We are continually making mountains out of molehills.

This particular story is about when I thought I lost my cat and my quick overreaction to that idea. We live in unprecedented times, but we can always count on our reptilian brains to be there to take over. Taking a moment to be in the present can provide our minds with the break it needs to function properly.

It all happened after I had gone out for a quick walk around my neighborhoods. As you may have read, I started doing daily walks/runs this year. This particular day had been a very busy one, and I found myself pressed for time. It was clearly a summer night, and, though the last of the sunlight rays were fading, it was still warm with a slight breeze. However, I had also left my cat, Lenny, outside, which I usually only do if I’m around the house to check what she is doing.

When I came back to the house, the first thing I did was dash through the living room. I then went past my small galley kitchen before walking to the glass sliding door on the small dining area next to the kitchen.

I have an enclosed backyard, bordered up with those tall, old, gray-looking slates of wood fence. The sliding door opens right into a deck, which then has a few steps to the ground on the right side. 

My eyesight went immediately toward the left corner of my yard. That’s usually where she likes to play. I called out her name, “Lenny?”

In that corner sits a small, Crimson King maple tree that provides plenty of shade and has some bald spots where the grass no longer grows underneath its big canopy. Lenny loves to roll on that dirt. She wasn’t there.

I started to feel a bit of anxiety rising inside my stomach.

I ran to the left edge of the deck and put my hands on the wooden planks that serve as handrails. Some of them are so old the wood has started to sink in places. I kept calling her. No answer.

My gaze quickly moved around the tree area and over to the right side of the yard, my heart dropped. I didn’t see her.

I kept calling her name, and unlike most cats, my Lenny likes to answer. When she responds, it’s a purr-like noise, prrrrup. Whenever she is stressed, she will meow back loudly. This time there was no response. 

I remembered one time she came back inside with her whisker full of cobwebs. 

I ran down the two steps from the deck and crunched down on the little area where I’d seen her go in before. All the while calling her name. “Lenny?” In the darkness, I was able to make no shade. With my phone’s flash, I verified what my heart already feared. She wasn’t there.

By this point, my question was turning more into a silent scream.

I kept calling and calling, still no answer. I went to each corner of my tiny yard, looking at the holes where the fence meets the house, where it meets the yard door and around where it meets the small, white shed (the one my husband painted a streak of charcoal gray on the side to test his new paint sprayer). I had seen her around it, chasing butterflies. 

As the seconds ticked by, I felt my heart pound faster and faster. My blood was rushing in a moment of anticipation of what would be next. My body felt hot. I felt a hole grow from the pit of my stomach. 

Every step I took felt heavier. Negative thoughts started to fill my head. 

My neighbors have a dog; what if he killed her? If she somehow made it away and someone else found her, would they just keep her? She is so cute, who wouldn’t?! I haven’t microchipped her. Why haven’t I? I should never have left her outside without supervision! Why did I do that?

As I checked every spot of my yard twice, three times … I came to the harsh reality she wasn’t there.

I was ready to go back inside to break the news to my husband and search for Lenny around my neighborhood. I pushed down the full-on panic I was starting to experience. Tears were forming in my eyes and my voice constricted. I hastily said to my husband, “Baby, I can’t find her! I can’t find Lenny!” 

He then nonchalantly says from the living room, “She is right here.” 

In a few steps, I found her and him sitting on the brown sofa. He was petting her head while she was all scrunched up from her nap. She even yawned when she saw me, acknowledging me. 

At that moment, all my fear and panic vanished. I felt a wave of relief wash over me, and a big sigh escaped my body as I was hugging her. 

Many times we believe, erroneously, things are much worse than what they really are. We create monsters out of shadows and mountains out of sand. 

Lenny had been inside the whole time because I had brought her in before leaving. I was so absorbed in getting things done I missed the part about just being present in the moment. Checking off boxes as if that’s life. It isn’t.

The stress, anxiety, uncertainty and tiredness we have all been dealing with during this pandemic were the perfect ingredients for this overreaction. It’s easy to lose sight of things, just be on autopilot, but we must remember to take time to stop and smell the roses. Our sanity depends on it.