They say that strange things happen when the moon is full. Many cultures are peppered with legends of werewolves and shape shifters. The word "lunatic" comes from the long-held belief that people, and other creatures, go a little crazy when the moon shows her full face to the earth. I don't know if there is any hard scientific evidence to this thought, but ask anyone who has ever worked in a hospital emergency room whether things get lively and interesting during this phase of the month.
The moon itself is the subject of magic and myth dating back to the very beginnings of human history. Peoples of all cultures have used her phases as guidance to plant and harvest their crops, and celebrated the seasons in time with the changing of the moon. The silvery light of a full moon stirs the soul of the most skeptical 20th century human; who can stare at her bright face and not feel the touch of mystery?
The night of June 30th, 1996 was not only the night of the full moon--but of a "blue moon". We've all heard the phrase, "Once in a Blue Moon", but many people don't realize that the term refers to a second full moon in a calendar month. Some say that the blue moon brings even stranger events, stronger "moontides", than a regular full moon. Certainly, this particular moon had been growing from new to full with some unusual plans in mind for our little family.
I woke up as usual on the morning of the 29th, the day before the full moon, and prepared to feed my cats. I opened the cat food cabinet, and everyone came running. Except for Pree. Well, she was sleeping soundly, I supposed, and went about putting down food for everyone. I called for her. No answer. I looked in on my daughter's bed, where I was sure I'd find her snuggled up and sound asleep.
You know that strange feeling you get, when the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and your stomach ties itself in a knot? When Pree wasn't in bed with Jess, I knew that something was terribly wrong. It wasn't till that moment that I returned to the kitchen . . . and saw the hole. There had been a small tear in the kitchen screen, one way too little for a cat to fit through. The night had been warm, so we'd left the window open. The tiny hole now went all the way to the frame at the bottom, and then across to form a cat-sized rip.

Pree was gone.

We live on a mountainside, surrounded by miles and miles of forest. There are a few neighbors on our road, and the two on either side of ours. They all got phone calls, and were put on alert to watch for Pree. None knew her, as she'd never been outdoors before, and I discovered how difficult it is to describe a tortie-point Siamese to someone who'd never seen one. We combed the woods that day, as did several of our neighbors. And the next day, and the next . . . and on and off again periodically after that as the days turned to weeks. Soaked from the rainy summer we'd been having, and tearful, we'd come home with hoarse voices from calling for her. Where could she have gone?
The posters went up all over town. The ads went into the newspaper. All the right people and organizations were called. We traveled the roads nearby, searching under roadside bushes with the hopeful fear of finding a body. Even that, as terrifying as it was, would have been better than not knowing. We talked to neighbors, near and distant, many of whom we'd never met before.
One call came through the following Saturday, from a woman who'd seen our posters. She had seen Pree--tortie points are unique enough that there is no mistaking that description--about a half mile from home. When she opened the door to try and coax the cat into her car, Pree had run off into the woods. That was the only sighting we had.
The month crawled by, leaving a growing void in our lives. The full moon was approaching once again. Our family held to scraps of hope that were getting dimmer with each passing day. Family and friends were divided on whether or not we should keep hoping--or give up and go on with our lives. We'd begun to think the latter group might be right.
And then, the night before July's full moon, the phone rang. It was Mrs. O'Gorman on East Hill Road, who'd spoken to my husband the day the cat disappeared. She lived about two miles from us as the crow flies, perhaps three if one took the roads. She had been driving to work that morning, running late, and saw a little Siamese cat lying dead on the side of the road. She stopped on the way home . . . but the body was gone. There are very few Siamese in our rural township. The chances were very high that it was our Pree.
I held back my tears and called her neighbor, whose house the cat had been seen in front of, but the Hannan family had not seen her. I called the town garage, but none of their workers had cleaned up the body of a Siamese cat that day.
The next day was my husband Joe's day off, and he searched the roadside fields and woods near where she had been seen. Mrs. O'Gorman came out to help. Joe spoke with the people who lived around the area. No one had seen the body. We came to the conclusion that an animal had probably dragged her off.
We had come so close, so close to bringing her home. Now we would never be 100% certain that the cat seen on East Hill Road was Pree. We'd go through the rest of our lives never knowing for sure. The heartbreak was as intense as the day she'd vanished.
That evening, Jess was invited to the movies with a friend and her mother. Shortly after she left, Joe and our son Devon took the trash to the collection station, and I was left home alone. The phone rang. It was Mr. Hannan.

