When Rhiannon ran away last year and spent three days outside, she did not come back the same. She was searched for, and finally found, but she did not return the way she left.
It isn't something most people would notice. Rhiannon was always quiet, content to keep to herself and be lost in her own thoughts. To many, it probably seemed the madness that took her while she was gone was something always with her. They argued that her running away was proof of insanity. Whatever happened to her out there bore no consequence on a mind already fractured.
However, Rhiannon held a special place in my heart, and had since I first saw her. And while she was quiet and reserved, she did spend a lot of time around me. I suppose, as I was always willing to talk to her even when she didn't wish to respond, I was a comfort. She knew I would always acknowledge her.
Her disappearance was heartbreaking, horrifying. I felt so lost over it and I honestly wasn't sure my life would be the same. When she returned, I was overjoyed. I held her against me for a long time because I wanted her to know how much she was missed, how much she was wanted.
Her eyes changed. Not the color, not the want they looked, but more how she looked through them, what she projected out to the rest of the world. A wild, twitchy, lost unraveling replaced the gentle and shy sweetness of before. In her eyes, you saw no peace. You could be certain she saw no peace either.
Days of quiet reflection gave way to her wandering madness. She would stumble through our rooms, speaking in gibberish, calling out to someone or for something. I can not for the life of me tell you what she searched for, but I know she felt lost. Her body language, her tone, her very vocalizations told me so.
Sometimes at night she would come into my room seeking comfort. She would cry out for me and then jump on my bed like a child. I would hold her til she slept, hoping the warmth and closeness would help draw the sanity back to the surface.
For a while, I thought it might be working. She would come and sit with the rest of us during the long winter days. She would act as excited as the others when treats would be given or during games. It was good to see her being social. We thought the madness was over.
But as the cold months gave way to the scorch of summer, her mind began to let go of her sanity once more. She took to hiding in my room, finding the smallest, darkest corner she could wedge herself into and staying there for hours. She would sleep as much as possible and only sneak out to eat or go to the bathroom. If you saw her outside of my room, she would tense up, like she believed she didn't belong there, like she had no rights.
I can't help but wonder if the madness isn't seasonal. If the unforgiving summer heat cooks her brain and leaves only a shell of who she really is. These days she's even ignoring me. I try talking to her or singing her favorite songs to her and she acts like I'm someone else. It's painful but I hope, I so hope, it's just temporary.
Right now, as I glance across the room, Rhiannon is sleeping. She's curled up in the arms of Salem and pretending like he isn't completely creeped out and uncomfortable with that idea. She moves closer to him, nuzzling against his neck. He almost makes a move to jab at her, but then he sees me staring at them and thinks better of it.
A couple of months and the heat will be over. Maybe . . . maybe . . . maybe her sanity will return. She'll look at me with recognition and treat me like she always has. Maybe she'll put on some weight, because right now she looks dangerously thin. Maybe she'll remember it's okay to be social, that she belongs here, that she is loved.
But if none of this happens, it's okay. People get crazy. That is part of life. People go off the deep end and drown in what they find there. That doesn't mean you love them any less. And she does know she's loved.
Then again, cats always know that.
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