Tuesday 9th December 2025
I have been reading the Diamond Harbour Facebook page again. This is something I try not to do too often, as it can lead to unnecessary anxiety amongst the cat fraternity. However, it’s hard not to notice a pattern.
“Our cat hasn’t come home since we moved.”
“She keeps going back to the old house.”
“He’s never done this before.”
These posts usually come with pictures of the unfortunate cat and attract unhelpful comments suggesting that owners festoon the garden in their new home with their dirty underwear. Mummy did this once while I was going through my own “troubled times”. I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so embarrassed. No wonder cats are running away.
What humans don’t seem to understand is that moving house is an extremely big deal for a cat. Our whole world is wrenched from beneath our paws and nobody bothers to explain that when a cat moves house, our internal maps don’t update automatically. It’s not like a Google Maps or a Windows update. There’s no notification about a scheduled update, no security patches to fix our vulnerabilities, nothing to protect us from potential threats, no bug fixes to resolve issues or abnormal behaviours. And what about new features that may introduce new functionalities or improvements that we’re completely unprepared for? You simply wake up one morning and HOME is no longer where it should be. I know this because it has happened to me.
Wednesday 10th December 2025
I decided to raise the matter at our weekly Mindfulness Meeting this evening.
“I think,” I said carefully, “that we need to set up a support group.”
“Not another one,” snorted Winston.
“For cats who’ve moved house,” I went on, ignoring my big brother. “Or whose humans have. Or who feel… temporarily misplaced.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” said Serafina, raising a paw. “Perhaps it would help to establish how common this actually is.”
“Cats going missing?” frowned Winston.
“Yes,” said Serafina. “After a move.”
Smokey O’Neill brightened immediately. “I can help with that.”
Of course he could.
“I’ve done a bit of reading,” he said, producing a small notebook. “Based on council reports, veterinary advice, and the Diamond Harbour Cat Rescue Group—”
“This is going to involve numbers, isn’t it?” sighed Winston.
“Most cats who disappear after a move aren’t actually lost,” Smokey informed us. “They’re just… disoriented.”
“Or offended,” I added.
“Quite,” said Smokey. “Roughly seventy per cent return within a few days once they’ve re-established familiar scent markers …”
I thought about the underwear again and reddened slightly.
“… another group take longer, but are eventually located sleeping somewhere unexpected.”
“Like an outdoor shed,” I quickly added.
“Or got shut inside a holiday house,” cut in Cookie. “Often one with better food lying around.”
“And the rest?” Serafina asked gently.
“Some take much longer,” admitted Smokey after a pause. “Weeks. Months, even. But that doesn’t mean they’re gone. In many cases they’re found when someone checks for a microchip.”
“Assuming the cat is microchipped,” said Winston.
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence.
“The point is,” said Smokey closing his notebook. “Most cats who leave after a move do come back. Sometimes they just need time. And sometimes they need someone to notice they’re not a stray to take them to the vet to be scanned.”
We all took a deep breath.
“Have I told you,” said Smokey, “about the time I was bound and gagged and driven to Motukarara in the back of a car. I didn’t see my owner for six months. It took someone with a sharp eye and a microchip scanner to—”
We all groaned. He had told us. Many times. We had all thought this story very interesting when we’d first heard it … about three years ago.
“Moving quickly along—” I said, and was grateful when Serafina interrupted.
“That’s an excellent idea, Weasley. We’ll call it CSI Diamond Harbour.”
“What?” we all said in unison.
“The Cats Support Initiative, Diamond Harbour,” explained Serafina. “For lost and relocated cats.”
Winston frowned.
“Next you’ll be wanting funding.”
“We need a tax!” suggested Serafina energetically.
“Attacks are the best form of defence,” said Spooke, who I don’t think had fully grasped the situation.
“A CGT!” declared Serafina, in full flow now. “The Cat Guidance Tax.”
“Cats with a brain lapse?” I suggested.
“A CGT won’t work in Diamond Harbour,” growled Winston grumpily. “It didn’t work in Purau or anywhere else. They never have.”
Thursday 11th December 2025
The first meeting of CSI Diamond Harbour was held under the deck at my house. Smokey brought a sign-in sheet and we all dipped our paws in a muddy puddle and “signed in”. What on earth this was supposed to achieve is unknown, although Smokey seemed very pleased with himself. Serafina brought a list of ground rules which I think she’d produced using AI. Winston brought a complicated fold up cat bed that I strongly suspect had been bought on Temu. Spooke arrived followed closely by Cookie who had brought … Mr Darcy.
