You can’t be a resident of Idaho for long without realizing that every winter has at least one memorable cold snap. On television grinning, obviously excited weather forecasters are always your first sign of an impending drop in temperature. Thrilled to be the bearer of bad tidings, they smile like a joyous Freddy Kruger, and report on the coming of he evil “cold mass” from the Arctic.

This weather phenomenon occurs whenever the jet stream changes direction and instead of blowing from west to east, swings into northern Canada and then shoots due south into Idaho. Everyone in Idaho knows to the minute when it will be arriving as the local newscasters track it like an advancing army. Everyday, they proudly point to their weather maps to show how the frigid conditions have dropped a little further into the state. If done properly, these weather gurus can build up nearly the same titillating anticipation as their colleagues do when reporting on a murder.

As the temperature plummets to zero, it’s time to get the goose down coat out. At minus ten, you try to find a matching pair of gloves or, when no match is found, at least some type of glove for each hand. As the temperature drops to minus twenty, a real Idahoan just scoffs, “This isn’t so bad. Its not really cold until a sneeze freezes before it can get out of your mouth.” At minus thirty, your sneeze solidifies somewhere around your tonsils. In Idaho, however, the term “damn cold” is used only when locals finally lose their sense of humor. It is a scientific fact that this happens at exactly minus forty degrees.

At this temperature, anything not kept inside stops functioning. The intense cold is most noticeable when trying to start your car. Slide onto your vinyl front seat and it shatters like pond ice. Turn the key and it is like someone stole your engine; the only response is a dull thud. Battery acid frozen? Antifreeze turned to ice? Is the gasoline slush? Hell, who cares? Wait another couple of minutes and your ears are going to fall off. Mother Nature is definitely saying, “Stay Home. Stay inside.”

But apparently Mother Nature doesn’t talk to cats; at least one particular cat. One year, as frigid air moved closer and closer, our gray cat never strayed far from the warmth of the wood stove. The thought of going outside for his evening sortie seemed to be completely out of the question. But finally, when it was cold enough to freeze nose hairs, the cat suddenly decided it was time for a little adventure—and he headed out into the new Ice Age.

One day passed. Then two. On the third day, our cat still had not returned. I began to doubt that this comfort-loving creature cold survive yet another night outdoors. I commented to my wife, “I think he’s crossed the line. I don’t think he is going to make it.” Her less-than-concerned response was, “He’ll be back. Don’t forget how he came into our lives in the first place.”

I thought back to when the cat first arrived. Now, a stray cat in rural Idaho isn’t a rare occurrence, but strays are supposed to be scraggly and half-starved. Not this cat. He arrived with a huge belly. He had a real Garfield of a stomach the size of a grapefruit. Not feeling that the name “Pot Belly” was a winner, I called him “Ten-Pounder” in honor of his magnificent, plump abdomen. Other family members found that this name just wouldn’t roll off the tongue and later changed his name to “Chester.” It never worked for me, but it wasn’t like the cat ever cared.

Anyway, even though Chester wasn’t a skinny skeleton, he was always mutant ugly. He looked exactly like one of the creatures in the movie Gremlins. Not the lovable, doe-eyed Gizmo, but the maniacal, disgusting Spike—oversized, horizontal ears and a tuff of hair that stuck straight up like a rock punker’s hairdo. But even with all his malfunctions, Chester became a cherished pet.

As the cold continued, my wife was the first to crack. “Maybe we should drive around the neighborhood and look for him.” I responded, “If he was a dog, I’d say yes.” Drive around town and you will see a dog at every other house. Stand in one spot and sooner or later every dog in the vicinity will come by. But look for a cat? You can’t look for a cat. Cats don’t hang out like dogs do. They don’t bark at you and they never approach to be petted. You could dump a hundred cats on a football field and ten minutes later you wouldn’t be able to find a single one. Do that with dogs and you would end up with ten extra. Look for a cat? I don’t think so.

But she persisted, “Come on, let’s give it a try.” Now she had done it. Pushed me over the line and triggered a flashback to my childhood. It happened when I was twelve years old. A group of us boys were sitting on a linoleum covered floor playing cards in a fiend’s bedroom when I accidentally flipped a card under a chest of drawers. I pulled the chest out in order to retrieve the card and there it was! Between the chest and the wall, with one paw lifted like it was about to take a step forward, was a cat. Well actually, a cat mummy.

I jumped back in terror. My friend exclaimed, “Geez! We wondered what had happened to Felix. About a year ago, he just disappeared.” With that, my friend tried to pick the cat up by the tail. As he lifted, the tail snapped and as the cat hit the floor, it broke into a dozen pieces. That was the day I learned one of life’s most important lessons—when you lose a cat, never, ever look for it.

My wife had little sympathy. She grabbed her coat. “Like
I said, let’s go.” I followed her directions as we cruise town looking for Chester. We couldn’t find him anywhere, but my wife didn’t seem to hear more of my theories about the hopelessness of searching for cats.

Another couple of sub-zero days passed. The worst of the artic blast moved toward Chicago and watching what the teeth-chattering temperatures does to a major metropolitan city made most Idahoans feel a little better. Then warm weather—a whole tow degrees above freezing—returned and some time during the night, so did Chester.

During his one-week escapade into the great glacial wasteland, cattle were frozen into grotesque statues and the school in our town shut down when the furnace exploded. But Chester’s biggest problem was nothing more than an empty stomach. He soon pranced over to his food dish, ate his fill, and then took up his usual place next to the wood stove.