Where He Belonged

One thing was certain: there were deadly predators much closer to the house than I'd realized.

It was June 30, 2026, a Tuesday, when a terrified Eli made a mad dash for the open doorway and freedom from the chaos of this strange and frightening place where he'd been unwittingly and involuntarily brought. The humans, arms loaded with boxes and furniture, simultaneously stopped in their tracks as the panic-stricken animal streaked between their feet. In an instant, he was moving up and around the house toward the deck on the second floor.

Accounts were sketchy at this point as to where he had gone. It was as if he simply disappeared — vanished like a gentle spirit vexed by noise and mayhem.

“Eli ran out the door!” I heard someone say urgently. I was unpacking boxes in another room and wasn’t immediately concerned. He wouldn’t go far, I thought, as I stopped what I was doing and made my way to the front door.

“Which way did he go?” I asked, and someone pointed to the staggered, moss-covered steps.

“Eli!” I began calling to him, thinking he might poke his little head from behind the hot tub, or I might see a streak of white as he scurried across the deck and down the other side of the house. But I didn’t see a hint of him anywhere.

As a light rain began to fall, John joined me in the search as my cousin and his fiancée Pat carried our belongings into the house and out to the building we called the “shop.” John handed me a flashlight, and as I began to shine the spotlight into the cracks and crevices in the rocks behind our house, a foreboding began to creep into my mind. Where would he have gone? There were literally hundreds of tiny hidey-holes big enough for him to slither into, many of them in the layers of rock beneath the wooded acres behind the house…dozens more beneath the deck where the caverns had been blasted more than two decades ago to quarry the stones that were used to build the house. There was even a gaping hole the previous owners had dug for reasons yet unknown. What if Eli had lost his footing in his panic and plunged into it?

I tried not to think about it as I passed the spotlight over the rocks. Suddenly, something caught my eye, and I swung the light back to a spot I’d just seen. But it wasn’t a flash of Eli’s white fur that I’d spotted. There in the rock layers sat a snake, coiled up just under the overcropping above it where it was sheltered from the drizzle.

With the light hovering on the snake, I called to John and said matter-of-factly, “That’s not a friendly, is it.”

As soon as he saw the reptile illuminated by my flashlight, he responded, “No, it sure isn’t.”

It was a diamondback rattlesnake, and the rock ledge where it rested was barely 30 feet from our back deck.

A few minutes later, John returned with his .22 pistol and killed it. I felt bad for the snake. He never thought a nap out of the rain would end in death, but I suppose it had to be.

One thing was certain: there were deadly predators much closer to the house than I'd realized.

The longer I searched for Eli, the more desperate I felt. Still, I thought, he had his natural instincts to hide, and he was particularly good at it. That is, if he weren’t so frightened that he’d just bolted and not stopped running until he was a good long way into the woods. If he’d done that, all bets were off.

Problem was, we didn’t know what he’d done or where he’d gone. It wasn’t long before the sun began to set, and I realized we wouldn’t see him before bedtime. We bid goodbye to my cousin and Pat, and with a heavy heart, I walked the perimeter of the house calling to Eli before I finally went inside and fell into bed weary and anxious.

When the morning came, the first thing I did was step out the back door from the bedroom into our back yard to look for Eli. I took the flashlight so I could peer into the dark cracks and crevices that formed the foundation of the steep hill where the woods began. A perimeter had been cleared from the edge of the rocks that curved behind the shop. A green carpet of moss and clover with sprigs of grass covered the flat area, and it was across here that I walked to the back of the shop, my gaze steady and focused on the hill and the woods behind the house.

“Eli! Come home, baby!” I called out, and waited, almost holding my breath in anticipation of hearing his high-pitched, almost kitten-like meow. After I had called a few times and waited, I thought I heard a faint “meow” from somewhere in the woods or nearby, but there are birds that make a similar sound. Besides, I couldn’t be sure if I was simply imagining it.

Instinctively, I knew he would stay hidden during the daylight hours so as not to be seen by potential predators. That thought didn’t give me comfort, however, because the creatures that roam in the night hours are not exactly friendly to a wayward cat, especially if that cat is injured or sick. Poor Eli’s face was so scarred from relentless scratching that he almost looked like he had a case of mange. The sores he had scratched into his back between his shoulders were scabbed over and healing because of a new medicine my vet back in Florida had prescribed. Still, he was such a small cat and vulnerable in so many ways. How would he survive, I thought. What was he eating? It had rained every afternoon, and the cavernous space under our house collected moisture, so I wasn’t too worried about him getting water. But I didn’t even know if he was alive. At least, not until the next morning.

Some people might think it is a frivolous thing to pray for a lost cat, but I knew my Father loves and cares for all His creatures, especially the ones that are dear to us.

John had suggested we buy a trap. Ironically, I had donated the four or five cat-sized traps I had back in Florida prior to our move. It didn’t occur to us that we would need them again in Alabama. I told him we might need to do that, but I was still hopeful that he would come home on his own.

In addition to a couple of plastic totes modified to provide shelter from the elements, I also placed Eli’s litter box outside our back door near the dark, spacious area under the house. I hoped that it might induce him to come home — or at least leave a deposit so I would know he was alive.

I never thought I would be thrilled at the sight of cat poo, but the next morning when I peered over the tall sides of the litter box, there was a little pile in the corner as well as a wet spot where he had urinated. They were definitely cat deposits, and the only cat it could be, I told myself, was Eli.

I dashed back into the bedroom and announced the exciting news, “He pooped in the litter box last night! He’s out there somewhere!”

John, while less enthused than I, nevertheless reiterated that we really should get a trap. I agreed, and later that day, we picked one up at the local Tractor Supply.

For the next few mornings, I repeated the same ritual: check the trap, search the rocks, walk the woods, call his name.

Pray.

Some people might think it is a frivolous thing to pray for a lost cat, but I knew my Father loves and cares for all His creatures, especially the ones that are dear to us. He understands the heartache we feel when we care deeply for an animal that trusts and loves us unconditionally, and we lose them. Eli was my most vulnerable companion. His trust did not come easily, and there were many times I questioned whether I had done the right thing when I trapped him as a kitten. All it took to reassure me was his sweet chirps and steady, strident purr as he nestled close to me at night. He was right where he belonged.

The morning of the fifth day, I climbed out of bed, slipped on my flip-flops, and quietly opened the door to the back yard. The trap sat exactly where I had placed it a few nights before. There was no sound, no hint of movement. When I was just a few steps away, I stopped in my tracks. The door was no longer propped open. Something had tripped it. But was it my sweet Eli? I couldn’t see into the cage because of the red towel. I held my breath as I reached for the towel and gently pulled it away from the trap. Huddled inside was my precious cat.

“Oh, Eli! You’re home!” I knelt beside the trap to get a good look at him. He looked none the worse for wear, just bewildered to be captive inside the cold metal cage. He didn’t make a sound as I carefully maneuvered through the door into the bedroom where John was still half-snoozing.

“We got him!” I said excitedly. I set the cage down on the cement floor of our bedroom and pulled back the trap door. As hastily as he had left the house, he dashed out of the cage and into the darkness of the closet where he promptly disappeared under a chest of drawers. This time, however, I knew where he was. I knew he was safe. God had answered my prayers. Eli was home again — where he belonged.

Looking back, I realize those five days taught me as much about faith as they did about cats. There are times when all we can do is search faithfully, pray earnestly, and trust God with what we cannot control. Eli eventually found his way back home. And when I hear his contented purr as he curls up beside me at night, I'm reminded that sometimes the sweetest answers to prayer arrive one quiet morning, waiting patiently just outside the door.

. . .