On the bright side, we had a new member this evening. I hadn’t met him before, but I knew of him. He and his humans had lived in Diamond Harbour, then there’d been some sort of kerfuffle and I’d heard he’d ended up living in Lyttelton. He had the calm air of a cat who had seen hills, ports, dogs in unfamiliar streets — and had come out the other side with his soul intact.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I took the long way. Old habits.”
I began to wonder if he’d come over on the ferry but I later learned that he had moved back to Diamond Harbour fairly recently. I decided his input could be very useful for CSI Diamond Harbour.
Before we began, Serafina suggested we acknowledge those who were no longer with us.
“Squeak,” she said her voice breaking a little. “And … and Ron.”
We all bowed our heads and stared thoughtfully at our paws.
“Absent friends,” she went on, looking tearfully at the pawprints on Smokey O’Neill’s sign in page. Nobody spoke and I could almost read everyone’s thoughts. Some cats find their way home. Some don’t.
“This is why this group is so important,” said Serafina, no longer mawkish but adopting an air of robust sanity. “I think Workshop One should revolve around the concept of what exactly is home.”
Winston objected to this on the grounds that it was encouraging wokism by introducing abstract concepts.
“Not really,” I said, surprising myself. “I used to go back to the old house even when it was empty. Even when it … hurt.”
Several cats nodded and Moriarty looked at me thoughtfully.
“When we moved to Lyttelton,” he said, “everything looked right but felt wrong. Same sea. Different vibration.”
“What you’re talking about here,” said Mr Darcy, taking the floor uninvited, “is displacement.”
Cookie closed her eyes. Winston muttered something unrepeatable. Smokey O’Neill straightened his papers.
“I should make it clear that I’m not here in any official capacity,” said Mr Darcy with a smile that contradicted this assertion. “However, I do have concerns.”
Of course he did.
“I’ve drafted a preliminary framework,” he announced, producing a sheaf of papers from seemingly nowhere, “for what I’m calling Cat Related Adjustment Protocols.”
“CRAP then,” said Winston with a dry laugh.
Darcy ignored Winston and warmed to his theme.
“I propose a regulatory agency that will focus on cat owners meeting their obligations through efficient licensing and registration of displaced cats. Furthermore,” he went on as we all yawned with the exception of Winston who narrowed his eyes. “We need clear definitions of “lost”, “temporarily absent”, and “emotionally disoriented”, time limits on how long a cat may remain lost before the matter becomes “actionable” and a disclaimer absolving all parties of responsibility should a cat return to the old house and …”
“… eat egg salad from the neighbour’s compost bin,” I said wearily.
“This is about protection,” Darcy said. “For everyone.”
“Thank you, Darcy,” said Serafina remaining remarkably calm. “Your input is noted.”
Darcy beamed.
“But this group,” she continued, “is about kindness not compliance.”
She looked around at us — at Smokey O’Neill, earnest and anxious; at Moriarty, steady; at me, still carrying painful memories of empty houses, having to steal food from compost bins and of falling asleep in the prickly hedge next door to my old home after a catnip session with Ron.
“Cats don’t go missing because they’re careless,” she said. “They go missing because of real estate agents convincing their owners to buy bigger, better homes. Because of lawyers and accountants and the Resource Management Act and—”
At this point it became clear that Serafina had been watching the News on television again. She had most likely fallen asleep and allowed the main points to intermingle with a dream she’d been having.
Darcy left shortly afterwards, muttering something about liability exposure.
After everyone had gone, Moriarty stayed behind with me.
“It was a good try,” he said kindly.
“It was a fiasco,” I said mournfully.
Moriarty smiled.
“Lost cats don’t need systems,” he said. “They need time. And somewhere they’re allowed to admit that they’re scared.”
I wrote down this sage advice and went inside. I needed the comfort of Mummy’s dressing gown and some time alone with my catnip-filled mouse.
Tuesday 16th December 2025
Serafina turned up this morning with Smokey O’Neill, Winston and Moriarty. We all agreed that CSI Diamond Harbour should continue and would meet again tomorrow evening.
Smokey is refining the sign-in sheet. Winston is considering whether an inquiry is necessary. Serafina is drafting a leaflet for humans. Moriarty promised to return with hand-out materials and a road cone. In the meantime I’ll keep monitoring the Diamond Harbour Facebook page and try to persuade Cookie to leave Mr Darcy back in Purau.