Titus the Missionary

Titus was no ordinary tabby cat. He had a sleek, slender frame and impossibly large green eyes that sparkled like polished emeralds. The day he was adopted into our family was the start of a bond forged in love, but it didn’t stop him from believing the entire town was his family, too.

As far as Titus was concerned, every doorstep, park bench, and storefront was part of his territory. Despite the warmth and comfort of our home, his insatiable curiosity led him to wander, earning him nicknames like “The Missionary” for his devotion to visiting everyone and “Snoopy” for his boundless nosiness.

The first time Titus disappeared, panic struck our household. Hours of searching finally led to a discovery: he was lounging on the counter of the nearby gas station, swishing his tail while an employee scratched his chin.

“He’s here every day,” the cashier grinned. “We call him Stripe. He’s our mascot!”

We tried explaining that he was our family’s cat, but Titus looked so at ease—so home—that it felt more like we were trying to reclaim a borrowed book from a library.

Then came the neighbors. Each one insisted Titus belonged to them. Bill down the street called him “Shadow” and claimed “she” loved his sunroom, where “she” napped daily. The kids next door called him “Whiskers” and swore he belonged to them. Titus, for his part, never corrected anyone.

One day, Titus set his sights beyond the neighborhood. It began with the RV Park down the road, where he charmed campers into feeding him scraps of smoked fish and slices of ham. Then, it was the town’s Fourth of July picnic, where he reportedly joined a family’s blanket and gnawed on a hot dog.

Each time, someone “rescued” him, assuming he was lost and in need of a home. Titus, of course, played along, basking in the temporary adoration before slipping out the door to find his next adventure.

The town’s social media pages were often abuzz with photos of him: “Found this sweet cat at the park—anyone know where he belongs?” or “This friendly guy wandered into our bookstore today. We’ve named him Hemingway.”

Despite our efforts to keep him close—custom collars, GPS trackers, even posting flyers—Titus always found a way to vanish. He was like a feline Houdini, slipping through cracks in fences or jumping into delivery trucks.

One of the “rescues” happened during the town’s annual Boat Regatta. A woman from a nearby city spotted him on parked car. Convinced he was a stray in need of saving, she swooped him into her arms and announced she was taking him to a shelter. Luckily, a couple of kids recognized Titus.

“He’s not lost,” one of them said with a laugh. And called me.

By the time I arrived, Titus was reclining in the woman’s car, purring like an engine. He didn’t protest when I carried him home, though his eyes seemed to say, Thanks for the ride. What’s for dinner?

Over time, the town learned to embrace Titus’s wandering ways. Some people started leaving out bowls of water and little snacks for him. Others joked that he should run for mayor since he already knew everyone in town. We even made peace with his adventures, recognizing that Titus was a cat with a mission—to bring a little joy to everyone he met.

Every evening, though, Titus returned to our porch, hopping through his cat door with a satisfied air. He’d curl up in his favorite spot by the fireplace, purring himself to sleep.

Because no matter how far he roamed, Titus knew exactly where he belonged. And so did we.