Are You There, Silas? It's Me, Your Mother

Two weeks into May last year, my friend Tia and I were discussing where we should go to get some more plants and landscaping goodness for the wellness retreat we were working at. Granted, neither of us were—or had been—professional horticulturists, but she knew enough about plant health, and I have a good eye for aesthetics, having worked as a wedding florist’s assistant once upon a time. We made a pretty good team.

I had gone to this one place before, in Chalong, before Tia started working at the retreat. I went there to order bags upon bags of landscaping rocks. It’s an unassuming place on the corner of a highway with a four-way intersection. It has a bunch of bricks, concrete, rocks, and then a garden section out the back with nice palms and such.

Tia suggested a place she knew but wasn’t sure if they’d have what we were looking for. I mentioned my place on the corner, and we agreed to go there first and maybe stop at a few other places.

Tia is Thai, so it helped this time around since the men working there didn’t speak much English. As we walked through the palms and plants, envisioning this and that, with one of the guys following us and taking our plant order in at the top of his head, I kept hearing this hoarse, high-pitched mewing. Tia and the guy kept walking, but in my peripheral vision, I saw a small, black… thing.

I gasped. “Tia… look.”

"Oh, he’s so tiny!"

I don’t remember the space of time between seeing him and scooping him up in my arms. He weighed almost nothing—soft like a feather—but I felt his tiny ribcage and swollen belly. His mews didn’t stop, and he had a look in his big, hazel eyes as if to say, “Yeah, lady, you know what I’ve been through the last couple of days? Hell, I tell you!”

The guy working there casually told Tia, as she translated, that sometime in the night, two nights prior, a car had stopped at the corner, dropped something, and sped off. He had dropped off this little kitten, with nothing else. The guy said, luckily, he didn’t break anything, which suggested to me that he was more likely thrown from the car.

The guy lives out the back with his wife and daughter, but it’s nowhere near a home—it’s all open and barely enough for them. Tia and the guy kept talking, but I heard nothing. All I thought was that I needed to get out of this place, with my new baby, and get him to the vet. I kept saying, It’s okay, it’s okay, and wondered how he had survived the last two nights of awful thunderstorms and lashing rain.

"You’re taking him?"

"He’s coming with me."

I took the rest of the day off work, and we drove him to the local vet—Dr. Pu. He didn’t like any of it but flattened out on the cold, sterile table as she took his temperature. No fever. Dewormer, first shots, and he even got a pet passport.

"Name?" she asked.

Uhhh…

"It’s okay, you decide. You write. You bring him back in one month."

And that’s what I did.

That afternoon, I got litter, some toys, milk, and soft food. I hadn’t eaten since the morning, so I ordered an early dinner and finally lay on the bed. I was dirty from the plants, the soil, the sweat. But when I sat in my room, holding him against my chest, he finally fell asleep after fighting it all afternoon, and I wasn’t going to move a muscle.

Some moment in the next few days, I decided to name him Silas.

It means of the forest or garden. I named him that because that’s where he seemingly came from. He had popped out of one of the plants, through the palms. I liked the sound of it. It was soft but strong. Two syllables—like Ziva and Kendi.

I got out my best pen, opened his pet passport, and wrote it proudly inside.

The first week or so, when I’d leave, he would be under the bed. When I’d come back, he’d still be under the bed. I made sure to come in as if it were his birthday—every day. I’d drop down on the carpet, lying on my stomach, my arm outstretched to him, gently patting the floor.

"Hi, baby. Hi, Silas. Are you hungry? Have you done poopy? Are you okay? I missed you. Who’s a big boy? You’re okay, you’re safe now, I’ll take care of you. Hi, Silas, it’s mommy."

I loved having him. I loved spoiling him. And I loved getting to say, “Because it’s Silas, and I’m his mother, duh,” if anybody questioned it.

I loved watching him eat, but my favorite was when he drank water. Lots of it. He’d eat, and then he’d groom. His tiny little paws cleaning his tiny little chin.

"Wow, who’s a professional groomer?"

I’d sit on the edge of the bed during my work breaks, which I’d rush from just to sit and watch him eat. Eventually, he went under the bed less, or only when—after playing—he wanted some quiet time out.

