April 01, 2014 Linsay Cheney Rudd

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    It was June 2012 when my then boyfriend Matthew adopted Darla, the little gray kitten that needed a home after hitching a 17-mile ride to work under the hood of my coworker’s car. Matthew has since become my husband, which means I have since become the co-parent of the now 2-year-old Darla.
    I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I’m Team Dog for life. It’s not that I hate every animal of the feline variety — as a pet sitter, I met some of the sweetest cats ever — but I’ve always considered myself a dog person: leashes > litter boxes, cowhide > catnip, howls > hisses. I simply prefer dogs.
    For me, welcoming Darla into our first home as newlyweds wasn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it wasn’t exactly the easiest, either. Eventually, she came to understand the rule of the house, which made living with her bad attitude and constant tuna breath a little easier.
    Rule No. 1: You may be Daddy’s girl, but I’m Daddy’s wife, and Daddy’s wife runs the house.
    Don’t get me wrong; we had our moments — like the nights I forced her to snuggle with me and watch TV, or the time I bought her a festive Christmas collar with fur and bells that she just loved wearing. For the most part, though, Darla was Matthew’s baby. That’s what I thought, at least, until she went missing, and I realized — could it be true? — I actually began to miss her.
    The story began in mid-January, when Matthew and I adopted Tallulah from STARS Ga., that dark-eyed brindle pup we pulled from Monroe County animal shelter’s death row. We brought Lula home and soon introduced her to Darla, a moment that didn’t go exactly as we had hoped, but we were sure that, in time, the two would become great buddies.
    Except that never happened, because Darla didn’t give it time. She decided to run away from home instead, leaving us panicked at the thought of her out in the freezing weather and guilt-stricken at the thought that we somehow made her feel like she had been replaced with our new dog.
    Our circa-1980s apartment has the old crank-style windows with no screens, so when Matthew decided to leave one cracked open in the upstairs guest bedroom (aka The Cat Room) one evening to let it air out a bit, Darla grabbed the opportunity with both front paws, climbed out of the window onto a small ledge, then jumped into a tall bush and found her way down to the ground.
    Matthew was devastated; I was irritated — but neither of us expected her to be gone forever. We both hoped she would find her way back home within a day or two, hungry, cold and ready to snuggle.
    But she wasn't back by the end of the week, nor after two weeks or even three. We were out of ideas; after all of our backyard searches and Facebook posts, even after peppering the neighborhood with fliers, Darla still wasn't home.
    It had been more than two months, and Matthew and I had essentially lost all hope that we would see Darla again. I was no longer pleading for help on Facebook, and I decided to take down the signs around the neighborhood, which were sun-faded and soggy from the recent rain.
    And then, exactly one day after I threw away all the missing posters, a woman messaged me on Facebook to ask if I was still looking for my cat. (I like to think God was having himself a good chuckle at that very moment.)
    "I have seen her several times at my mother-in-law's house," she said. "She's usually there in the morning."
    She said her mother-in-law lived just a couple of streets over from our apartment, the last house on a dead-end street. She would have her father-in-law call Matthew the next time they spotted the cat they were sure was our Darla. I was convinced; Matthew was skeptical — but we both were eager to find out whether our girl had finally been spotted.
    It was Saturday evening when Matthew's phone rang. We jumped in the car and sped two streets over, barely able to contain our excitement. We didn't immediately spot Darla when we pulled into the driveway, where the homeowner greeted us and then pointed to her.
    "Darla? Is that you?" Matthew asked, hesitantly walking over to pick up his girl. She was finally coming home.
    Believe it or not, I couldn't be happier. Life just wasn't the same without her in it. Here's hoping Lula will feel the same way soon.

    Linsay Cheney Rudd is the editor of Connect Statesboro, and she loves hearing from readers! Get in touch with her at [email protected].

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