Mickey Goes Missing

By Peggy F. McManus August, 2026

When I was four years old, Dad was working on his doctorate at WSU. Our family was poor as dirt at the time, and lived in a ratty little trailer in an even rattier trailer park near the campus. The gravel road in front of our single-wide was coated with a thick layer of sticky tar that stunk to high heaven, especially during the long, hot days of summer. 

Behind our trailer, a river flowed, dirty brown and foreboding. There was no fence or barrier of any kind to keep the trailer park's kids or pets from falling in and getting whisked away by the river's current.

Our parents warned us to stay away from the river. I heeded their advice, but my older sisters, the Trolls, would sometimes sneak off to play on the riverbank, making sure to stay out of our parents' sight. I didn’t worry too much about them, but I did worry that our cat, Mickey, might fall into the river and disappear into its murky depths.

My parents had adopted Mickey when I was a baby, and she was just a pint-sized mewing puff of fur.

Mickey wasn’t a fan of little kids, but by the time I turned four, she had learned to tolerate me, for the most part.

One night, Dad and the Trolls were preoccupied with their schoolwork, and Mom was busy washing dishes in the kitchen. I was left to roll aimlessly on the floor, bored and cranky, looking for something to entertain myself with. Eventually, I noticed Mickey asleep under the credenza that Grandma had gifted my parents for their wedding. I rolled over by her and gave her fluffy tail a little tug to wake her up. Maybe Mickey will play with me, I thought. Instead, startled from sleep, Mickey leaped up, snarling and lashing out, claws bared. 

She got me good, alright. I let out a scream as blood dripped from my scratched eyeball. Mom rushed over to examine the damage and wasn’t pleased with what she saw. I would need to go to the doctor, and that would cost money we didn’t have. 

Still perturbed by the rude awakening, Mickey stalked around, growling low in her throat. This made me scream even louder, so Mom snatched Mickey up and tossed her out the front door and into the night.

“Bad kitty,” Mom scolded as Mickey slinked off into the darkness. Mom slammed the door behind her and rushed back over to hold a cool, damp compress over my injured eye.

I knew I shouldn’t have surprised Mickey like that. My tears continued to flow, but now they were more from guilt than my stinging eye. The Trolls glared at me from where they sat at the table, their homework forgotten. How dare I cause their beloved pet to be thrown out into the night? I could see by the looks on their faces that I would pay for what I’d done.

Indeed, I did pay, beginning that night when Dad whisked me off to the doctor, who dropped goopy medicine in my eye that made it burn and blurred my vision. Finally, he covered the damaged eye with an impressive-looking bandage and sent us on our way.

It was still dark out when we got back to the trailer, and Mickey was nowhere to be seen. Not that I could see much with my one eye, but she didn’t come when Dad called her either, and that was unusual. But by that point, I was tired and only wanted to crawl into the little trundle bed in the bedroom I shared with the Trolls. 

“I’m sure Mickey will be back by morning,” Dad assured me.

“She better be,” I heard one of the Trolls mutter as I drifted off to sleep.

Mickey wasn’t back the next morning, or any of the mornings that followed. Everyone was devastated, especially me, since it was my fault she was gone.

The Trolls were unrelenting in finding ways to punish me for my role in Mickey’s disappearance. Pinches, hair-pulls, and various other forms of bodily torture became the norm. I deserved it. After all, Mickey was a cherished member of our family. If one of us was to disappear into the night, the Trolls would much prefer it be me.

Spring turned into summer, and still, we continued to search for Mickey.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” we cried over and over as we patrolled the smelly tarred loop of the trailer park and along the riverbank until we reached the little bridge that crossed it.

This became our heartbreaking routine. By the time summer was in full swing, the bandage was gone from my scratched eye, and I was fully recovered. But it didn’t matter. The only thing that did was finding our pussycat.

One scorching afternoon in August, we headed out, once again, to search for Mickey. By the time we reached the bridge, we were sweaty, tired, and depressed. 

“That’s enough for today,” Dad said. “Let’s head home.” 

Our efforts had failed, once again, and with our heads hung low, the Trolls and I solemnly kicked at the dust with our flip-flops.

“We'll make a pitcher of lemonade when we get home,” Mom said, hoping to cheer us up.

“Good idea,” Dad replied, taking Mom’s hand and turning toward home.

“Pat, did you hear that?” Mom asked, stopping in her tracks. “I think I heard a meow. Yes, I did! It’s coming from over there,” she said, pointing to the other side of the river. 

We all turned to look, and there, sitting on the far side of the bridge, was Mickey! 

Relief and joy filled us, and the Trolls and I immediately began running toward the bridge.

“Wait up,” Dad said. “We don’t want to scare her. Stay here, and I’ll go get her.”

Mickey sat patiently, watching Dad approach, and she didn’t object when he bent down to pick her up. In fact, she snuggled up against his neck. Dad held her close, petting her and planting little kisses on her furry head.

“We missed you," he cooed. “Where have you been all this time?”

“Wherever she’s been, she’s been pampered,” Mom said when Dad reached us and passed Mickey into her arms. “She smells like expensive perfume!”

I wanted to jump and shout for joy, but I didn’t, lest I drive Mickey off again. Instead, I tiptoed home, feeling unbelievably thankful for Mickey’s miraculous return.