Paws, Breathe, Repeat: Lessons on Crisis and Calm from Our Runaway Kitten
A couple of months ago, we did something I swore I’d never do again—we adopted a kitten. I knew better. I really did. We already have a large dog named Roxie who, from the moment we brought her home during the height of Covid, made it abundantly clear that food belongs to her and her alone. Throwing a cat into that mix felt like volunteering for chaos. And let’s not forget my family’s last foray into cat ownership—a certain tabby named Mr. T, who, much unlike his human counterpart, pitied exactly no one. Mr. T had hobbies. He liked to pee in heating vents, and on beds, aim for the litter box and miss, and leave dead rabbits on our porch. If you’ve never experienced the unique joy of searching for the source of old cat urine wafting through the house on a chilly morning, trust me: it’s a thrill you can live without. But, after doing some Google searches, that vent thing is actually more common than I knew. Moral of the story - if you have a cat, make sure your heating vents are in the ceiling.
Enter Pumpkin, the female orange tabby, who strolled into our lives like she owned the place. Day one, and my daughters were smitten. They fell hard and fast, the kind of love that makes you almost forget every reason you once had for not getting a cat. Meanwhile, I braced myself for the inevitable clash when we introduced her to Roxie, our food-aggressive dog. But to my surprise, Roxie didn’t growl or try to turn Pumpkin into a snack. She just gave her the sniff-over of a lifetime, like she was some fine vintage cheese, and Pumpkin, in her typical nonchalance, put up with it (mostly). Now they coexist in this fragile détente, tolerating each other’s existence. Pumpkin, of course, does all the kitten things: knocking stuff off shelves, scaling the drapes, opening doors, turning Roxie’s water bowl into her personal splash zone, and generally behaving like a furry tornado.
We were setting out Halloween decorations on the front porch when Pumpkin, our cat with a flair for the dramatic, bolted out the front door and disappeared into the night. One second she was there, and the next, she was nothing but a memory. It was the kind of exit that would make a magician jealous.
Panic ensued, and we quickly divided into roles. My husband went straight into survival mode, grabbing a flashlight and shaking a bowl of kitten food like a man who’d lost all dignity, while I retreated to the living room to find our daughters mid-crisis. My older daughter had gone full Greek tragedy, sprawled on the floor, sobbing as if the world had ended, while my younger daughter, still with tears in her eyes, stood there, watching her sister with the kind of calm usually reserved for heart surgeons. She turned to me and said, "If Pumpkin’s gone forever, it’s fine. Maybe she’ll find a new family. But if we don’t find her, the show must go on."
What can you say to that? On one hand, I was impressed by her composure. On the other hand, I started calculating the future therapy bills in my head.
It was during this chaos that I started wondering about how we all handle stress, and particularly a crisis. There's fight, flight, fawn, or in the case of my older daughter a freeze and emotional free-fall. And then there’s my younger daughter, for whom everything is a mere logistical hurdle, yet I worry about the emotions that she’s pushing down. Pumpkin’s disappearance had given me a front-row seat to our family's very different survival instincts.
I started thinking about how, in a moment of crisis, we tend to respond as if our lives were somehow being threatened by an angry raccoon. We go into full-blown survival mode, brandishing the emotional equivalent of a broom, and swinging wildly. But if we want to change our habits, maybe we could pause long enough to realize we’re not actually being hunted by small woodland creatures. There might be a more graceful response than “Run!” or “Panic!”—perhaps even something like “Take a deep breath.”
Experts say you can change the way you react by changing how you talk to yourself. So, instead of saying, “Oh my god, everything’s terrible,” you might try a little pep talk, or better yet, reach out to someone you trust who might suggest an alternative approach—like reminding you that, in fact, everything is not on fire. The goal is to put a little distance between you and that impulsive, knee-jerk response so you can give your higher cortex (the grown-up part of your brain that isn’t permanently late for a flight) a chance to weigh in.
“Act, don’t react,” sounds wise enough to embroider on a throw pillow, but that’s easier said than done, especially in America, where quick responses are practically a cultural requirement. Sure, you can always apologize later for your outburst—yet wouldn’t it be nice to act in a way you feel good about in the first place? That’s something I work on with my clients. We plan for the next time that same aggravating situation pops up, and what they’ll say or do when it does. When we make a little space to consider a thoughtful response instead of a panicked one, chances are we’ll feel better walking away from the situation, broom still in hand but with our dignity intact.
So, as we stumble through this election season, headlong into holiday madness, let’s remember to breathe. Give yourself some space, reach out to a friend if you need it, and try to keep that raccoon at bay. The world is probably not ending today—at least not in the way you think. And before you lunge for the broom, ask yourself, “How do I want to handle this?”
Back to the cat: After about 45 minutes of searching—mostly me contemplating how I’d be blamed for this catastrophe for the rest of my life—my husband found Pumpkin, wide-eyed and terrified, balled up on our neighbor’s porch. I was called in for backup, though my slow approach felt like I was tiptoeing toward my own doom. In those final moments, I could see it all: the years of therapy, the relentless guilt, the fact that my daughters might never look at me the same way again, if I didn’t catch this cat.
Luckily, I was quick enough to grab Pumpkin before she scampered off again, and was spared the years of regret. And, we’ll be watching when we open doors from now on, and maybe outfitting her with an AirTag.
