me. Me! The Cat Lady! 

After making sure we had plenty of time for all of these crazy pet sitting duties and lounging in the  pool, it was time for the real priority…shopping!  That's what you do when you come from Costa Rica to the states.  Shop, shop, and shop!  You buy everything you can’t find (or can’t justify the price of) in the fast-developing, still-third-world country you chose as your new home. I had two suitcases of “essentials” that were mostly snacks and survival gear: Snyder’s pretzels, Parmesan Cheese Crisps, Blue Diamond Smokehouse Almonds… and Temptations for the cats, because that treat is basically crack and, nope, you can’t get them in Costa Rica. 

I also grabbed a few new bathing suites (since DD tops are hard to find anywhere) and clothes for super hot and humid weather.  It's ridiculous how hard it is to find 100% cotton these days.  So many little summer dresses are made out of polyester.  Really?  Polyester is hot as hell.  Mama bought me supportive flip-flops because flip-flops are mostly all I wear unless I’m walking on rocky roads and trails. I restocked toiletries and hair products, and I bought rechargeable fans and flashlights because the power goes out often in the jungle. 

The jungle!  The jungle we live in and Sheba is out there somewhere wandering in.

This can't be real.  I'm furious to find out that Sheba has been missing since....since... Ugh!  Simple Man wasn't actually sure when she went missing.  He had fed the cats dinner the night before with all were accounted for.  Our Costa Rican friend, “The Son We Never Had,” had come over  for dinner and spent the night.  When Simple Man called the cats for breakfast the next day, Sheba was nowhere to be found.  

The Son We Never Had helped look for her for a short while, but had to go to work.  Simple Man waited to call me later that day, assuming he would find her.  

“Why the hell didn't you call me immediately? Did you prop the screen door open for her? Put food out? I said, my voice getting shriller with every question. “I'm sure you're calling her, but are you using the right voice?” 

His one defense: “I was afraid to leave the door open and let one of the other cats get out.”  

“Oh my God! Just block the cat door so they can't go out!” I snapped.  I'm already realizing that I can't get home fast enough.  Sheba will come to me.  She will hear my voice.  I will save my baby! 

After several meltdowns, I changed my flight. I couldn’t get out the next morning.  It was already too late in the day, and any available ticket was an astronomical price. I took the soonest flight I could get. Mama paid the change fee without hesitation because that’s who she is. She would do anything for me and my sister. 

On my return flights, I prayed and tried to visualize Sheba's safe return home.  

Getting from South Carolina to Costa Rica takes two flights: first to a hub like Charlotte, Atlanta, or Miami, then a three-to-four-hour flight down with movies and the world’s saddest “food service.” Tickets cost more than ever, the snack is stale and water in the airport costs five dollars.  Security makes you dump the cheap bottle you bought at the grocery store before arriving. I learned that if I carry an insulated bottle, I can get ice through security because on the plane you get a plastic cup of warm water and one lonely ice cube like it’s a luxury.

On the long flight across the ocean, I had a couple visions.  I truly believed the flashes were clues of where to look for Sheba.  A large shrub or tree with red leaves.  A big rock with my male spirit guide sitting on it.  

The flights seemed to last for an eternity.  When I landed in Costa Rica, the urgency to get home hit me like a wave.  I needed to be in Costa Rica like yesterday.   

The minute I saw Simple Man and The Son We Never Had waiting for me, I burst into tears.  I’d held it together through the flights, concentrating on meditation and sheer willpower, but the minute I saw them, the grief spilled out. 

As we began our drive south The Son We Never Had sat in the back seat with his small computer laptop and barely spoke a word.   

A couple hours into the drive, it began to rain hard.  I was hysterical.  

“Oh my God!  Traffic is crawling and it's pouring. Sheba is out there in this!” 

There was no consoling me.  The more it rained, the more I sobbed, uttering incoherently from my breaking heart.  The more it rained, the slower the traffic got.  We didn't make it home until dark, which is about  6:00 in Costa Rica year-round. 

I bolted into the house, grabbed a flashlight, and ran back out into the downpour. The Son We Never Had came with me. 

I knew where the big rocks were from my vision. Giant boulders in the lot next door, arranged in half-moon shapes, almost ceremonial. There’s also a path to the river, but our property sits higher, and Sheba would have needed steps to reach it. 

I frantically searched every nook and cranny, but with the rain and darkness it was impossible. I was defeated and exhausted. All I could do this first night was prop the back screen-porch door open and put food out.  

We had a big built-in litter box on the porch. My “brilliant” cost-saving idea. The contractor left a four-by-six-foot hole against the wall, and I filled it with gravel and put sand from the beach on top. A long teak table covered it like a lid. The smell stayed outside, and beach sand was cheaper than litter. For the indoor cats who wouldn’t use the pet door, we still had litter boxes inside.  I took one of those boxes and set it outside under the eave on the far side of the house. I was trying to put Sheba’s scent out in the world like breadcrumbs. I even stuffed dirty litter into cut-off plastic bottles and placed them along the tree line.