He started following me around more, and I think his favorite thing was when I went to the toilet. He loved to sit right by my feet and look up at me, as if to say, “Well, you watch me, so I guess I have to watch you.”

He had the most beautiful eyes. And big ears.

I wondered, How is he going to grow into those?

I took him the next month for his second vaccinations. I didn’t have a proper pet carrier, so since he was so small, I just put him in this big green tote bag I had. It was a sort of towel material, and he fit right in there. He fit in the palm of my hand, and while he was in the bag, he would look up at the big, bright world—then up at my face, into my eyes.

"It’s okay, you’re okay," I’d say, smiling down at him.

He was about three weeks old when we found him. He had some worms and fatigue, but otherwise, he started to be a healthy, happy, and very funny kitten. He loved one toy in particular—a simple stick with a stretchy string at the end holding a furry mouse. He chased that mouse like lightning.

He was also very, very good at soccer. I got him a small foam ball with a globe map patterned on it. I think I had gone to buy something at one of those big dollar convenience stores on the side of the road, and I saw the ball and had to get it for him.

"So he could see all the places he wants to go, obviously," I laughed at my own lame joke.

But he loved it. He scratched it all up and would dribble it, literally, like Messi. Eventually, I got him another one with a colorful pattern. Soon enough, he had enough toys for us to call them out one by one or pick one, depending on what mood he was in.

He slept on the bed with me, and I’d wake up most mornings with him already staring at me or lying in the most dramatic position, as if he were in a Renaissance painting. I fell in love with him. Even when he was so little, I’d cry—involuntarily—at how much I loved him, at how sweet he was, at how glad I was to have found him.

When he was around two months old, I put up a Facebook post in a group I was a part of. I’d spend some time every day reading through all the posts on there. It was an animal lovers’ group for the local area, with posts about missing dogs, cats, rabbits—you name it. About the street animals being fed, found. And finally, one about Silas.

I wrote his story and mentioned that if anyone was interested in adopting, they could message me.

This didn’t feel too difficult to do, because he was still young, and while I was attached at this point, I had initially taken him with the thought in mind—with the knowing—that I couldn’t stay in Thailand forever. That I couldn’t bring him back to Australia with me, unfortunately. The quarantine is awfully long, and Thailand is on the no-list due to its risk for rabies.

But I was going to find him someone wonderful. I knew it.

The post got a lot of likes and a lot of “He’s sooo handsome!”—which I read aloud to him. “You’re very popular, you know that?” His big, loving eyes melting into mine.

But no interested parties.

It didn’t worry me.

"We have time," I smiled, shrugging at him.

Falling more in love.

I could write about so many sweet moments. All the moments he made me laugh—so much. If you’ve ever had a pet, you know how they can make you laugh. They can be so silly. They have their own reasoning for their naughtiness, and you can’t get mad because you’re smiling too much.

There were moments I got impatient—where I had to close the bathroom door just once to go to the toilet in peace—and I felt such guilt because he hated a closed door.

He loved to eat anything I was eating. He got little bites of just about everything. All of his firsts. After a really good bite of something yummy, he’d tilt his chin up for me to meet him with my nose and nuzzle.

Sometimes, I’d open my door, and he’d be sitting smack bang in the middle of the room, looking up, like, “Well, where were you?”

In his third month, we moved into a new place. Bigger than the last, higher up than the last. I remember as I moved my things, transporting them one by one, he was the last thing left—so I wasn’t leaving him coming and going in a place he didn’t know. I remember rushing back that last time, and he was sitting on the bed, staring. I had my green tote, and he jumped right in.

"Did you think I wasn’t coming back for you, silly?"

In the new place, he had a new corner for his litter, for his food, for his water. It was perfect. He had space for all his zoomies. We were on the sixth floor, with a beautiful view—front and back. He had experienced the outside a few times, but mostly, he was indoors.

He loved to be held, though, as we stood on the balcony, at our favorite time—between 5 and 6 p.m. I’d sway and rock back and forth, and his legs would dangle, his nose working overtime, taking in all the scents of the big, bustling world. His little heart pounded against the palm of my hand.

I had put up another updated post in the group, mentioning that he was still up for adoption—and even more handsome now. My heart beat a little faster this time.

I had asked around at work, too, but nearly every person and their mother had a cat or four in Thailand, or they didn’t want one.

