For twenty-three years, I went out so others could come home.
Retired Disabled Combat Search and Rescue Veteran
When someone is missing, you go — through the dark, through the storm —
So Others May Live
That vow didn’t expire with the uniform.
What I didn’t expect was that the one who needed bringing home was me — and that a cat would do it. Aven was teaching me —
Presence 🧿 Attention
How to be here, in the room, in the hour. Then he went missing — and the search turned out to be the lesson too.
He was never just a cat. Honestly, he’s more not a cat than he is one — still discovering what he is and what he wants to be. Same as me.
Who he is
The one who brought me back.
Aven is an F1 Savannah — half African serval, all heart. He came into my life when things were hard, and he did the thing a good rescuer does: he stayed. “Emotional support animal” is the clinical way of saying he gave me a reason to get up in the morning.
We’d only just moved to Panama City Beach this past April — new apartment, new air, the Gulf out past the dunes. He was still learning the place. So was I. Then on May 19th, he went missing, and the place he doesn’t know yet swallowed him up.
Know his marks
A quick game — tap to find his seven tells, and you’d know him in any yard. It plays a little different each time you come back.
Him. Just being here. A quiet night on the balcony, weeks before he went missing. This is who we’re bringing home — calm, watchful, present. The one who taught me to be the same.
From the beginning
Before the search, there was this.
December 2025, at the cattery — weeks before he came home to me. Small enough to fit in one hand, already loud enough to run the room.
All engine from the start. A littermate, the wheel, and the mouth on him even then — that chirpy, un-catlike voice never got quieter; if you hear it in the brush, that’s him talking. Then he takes the wheel himself, already the long-legged size he was headed for. Same spots then as now.
He doesn’t know the way home yet. We only just got here.
The search
I’m working it like any other rescue.
Lost cats don’t run far. They go to ground — silent, frightened, hidden, waiting for the world to go quiet. So I work the edges of the day: first light and last light, when a scared cat finally moves. That grid gave me his first month. Then the trail bent east — a credible caller put him across the bay in Old Callaway in early July, holding to the ditch lines and the bayou the way his blood tells him to. So the search runs two boards now: home ground here, and the corridor over there. Cameras, a kept bowl at home ground, and eyes on both boards.
// The 5-second check
It’s himRound black spots on gold · very tall ears · banded tail, dark tip · stripes on his head, neck & legs
Not himBars or swirls down the body · short rounded ears · short or unbanded tail — thank you for checking
Looks likePeople honestly mistake him for a small bobcat. That call counts too.
1
Take his photo first — even a bad one, even from far away. The picture is the proof.
2
Don’t chase him. If he runs, you lose him. Slow, low, quiet — or just hold still.
3
Text the photo with street & time — or call — any hour, no questions asked.
// Field log
Last seenTue 19 May 2026, ~3:40 PM
WhereHorizon South — the 8B buildings, PCB FL
Also reportedOld Callaway, 32404 — Jul 4–6
MicrochipYes — flagged LOST · number confirms by phone
Police casePCBPD 2621723
RewardPaid on chip‑verified return
Contact(260) 337‑3747
StatusACTIVE — reward offered
Last seen — the 8B pathwayThe cover he’s likely in
How he moves. All spring and legs — here he is wrestling Masha, his little sister, spots and banded tail in full view. Note the size of him next to her: that length is what a stranger clocks from across a yard before they ever see a spot. If you see this cross a ditch line: photo first.
If you’re looking at him right now
Take a breath. The next minute decides everything — and the one rule is: don’t chase him. Chasing is what pushes a frightened cat somewhere worse.
If he seems calm
Sitting, watching you, not fleeing
Crouch down and turn slightly sideways — don’t stand over him or face him head-on.
Don’t stare. Look away, then give him a slow, lazy blink — that’s how a cat says safe.
Talk low and soft. Say his name: Aven.
Let him come to you. Offer a hand down low; never reach over his head.
If you have any food, set it down between you and just wait.
If he seems scared
Crouched low, ears back, ready to bolt
Stop moving. Don’t step toward him, don’t reach.
Set food down — or anything that smells like people — and back away to give him room.
Let him settle. A scared cat hides and waits for the world to go quiet.
Watch exactly where he goes — the direction, the yard, the ditch line.
Always — either way
Get a photo if you can — even a bad one from far off. The picture is the proof.
Then call or text(260) 337-3747, any hour. Tell us where. We come to you.
He’s microchipped and flagged LOST — a scan at any vet or shelter settles it, no questions, no trouble.
If you’ve seen him
Photo first. Everything else after.
One picture — even far away, even blurry — confirms he’s real, alive, and near. If you can, shoot first, then reach me. Twenty seconds, one thumb, a reward waiting.
And if he’s been staying with you — if a friendly spotted cat adopted your porch this summer and became part of your home — thank you for keeping him safe. No questions, no trouble, ever. He has a medical condition that needs care only his records can continue. Walk him into any vet or shelter anonymously and the chip scan does the rest — or just call. You’ll have done a good thing twice.
HIM · AT HOME · WHERE HE BELONGS
Savannah 101
Know the shape, and you’ll know him when you see him.
