I’m trapped in this miasma of misery at a level I’ve not known before—worse than during my cancer treatment. There, I was just sick, and it sucked, but it was passive. I had to endure the treatment, and it would either cure me or not.

Now, I accidentally let Ember escape.

For 19 months, this cat has shown ZERO pull toward the outside. She’d always freeze or hide in her garage hideout. I opened the garage door to bring in groceries Monday at noon, and she must have been close to it at the time, got spooked by the noise, and ran off.

I love hearing stories about people who’ve been reunited with their lost pets. But every time I hear or read, We gave up, and x-time later, the cat just showed up at the house, my heart breaks a bit more.

I doubt Ember will ever do that.

The cat who spent the first three and a half months of her life with us hiding in the farthest corner of the garage, behind a table that we’d leaned against the wall. She was so slow to come out, to trust me, to trust the rest of the family.

But she came out. She became my lap cat.

And now, she’s gone.

She is so excruciatingly timid and fearful. She will find a place and hide, then come out for short spurts to find something to eat. I doubt she will come home like that.

If I get Ember back, I have to trap her.

We had a sighting reported Thursday (7/16) evening in a nearby neighborhood. I’ve now spent two nights with traps set. The first night, I put one at the house of the woman who saw Ember. The second night, I put the same trap there, another one at the house of the man where Ember was seen (five houses down), and a third at home.

Last night, I sat in a cat bed on the sidewalk where she was seen from 9:10 to 9:50 p.m., with a carrier, a stinky tuna treat, and treats.

That’s how I got to her at home. I’d sit in a cat bed in the garage, scrolling on my phone, until she eventually decided to give me a chance.

This morning, I got up at 6 a.m. and checked the traps and brought one back into the car because I can only put it there for the night. I also have to replace the towels I put in there so Ember doesn’t step on the wire frame with cardboard.

Why?

At almost 1 a.m., I remembered that Ember’s nails snag on fabric.

Always.

Then I spent an hour fretting that she’d go in, snag her nail, try to break free, and accidentally activate the trigger through the towel, causing the trap to snap shut with her halfway inside and seriously injure or kill her.

Now it’s raining.

I will still set up the traps tonight. If it’s not raining, I will sit there again on the same sidewalk.

I cannot count the number of times I’ve just sat at home and cried. Bawled my eyes out.

I know I am doing all I can. But my brain is an asshole, and it goes like this:

What if Ember has moved on and is somewhere else?

What if she will forever be lost and you will never know what happened?

What if something gets her and kills her?

See, if I knew this was her new territory and she was definitely hiding there and coming out at night, I know I’d be relentless.

Now, I might eventually have to accept defeat, but I don’t deal well when something doesn’t get a resolution. My brain keeps spinning and continues to torment me with what-if scenarios.

Most of all, I feel like I failed her.

Just recently, she was lying on the couch with me, and I looked at her and thought that I was so happy we had found her. That she had a safe home and no longer had to be a colony cat.

Now look at me.

I let her out.

Yes, it was a mistake. But I should have known better. Even if she had shown completely predictable behavior for 19 months.

She is still an animal. A timid, fearful animal.

But hindsight and all, right?

Nothing I can do but what I am doing. And it still tears me to shreds.

And the thing is, my mind is in complete triage mode.

Oh, I still feed the stray cats. I still do what needs to be done at home. But the rest?

Even my writing, the revisions that are due August 15? Irrelevant.

Sales dropping? Audible numbers dropping? Irrelevant.

Watching anything I was interested in before? Zero appeal.

Reading? Zero appeal.

I am lost in the myopic pursuit of a cat whose entire focus is survival and staying hidden.

It’s only day six. And it feels like a million years.