Frank Has Escaped
“He thinks I’m trying to kill him!”
I’m yelling updates to my wife from our screened-in porch, where a standoff is taking place. I come in peace, offering an open hand of cat treats to a tiny ball of fluff we have rehomed and named Frank. My other hand waits to apply his flea & tick medication. It’s all going very poorly.
Evading me as if his life depends on it, Frank scales our corner post like a wild animal, struggling to climb higher while a guttural meow pleads over and over. Rather than give Frank a heart attack, I squirt his medicine from a safe distance, then leave him alone.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way….
“I know all about kitties,” I’ll whisper to Peter, our five-year-old tabby, as he fits perfectly into the little spoon position each morning. We yoga together and chat throughout the day. Before Peter we had Artimus and Leo - Also cool dudes who were constantly among the family. Frank, though, was so scarcely seen that visitors would peer sheepishly around corners before saying “I hear you have another cat?”
As a kitten, Frank was found alone in a crumbling apartment complex, so let’s cut him a little slack. He was obviously the unwanted runt; a terrified, feral little thing that had to be detached from the bottom of a couch for our intro. But pride got the best of me when I adopted Frank. My wife was conveniently out of town and he was beautiful enough, I reasoned, to take the chance. After all, we were undefeated when it came to cats.
It was on the porch that day, watching him climb the pole, when I realized exactly where we stood in Frank’s book - a very long way from being the big spoon to his little. I was too stubborn to take him back, everyone knew it.
Frank’s weird hours, lack of purr and monotone meows would just be a special case at someone-else’s house, I reasoned. A generous older lady would rename him Waffles then never see him again.
Besides, Frank seemed fine to spend his days upstairs, unbothered in the springs of our guest bed. At least until moving day, when he once again thought I was trying to kill him.
Our renovation was set to last nearly five months. Rather than commit to the move and settle into our rental house, we instead lived like gypsies. Caught in the middle was Frank. He struggled to find a place among the few pieces of furniture.
Frank’s limited range meant that the litter box had to be located in our master bathroom. While Peter relished the opportunity to synchronize bowel movements with his human father, it further complicated our dynamic with a less-trusting Frank.
On a few mornings, I awoke to see him perched at the window, watching the sunrise with what looked a whole lot to me like longing.
Frank’s opportunity came after an evening of spray tans. A window was left open to let all those good-for-you chemicals waft out into the crisp February air. We didn’t realize until the next morning that the window was only four feet off of a sloping front yard. Peter hungrily awaited us at the back door after his romp outside, but Frank was nowhere to be found.
Days passed as the cloud of guilt parked above my head. Our weighty adoption contract had an “Indoor Only” policy, and I am a follower of rules. It was also quickly apparent that Frank had plenty of competition out there. Free-range cats prowled existing kingdoms. Dogs dotted front yards as far as the eye could see, and even coyotes were popping out to roam our street in broad daylight.
“This ur cat?” We had received many similar messages attached to pictures that were not Frank. But this one was unmistakably him. My description of a “Fluffy orange cat” had confused everyone. He was “obviously a white cat with orange spots.” I took off in that direction, but Frank was long gone.
I put out his regular food on the porch in hopes he’d return. After this failed, I tried an irresistible nightly offering of what our family calls paste - a squeezy tube of ‘chicken’ or ‘fish’ that would turn the stomach of any non-cat-enthusiast.
Naturally, every animal within blocks stopped by to sample this new delicacy. ‘Frank Cam,’ set up in hopes of tracking of our guy, instead gave the family video evidence of my idiocy. Frank was lucky to salvage an occasional lick of paste from what remained.
One night, he came creeping out of the bushes after everyone else went up to bed. “Get in here, Frank! You’ve had your fun!” I swung open the door and told Peter to wander out a few steps as bait. Frank looked a mess, leaves stuck in his tail, down a few pounds and trademark fluff all out of sorts. Yet he wasn’t the least bit tempted by us. This was a bad sign for people who were soon planning to move back across town with all of their pets.
A perk of our rental is that it came with small animal traps. Why not get those involved? In our first attempt we caught someone else’s cat. Feeling lucky, we went again for round two, thereby catching a second neighbor cat. Playback revealed that Frank had even been up in the trap, deftly maneuvering around the trigger plate like he was robbing the Louvre. Before we earned a reputation, I promptly released our overnight captors. “Please don’t tell your owners about this!”
