Meet the Neighbors Thanks to the Cat

How do you meet your neighbors in a new country?

It may be more difficult than you think, or more easy. In our small town environment, pedestrians greet each other in passing. No need, and no expectation, to stop and strike up a conversation.

You are allowed to go and ring the neighbors' door bell to introduce yourselves. Just don't bring any gifts, that would raise eyebrows.

But you can do a neighbor-friendly version of the greet-and-go above. If you recognize someone as a neighbor, stop and see if they want to chat.

Equally likely, a neighbor may stop and talk when he or she sees you in the front yard.

Take it as is comes, don't force yourself to do things you are not comfortable with. If you were a hermit in the U.S., there's no need to play Mr. or Ms. Outgoing Citizen of the World.

If a neighbor invites you over without giving you a specific time, by all means, have a go at it.

In many social environments or cities in the U.S. you would call beforehand. In Germany, even in cities, you do not have to do this.

In our example, the way we got to meet the neighbors was very different. The cat did it.

Two of the cats had been allowed outside on the patio in the early evening. It was a mistake easy to make and impossible to correct.

They held their tiny noses into the wind, and took of towards the far corner of the garden. Dark cats in dark grass become invisible after a few yards, no invisibility cloak needed. We called, gently at first, trying our best to not sound alarmed. Yeah, good luck with that.

Over the next few hours, we'd check every thirty minutes, to no avail. Four weeks into our new-ish life, bummed out is putting it mildly. We tried not to blame the other one for letting them out.

It took immense efforts and led to clenched jaws and a bad taste in the mouth from so much tongue-biting.

I am not sure if I had never realized it or plain forgotten, but the following morning it felt I had a hangover just from stress. Weird.

As I open the patio door, there is a little meow. The tomcat is back. He greets with the little voice in the big body that earned him the nickname Mike Tyson.

He rushes in and heads for the food. No sign of the sister. I do a little dance of joy while he stuffs himself on kibbles. Then he comes over and leans against my leg. His harness is gone.

Worry replaces the joy of seeing him back unharmed. Conjectures and what ifs start swirling in my head.

That same afternoon, we print a picture of the missing sister, put a contact number on, bring the small stationary store cum post office a photocopy windfall and hit the pavement.

One hundred copies are soon gone, and we continue the next day. This is how we meet our neighbors. All one thousand of them, sort of. After day 2, every storefront in town sports a wanted poster.

The following two weeks, several hours each day are taken up with walks along likely routes an escapee would take, with dealing with a few pranks (we have your cat, haha), several inconclusive sightings and chats with people.

Someone is collecting old clothes and other stuff for charity or for resale, we cannot find out exactly for what. They put a basket at your door with a piece of paper listing what items they accept and a pickup date a few days later.

One or two neighbors stop us, warning us that these folks are pursuing a side business of catching pets and selling them to laboratories for animal experiments.

Now, that sounds like an effing urban myth, and I verify it on the trusty internet. For five days, life takes on an aura of Stephen King, of the mysteriously odd just under the veneer of an uneventful life.

As we hear more and more people give us details about these animal catchers and their devious ways, I have a ping or two of "do we really want to be here"?
I remind myself that they are just trying to be helpful. They are not doing anything other than telling a story, it's what we all do - but some stories are easily exposed as myths, while others - often hugely more important ones, like religion or a system of national values - are accepted truths.

As the number of days grows, our hopes and or efforts dimish. We begin to talk more about how the cat might be heading West, trying to get back to her home many thousand miles away.

In other words, we are merrily progressing along the stages of grief.

And we have made friends. Thank you, little cat.

It has been two and a half weeks since the cat got lost; and that plaster cast from our First German Music Experience is exactly one day old.

At midnight, pain wakes everybody up. A couple of pain pills, opiates by the way because the old surgeon did take pity with us, and we try to get back to sleep.

I go out to the patio, sit on our only lawn chair.

Meow.

Meow, and the shadow of a cat on the left. I call her, she responds, I take a short step towards her, and she backs away. I approach a bit more, she back away some more.
One more short step by me, and she is back all the way on the other side of the street. Fuck.

I go back through the house to the front door. She is still there, right under the rear bumper of a parked car. I walk, she bolts into the driveway on the far side.

I go back, sit on the top of the stairs. She slowly comes back out of the driveway, "meow".

What happens next is condensed into the following account, recounted over and over when we tell everyone that the cat is back.

For over half an hour, with me sitting on the stairs and the cat under the rear bumper, we have this conversation:

Cat: meow
Me: meow

Over and over and over.

Then she comes over, rubs her head against the outstretched hand and starts purring as if there is no tomorrow.

And my account always ends with "you will not believe how glad I was that the time was one in the morning, pitch dark, nobody on the street to witness the conversation. I really dodged a visit by a couple of overly friendly burly guys with a straightjacket."