Simple Man had shown me a small spot at the bottom of the screen where he thought Sheba had pushed her way out.  I didn’t buy it.  It was a tiny hole that was only visible from the outside where it had been poorly stapled.  

As days passed, my hope turned into crushing despair.  I thought for sure Sheba would hear my voice and come to me. 

I found an app called Loopy and recorded my voice calling for her.  A speaker blared at full volume all day and night until I went to bed.  “Sheeebaaa!  Mama's home! Come get some supperrrrr!!” in my high pitched baby cat talk.  

I walked the neighborhood at dawn and dusk. I searched the property next door and the river’s edge. 

I made flyers with Sheba’s picture and a reward, printed in both English and Spanish, listing the reward in both U.S. dollars and Costa Rican colones. I had no idea what amount was appropriate or whether that was even “done” here. 

I put the flyers at the local grocery store and taped them to electric poles. A kind neighbor posted in local Facebook groups. Another suggested the school nearby.

The Turtle School (Escuela Tortuga in Spanish) was close “as the crow flies.” Simple Man said it hadn’t been raining when Sheba went missing. Maybe she crossed the river before it began to rise so I started searching the other side, too.

Was I ever going to see her again?  

I pictured her hiding, terrified.  Sheba is a small (really small, not typical size) Savannah cat. Her leopard spots would camouflage her perfectly in the jungle. How was she eating?  Was she starving?  Cats cannot go long without food before their liver starts to suffer.  Ugh.  I know too much thanks to being a vet tech.

And then  there was the anger.  The longer Sheba was missing, the angrier I got at Simple Man.  She disappeared on his watch. 

More details emerged. The Son We Never Had had been quiet on that drive from the airport for a reason.

They’d been partying.  Totally buzzed.

They could have easily left the slider open to the pool.  In Costa Rica, people live open-air.  Electricity is expensive and air conditioning isn’t common.  Doors get left open. Some houses barely have doors. 

I wasn’t saying the Son We Never Had left it open. I was just spinning through every possibility besides that tiny, almost invisible hole in the screen. 

One day, I came in from the pool and grabbed the sliding glass door handle.

A jolt shot through me.  One of my “whooshes.”  In that instant, I knew: this was the door Sheba went out.

Weeks passed.  I was breaking.  

I sat in Sheba's favorite leopard chair on the screen porch sobbing.  It was the “not knowing” that hurt so much.  I tried every ritual I could think of.  I built little altars of rocks for offerings to the river.  I placed my Cherokee Indian rocks, Costa Rican round rocks, and feathers from my dream catcher in a circle around me for a ceremony.  I prayed to God, Mother Nature, my Indian ancestors, the jungle itself, anything or anyone listening. 

I called and cried to Mama on a regular basis.  Anyone that followed me on Facebook from Cat's Meow  (employees and clients) sent prayers.  

I assumed Simple Man prayed, too.  What I didn’t know then was that he was engaged in what he considered the ultimate prayer: asking forgiveness for his part in Sheba’s disappearance, and offering his own soul to God if it meant Sheba would come home.

I don’t know how I feel about bargaining with God. I worry about the karma of it.  But Simple Man is an old soul. Maybe that kind of desperate sincerity opens doors.   Maybe it would be enough to give Sheba the much needed will to survive.

We checked the school now and then, but communication was difficult. Simple Man speaks Spanish better than I do, but the kids talked fast and we missed a lot. Once, we got the Son We Never Had on the phone with a little girl who said she and a friend had seen Sheba in the school bathroom.

No way, I thought.  Sheba hates shrill voices. She hates children.

A month passed.  I wasn’t sure I would ever recover. Every time I saw buzzards circling, I ran toward them in panic, convinced they were circling Sheba.  They never were.  I never found her.  

I’m shocked I didn’t get bitten by a snake or eaten alive by jungle bugs. I pushed into rough terrain whenever I thought I saw a sign. Most of the time, I only found the other neighborhood cats.

I talked to them anyway.  “Please share some food with her. Please show her the way home.  She doesn’t know how to live outside, much less out here.”

Six weeks after Sheba disappeared, Simple Man and I had a hair appointment.  (Yes, I found a hairdresser in Costa Rica who can keep my red hair the right shade and cover the gray). 

As Simple Man was getting his hair cut, and I sat with color touching up my roots, my phone rang.  It was Mama.  Luckily I had taught her how to use WhatsApp so we could talk anytime for free.  

“I have something to tell you about Sheba,” she said.

“She's alive!”  

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