Driving in first gear with windows down. Calling out. It is 35 degrees, going to 29.

Looking with high beams for illuminated eyes, a glimpse of white fur under a parked car.

“Kate,” you call repeatedly, but not too loud. You’ve already walked around the block.

“Katya,” “Kate Ann,” … “Kate.”

Of course, she’s okay, you say, just “galvanting” out there, hopefully.

A black cat in a front yard runs around to the back of its house.

Do you go left or right? The cul de sac? Let intuition decide.

Which way would she normally go? You expand the net, working back.

Hopefully, she wouldn’t try to cross busy Osuna Avenue.

You head back: If’ she’s not there, you’ll try walking again, or expanding the grid.

You walk in the house. Sheri says quickly, “Katya’s home.”