Let me teach you my kind — six things, and you’ll know me anywhere. ← swipe →
01
Radar ears
Servals hunt by sound — these ears hear a mouse under grass.
SPOT HIM: ears first. Nothing else in a yard has ears like that.
02
Spotted body, striped head
Round black spots scattered on gold — wild camouflage.
CHECK: bars or swirls down the body = a different cat. Stripes on his head, neck and legs are normal — they do not rule him out. Thank you anyway.
03
Drawn to water
Servals fish. Ditches, bayous, and ponds pull him.
LOOK: along water lines at dawn and dusk, not open lawns at noon.
04
An eight-foot leap
From a standstill. Fences are a suggestion to him.
MEANS: “he couldn’t get in there” is never true. Check anyway.
05
Dawn & dusk animal
Wired to move at first light and last light, silent through the heat.
TIMING: your best odds are coffee hour and supper hour.
06
Dog-hearted
Bonds like a dog — leash walks, fetch, knows his name.
IF CLOSE: don’t grab. Crouch, talk softly, say “Aven.” Then call me.
The name
It was in front of my face the whole time.
This is the part I’m still not over. I went looking for a word for the thing I’ve been building — the safe places, the sanctuary. The word that came was havens. And then I actually looked at it.
sehvan
My name. I’ve carried it my whole life.
aven
His name. Already inside mine.
havens
And the word for what we’ve been making together. The same letters as Sehvan, rearranged. His name, sitting right in the middle of it.
avensehvan=havens
Presence 🧿 Attention
That’s the irony of the whole thing, and it’s the lesson he was teaching me. Presence 🧿 Attention Slowly discovering what was already right in front of my face — my own name, his name, and the sanctuary hiding inside both.
So HAVENS isn’t branding. It’s just what it’s always been called. And it’s the work: while I look for mine, I keep a bowl out at first light and last light for whoever else turns up. What I have is simple: a porch light, a bowl, and the habit of looking. That’s all a haven ever is — a place where something gets seen.
A haven isn’t a place you find. It’s a place you make — for whoever is still becoming.
🧿 Asked what it wants to be, this place answered in its own words — a haven: a lit place where whatever is still becoming gets seen, and gets home.
The journal
The search, written down.
A monthly record of how you actually look for one small animal in a big county — the maps, the mistakes, the people who help. Read it like a magazine; it’s written like one.
Looking for one animal across two towns costs money in small, boring, relentless amounts — paper and ink, stakes and staples, gas, camera batteries, a boosted listing, the bill that keeps this page answering at three in the morning. I’ve been paying it since the nineteenth of May. If you want to stand a watch with me, this is the watch: you keep the signs up and the lights on, and I keep walking.
What it pays forDay 76
Flyers — printed, cut, and out on the poles$15
The listing boosted where the eyes actually are$25
One 24×36 corridor sign, printed and staked$40
A month of domains, hosting, and the next print run$100
Straight, with no varnish on it: this is one person paying for one search. It isn’t a charity, it isn’t a nonprofit, and nothing here is tax-deductible. Every dollar goes to the lines above, in that order — and if it ever runs past what the search needs, it keeps this site and its print kit standing for the next person who wakes up to an empty room. You’re not donating to a logo. You’re standing a watch with me. — Sehvan
The watch
You saw this page. Now you’re part of it.
That’s how it works — nobody finds a lost cat alone. Leave your neighborhood and I’ll know another set of eyes is out there. Leave a note if you want; the ones that keep me going get pinned right here.
“He never cared about stuff — just playing with him. What he wanted was you.”
YULIA · CO-SEARCHER
“You have a very beautiful baby and I am so sorry he is lost. If we see Aven we will be sure to contact you.”
NICOLE · NINE LIVES KITTY RESCUE
“We’ll keep watch out this way. Old leads still matter — send anything.”
THE REGIONAL WATCH · DOTHAN, AL
The log
Dispatches from the search.
I’ll keep this updated as it goes — what I tried, what I’m seeing, where to point next. Newest first.
Day 1
—
—
The print kit
Take the search with you.
Every set of hands multiplies this. Print a few, leave them where people wait — a counter, a break room, a church table, a grandmother’s fridge. The pamphlet folds in thirds; his face goes on the outside.
The flyer
One page, any printer. The fastest way to put him on a wall.
Aven has stories in him — the kind you’d read to a kid at the end of the day, about a creature who isn’t quite what anyone expects and is still figuring out what he wants to be. That’s coming. So are the ones who turn up at dusk, each by the name I gave them. Everything below grows from here.
Him
He never cared about stuff.
Toys stayed in the basket. What he wanted was you — the chase down the hallway, the ambush from behind the door, the game that never really ended. When he comes home, the welcome won’t be a new bed. It’ll be play.
Coming
The Aven stories
Illustrated stories about a creature who isn’t quite a cat and isn’t quite anything else — still working out what he is, and what he wants to be. For kids, and for whoever else needs to hear it.
The others
The dusk regulars
The ones who appear at last light, every evening, because they have worked out where the bowl is. I’ve named every one of them, which nobody asked me to do. You’ll meet them here.
The havens
Building the sanctuary
Safe places where cats like these are fed, sheltered, and seen. This is the long work — and I’ll show it to you as it gets built.