I was lying on my bed, talking with my mum, when a message popped through.

"Is the kitten still available?!"

We exchanged some messages and arranged for them to come and meet him. I remember saying, this girl talks just like me. Exclamations, tone. I had a good feeling, but I was still very nervous.

And then I cried.

Suddenly, I didn’t want anybody to take him. I didn’t want to talk about him to anybody.

The morning came, and the girl couldn’t make it, but she sent her dad, and he was going to be there in 15 minutes. All good.

I went downstairs seven minutes early and paced. My heart was beating so fast I couldn’t feel it anymore. A car drove in, and a man jumped out with ease, smiling.

"Are you the girl I’m supposed to be meeting?"

"For the kitten?"

He didn’t respond with words—he just let out a big “Aha!”, smiling in confirmation.

As we walked to the elevator, I noted his accent. Canadian.

"So, I want you to know, you can come and visit him anytime you want."

He told me about his previous tuxedos, about where they were living. I felt like God had sent this man to me. It felt so right.

Silas was so nervous. I had to close the sliding doors to the bedroom because I knew he’d hide in the cupboards, nestled between my clothes in the top drawer. I felt like I was betraying him. He stayed far away in the corner and just watched. He didn’t know many strangers, and I felt sick in my stomach, sitting on the floor, trying to get him to come to me. Trying to convince him.

This was the first big time he ever had to really trust me. He had trusted me all this time. The rescue, the vets, the coming back whenever I left, the move. So many little infinities of trust.

This one was a big one.

The man was so kind and knew what to do. He was patient. We spoke for hours. He had been a yacht captain all his life, and his life should be made into a movie. Directed by Scorsese. I was in awe. I’d go back and forth between the world of his stories—of travel, mishaps, the world in the ’70s and ’80s—and then I’d come back to the room, to Silas. My head spun.

He invited me over for lunch, which turned into dinner. We decided, in the end, that it would be better if I came with him to the house, so I could see it and bring Silas myself. I felt better about this.

I was swallowing down the knot in my throat with no success. We gathered his things. The man went downstairs to get the car ready, and I’d meet him down there.

Silas looked at me as if to say, “What the fuck was that? Can we go back to normal now? Can you open this door so we can lay on the bed together? What are we having for dinner tonight?”

I got my green bag and scooped him in.

On the drive there, the man played the radio. We spoke and drove a familiar road. One of my favorite roads.

It was our favorite time of day, between 5 and 6. The light was beautiful.

I felt my heart break, looking down into my lap, into the green bag, into two big yellow eyes staring up at me.

I still can’t describe the look he had in his eyes that day.

It’s a physical ache.

The evening went by like that. I felt like I was in a dream. The house was beautiful. I got to meet the girls. They had a big basket ready for him. It was so big. I kept saying, “Silas, you hit the jackpot.”

He hid under one of the beds for a while, and I had to pretend I didn’t want to throw up.

He came out eventually and ventured upstairs. This made me feel so proud of him.

"He’s in great shape, his coat is just glowing."

"He’s so friendly, he’s so loving."

"You’ve done such a good job raising him, you know that?"

"We’re going to make sure we say your name all the time so he never forgets his first mommy."

When I had to leave—otherwise, I never would leave—he was underneath one of the beds again.

I was crying so much I couldn’t talk.

"Do you want us to try to get him out so you can hold him?"

I shook my head. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

The first week was so hard. I couldn’t empty his water bowl for five days. I went to the beach and could stay as long as I wanted. I didn’t have to rush back for anything or anyone.

It felt miserable.

A week before I was due to leave Thailand, they invited me for lunch. I debated going or not—I didn’t want to confuse him. But I knew that if I didn’t, I would spend a long time feeling like I should have.

So I went.

Knowing it would hurt. But it was going to hurt anyway. It was hurting anyway.

When the man picked me up, the first thing he did was laugh. He shook his head, saying,

"That kitten of yours is really something. He has taken over the place, I’ll tell you."

When we got to the house, familiar to me now, my heart was pounding. The sun was setting, between 5 and 6 p.m., and the middle level glowed so warmly.

There he was, lying on the cool tiles by the sheer curtains, blowing in the warm breeze.