"Mrs. Nastasi?"

"Yes?"

"My labrador just chased a cat under our front porch, and I think it's yours. My wife says it's a Siamese, and it's got a couple of white toes."
Adrenalin struck. By the time Joe and Devon returned from the trash drop-off, I was in the driveway waiting, cat carrier and freshly opened tuna in hand. I never even let them get out of the car--we were out of the driveway in a near-panic.
"We've got to hurry, we don't want her to run off again!"
Mr. Hannan and his son, Robbie, were in the yard waiting for us. "She's still there," he called.
He didn't have to. From the car I could see a tuft of mottled tawny fur and I knew without a doubt that it was Pree. And she was alive!
I got onto my knees and looked under the porch. There sat a skeleton of a cat, covered with fur, dehydrated, starving. I still thought she'd been struck by a car, so was terrified that she might have broken bones or internal injuries.
"PreePree?"
"Maaaaa!" Her voice was harsh and raspy, but loud enough to let me know she recognized me at once. She was crying out for help.
I was afraid to touch her, not sure how badly she was hurt. I reached under, and she lay still and let me stroke her, continuing to cry loudly. Was it pain, or desperation, that caused her to meow like that? Would I get bitten if I tried to move her--or worse yet, cause her injuries to be worse?
I had no choice. After stroking and talking to her for a moment, I grasped her firmly by the scruff of the neck and pulled her toward me as gently as I could. Once I could reach her with both hands I was able to support her better, and I eased her into the crate. She never struggled.
We got her home quickly, contacted the vet's emergency service, and within half an hour were out the door again. Our veterinarian met us at the hospital. Her veins were in such terrible shape that he couldn't get an IV into her, but gave her subcutaneous fluids, antibiotics, cortisone . . . and food. She ate a little. Miraculously, he could find no broken bones, no sign of injury--he did not think she'd been hit by a car after all. She was just, quite simply, nearly starved to death.
Then he admitted her and told me to call in the morning. She had about a 50% chance of making it through the night. We stayed there for a little while, talking to and petting her, and reluctantly went home without her.
That night I stood out under the full moon, saying a prayer of thanks. The sky was overcast, but the clouds parted right around the moon, giving me a good view of the silvery orb. A bat was flitting around in front of it.
The next morning, when I called the vet, I was greeted with the fact that she was eating and doing much better. Her chance for survival had risen into the 90th percentile.
I cried. By the time we visited her that afternoon, she'd been given the gold seal of approval, and was allowed to come home with us. She has a long road of recovery to travel . . . but it certainly won't be as rocky or dangerous as the road she's been walking the past month. She is eating, little bits at a time and in frequent doses, and drinking. Her water has to be warm, and running, and she prefers home made chicken broth.

Pree is home.

Pree, shortly after coming home, from above.
Note the hip bones?

Pree (Potpourri) is a seal tortie-point "applehead" Siamese who lives with the Nastasi family of Middleburgh, NY. Born in 1991, she was five years old on July 31st: the very day that she came home from her adventure. Her mother, lilac point Sachet, also lives with the family, along with Fen and Vogue (unrelated Siamese cats). Gayle Nastasi bred Siamese for some time, under the cattery name of Moonlyte, and all of the cats are now retired, spoiled rotten, and much loved pets.
We'd like to thank all our neighbors, the good people who turned out to help us look for Pree. Most of all, thanks to the Lawyers, owners of Waterfalls Campgrounds in Middleburgh, who alerted all their campers and searched the area around their campgrounds for her, and to the O'Gorman and Hannan families--not to mention the Hannan's labrador, who had the keen insight to chase the cat under the porch so that we could find her.
Pree's journey has many lessons to teach, some of which may never be understood completely. There are spiritual and emotional lessons hidden in her story, things which have opened her family's eyes to the wonders of life and the universe, and which they hope they may someday come to really see in full. Mingled with the miracles, however, are also the physical lessons, and those can be learned by everyone living with cats. A primary one is that which is most obvious. We hope that all of you who have read this story, and live with indoor cats, will never take for granted the fact that a ten-pound cat can't fit though a two-inch tear in a screen. This might be true for normal summer days, but who knows what might happen when the moon is full.