The day we moved back, I set up the trap one more time. A sudden storm helped my cause as dripping wet Frank was finally caught. But then what to do next at our ongoing project of a home? After Frank had some time to recoup, the doors of the screened in porch were opened. One led inside, the other out. We were shown the tail as Frank again chose freedom.
Frank Cam, also newly relocated, remained our eye to his comings and goings. We put food out back each night, trying to build a routine of dependence. Instead, all we did was invite raccoons to move in. This was a classic Chapman pickle.
Though we live in suburbia, I have heard that local authorities sometimes encourage homeowners to “take care of it” if a predatory, overpopulated or delicious animal happens to wander onto their property. Though my wife suggested animal control might help solve this problem, I still had a trap sitting around. It was time to make room at the dinner table for Frank.
Horrible noises from outside set an interesting stage the next morning. Before I sprang from bed, I tried to prepare for the worst. Yet my imagination still fell way short.
I quickly learned that, once trapped, a raccoon will do anything, and I mean anything, to live. The crime scene had moved clear across our porch, leaving a trail of blood, poop, fur and rug pieces in its yucky wake. Our captor had obviously clawed indiscriminately at anything within reach, doing maximum damage with what was on offer.
Ear rattling screeches subsided as soon as it saw me. This creature had obviously evolved to play the adorable card. Over-accentuated eyes looked up while it offered prayerful hands, as if to say “thy will be done, human.”
I balked. It wasn’t the soulful eyes or sudden meekness of my hostage. Simply put, I like my cars un-racooned. Whatever outcome I had in mind, it wasn’t being an Uber driver for this garbage tornado. I had also neglected to put on pants. If neighbors happened to be up that early, they would have seen me releasing a raccoon back into my own yard wearing only a pair of Jockeys.
Round two, next day. Critically, the golf cart is charged. I have a specific destination in mind for the raccoon. I’m wearing clothes. Catching another was simple, as they are insatiable. This one, potentially the same one, was caged a safe distance from any rugs or items it could claw to ruination. I loaded it up and zipped illegally to the nearest nature trail before everyone awoke.
This smoother execution made for great content at the pool a day later, with manlier men getting a good laugh at all my extra work to preserve the beast. A guy who lives near the drop point overheard my story. “Pretty sure I’ve already seen that exact raccoon on my trail camera out back.” He said. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
Another pivot. What if we outsmart the racoons? One primary difference between them and a cat is how high they can jump. I thought myself a genius as I assembled the elevated cat feeding house. It had paw prints etched in the sides, weather flaps and a roof.
The remaining racoons absolutely loved their new party pad in the sky. Frank Cam clearly showed that they may not be able to jump, but they can climb freakishly well. Upside down, sideways and one-armed - whatever it took to clean me out each evening.
Why did I persist? Would Frank ever break character and leap triumphantly up to this thing? His only confirmed jump so far was downward. A little fun could be had at least if we were going to fail. Giggling manically, I smeared half a jar of vaseline up and down the metal pole and base, then awaited results.
Next morning, and several thereafter, we enjoyed catching up on footage from the night previous. It was immensely satisfying watching the raccoons wave their vaseline-coated paws in submission, unsure of what they could touch. I had finally foiled them. The treats were left up in Frank’s condo to spoil.
Over a succession of days, I went outside and called Frank until he showed himself at the tree line. He began to connect my appearance with reliably getting his belly filled. Took a while, but we had finally achieved dependence.
Without fanfare, I called Frank in extra hard one night and left our basement door open. Paste was presented in a lavish display of snacks. Peter remained to seal the deal, as I walked away and let Frank arrive at his own conclusion that comfort was better.
He initially went straight back to the guest bedroom. But you could tell that his travels had mellowed Frank a bit. Surely he had met things out there that very much did want to kill him.
Frank came to see me alone in the kitchen one afternoon, miles from his safe space. He meowed so casually that I was thrown. “Oh hey Frank” I replied while taking a few steps in his direction. Frank hesitated for a moment, but eventually retreated around the corner in his usual style. Before I could settle into my disappointment, a fluffy paw slid back around the corner and motioned my direction.
“Awww…You wanna play, Frank?”
I followed him, leading to a delightful moment. Frank let me pet him while I told his expressionless face how great he was doing. Then he happily scampered off to poop on the beds of my children.