He saw me, stood up, stretched, and began meowing his talkative meows.

One thing I had always said was that he could talk.

He found his voice very early on, and I wasn’t sure if it was because tuxedos are talkative or because every second we spent together since I got him, I’d been talking—but he had a lot to say. About everything.

He walked over to me, talking, all casual, rambling about everything he had been doing. Probably a little mad about me leaving like that. Probably pretty smug because his new house was his castle, and they fed him prime salmon and sardines by hand.

The evening was really lovely.

I had walked out to see him on the front hill, as the sun was setting, and it made me so emotional. I loved seeing him on the grass, looking out, wandering by himself.

He was still so small, though. So vulnerable.

I remember looking at him, smiling, and he was looking back at me, from down on the grass.

I remember feeling like the way he was looking at me was as if to say, I get it. I stay here now.

And I wanted to say, No. Come with me. This was just for now. Please come with me. It’s just a joke. Let’s go home.

They told me that in his first week, he had gotten stuck somewhere, and they had to scoop him out.

They told me sometimes he talks so much it sounds like he’s giving a sermon.

They told me he loves the bed and climbs onto their pillows to sleep on their heads.

It was a beautiful sunset, and my heart hurt.

I decided it was time for me to go when the sky turned indigo, nearly fully dark. The moon was going to be full in the next day or so. I tried to make small talk about that as my hands shook, booking a taxi to pick me up.

"Let me go get him for you."

I held him for a moment, but he wriggled out, wanting to go explore.

"It’s okay, it’s good. He has things to do, you know? Big boy things," I had said.

I cried, and they felt bad, and I felt bad.

When I cry, I reassure everybody else why it’s so silly that I’m crying.

I cried because when I look at him, all I see is that little creature, in between the dirt and the plants. Under the bed. In my arms. Heart pounding through that tiny ribcage. Big eyes staring up at me, altering my brain chemistry.

The taxi had trouble finding the house, and I stood at the end of their driveway, looking up at the stars. Tears streaming. I held my breath because if I breathed, my throat stung.

I heard a slight rustle and saw black—and a little white streak on a little chest, leading up to the chin.

He was sitting. Watching me.

I got into the taxi. I looked back, my neck aching.

And he wasn’t there anymore.

I got back to the room. To the place that no longer felt like home. To the empty space where his bowls had been.

I prayed.

They sent photos of him now and again, and it made me so happy. He still looked so small to me, even though I knew he was growing. He had his own entrance through one of the windows. He had his little routines.

I missed him. Oh God, I missed him.

I still cried.

I cried because I wanted him. Because I wished I could see him grow up.

I cried because of the love.

I got back to the apartment that evening and stood on the balcony. My arms felt terribly empty. I looked out at the view. I held myself and cried. I swayed from side to side.

Fast forward to middle of December, I kept thinking about him. I kept thinking I should message to see how he is.

But he’s fine, I told myself.

Part of me didn’t want to message because I’m always afraid of bad news. But another part of me wanted to message because it’s normal, and because he’s fine.

I couldn’t sleep the following night because he was on my mind so much.

The next day, I sent a message—friendly, checking in, talking about the holidays.

I went to do a workout because I didn’t want to feel paralyzed, waiting for a response, just to read that he’s totally fine.

I finished my workout and checked my phone, and right before the preview of the message turned into … my eyes darted to the word:

“Unfortunately.”

One week before, Silas had gone missing.

He disappeared.

Totally unlike him.

"He was having a grand old time here."

The man had sounded lighthearted—I know to make me feel less worried.

My heart sank, but I didn’t react immediately as I thought I might have.

I couldn’t cry.

Maybe it was shock.

Maybe I was paralyzed by the fact that I was so far away and couldn’t do anything.

I have read probably every forum and Reddit post about male cats around this age going missing for females in heat.

"Eight months," one person had said. "My cat went missing and turned up after eight months."

The thought of him being run over—as is common in Phuket—didn’t nag at me so much because they lived on top of a big hill, and the streets there were quiet.

I read so many forums and thought so many things, but my mind settled on none.

It was blank.

All I knew was that Silas was somewhere, and I didn’t know where, and that made me feel insane.

By then, it had only been a week.

Then two weeks.

Three weeks.

At three and a half weeks, my family and I were driving back from somewhere, and I felt a little hot and bothered. I was tired, and I get carsick when I sit in the back. And it was hot.

I looked out the window and stared absentmindedly.

I could feel myself be absent.

I could feel myself feel angry.

I could feel myself feel sad.

When we got back to the house, I went straight to my room and sat on my bed.

I sheepishly googled: breathing for feeling overwhelmed.

Me, the girl who had led breathwork meditations, who reminds other people to breathe, telling them they’re breathing too shallow—googling how to breathe when feeling overwhelmed.

It’s like my nervous system checked out.

Bye. See ya later.

One thing about me—you’ll always know how I’m feeling by the look on my face.

My brother popped his head by the open doorway. I met his eyes and said, “I’m sad.”

And the tears fell from my eyes. They felt boiling hot.

I told him about Silas. About the fact that he was missing. That I didn’t know where he was.

And I realized that somehow, those two were separate hurts.

I told my brother that I had prayed to every god, every deity, to the saints of lost things. I had recited prayers for lost beings, lost people.

I told him that I think I am cursed.

"Why do the things I love so much leave so early? Why do I seem to grieve everyone so young? Where is he?"

My brother asked me if we could pray for Silas together.

I don’t remember everything my brother said when he prayed to God, but I remember the feeling of my brother holding my hands together.

I remember shutting my eyes so tight my head ached.

I remember all the losses of my life shooting through me like an arrow as he whispered,

"God, be with my sister, for we know she isn’t cursed."

I have thought of very creative, enticing deals to make with God so He can let me know where Silas is.

I’m really good with clues, God!

I have pleaded with the sky.

I have promised to not ask for anything else, ever.

I have vowed to be as good as I can possibly be.

In response—nothing.

Nothing.

Silence.

It’s been over two months now. I have suffered through countless scenarios.

All make me feel so sad, helpless, feral.

I think a week ago, my subconscious decided to rummage, and I have had four consecutive nights of dreaming about him.

I’d dream all sorts of nightmares.

I’d dream of him in different forms, as other animals.

I’d dream of his favorite green bag and wake up in a panic, remembering I left it at the house so he’d have something that smells of me.

I dreamt of being lost, of being worried for those looking for me, and woke up confused, realizing I’m not the one who is missing.

I messaged the man again, just to check in. Affirming that I know if he had news, he would have told me.

He responded, saying he is still keeping a sharp eye.

He has suspicions that Silas may be living with a neighbor—maybe—but no evidence.

He signs all his messages, Captain.

I imagine I’m on a tiny boat, out at sea.

No sails. No wind.

It’s misty, foggy, unclear.

The sky blends into the horizon.

I don’t know what’s up or down.

No compass.

I’m all alone out here.

Nothing and nobody to love.

Nothing and nobody to leave.

Dear Silas, are you there?

It’s me.

It’s your mother.

I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I left.

Silas, where are you?

Silas, I’m so sorry.

Did you get stuck somewhere? Are you stuck somewhere? Tell me where.

Silas, are you scared?

Silas, did something hurt you? Did something come out of the woods and hurt you?

Silas, do you wonder where I am?

Silas, are you still alive?

Silas, are you living somewhere else?

Silas, are they feeding you? Do they know you like mackerel the best? Do they know you don’t really like tuna?

Silas, are you thirsty?

Silas, do you feel loved? Do you feel safe?

Silas, where did you go?

Silas, I’m sorry.

Silas, are you still alive?

Silas, I keep having dreams where you come back to me.

I dream I’m in hospitals, on abandoned paths, in houses, by the sea.

I dream that you walk up to me, and it takes my breath away.

I dream that I pick you up and get to hold you again.

I check every limb for scratches or breaks.

I dream I trace the contours of your fur, recognizing it is really you.

I breathe you in.

You smell clean, like feathers and bed linen.

In every dream, in a panic, I have to go.

There’s a nightmarish sense of urgency where I have to leave you when I just got you back.

I wake up while I’m rushing, and it slips through my fingers.

I free fall.

I scream with anguish in these dreams—so much so that when I wake up, my entire body radiates with pain.

Silas, I miss you. I love you.

Silas, are you there?

It’s me.

Your mother.

Silas, forgive me.