Holly stepped out of the car; she took the cat with her. Cradling him, she scratched his head and asked, What do you think? This ought to be the right kind of place for a tough guy like you. Garbage cans. Rats galore. Plenty of cat-bums to gang around with. So scram, she said, dropping him; and when he did not move away, instead raised his thug-face and questioned her with yellowish pirate-eyes, she stamped her foot: I said beat it! He rubbed against her leg. I said fuck off! she shouted, then jumped back in the car, slammed the door, and: Go, she told the driver, Go. Go.
I was stunned. Well, you are. You are a bitch.
We'd traveled a block before she replied. I told you. We just met by the river one day, that's all. Independents, both of us. We never made each other any promises. We never -- she said, and her voice collapsed, a tic, an invalid whiteness seized her face. The car had paused for a traffic light. Then she had the door open, she was running down the street; and I ran after her. But the cat was not at the corner where he'd been left.
Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany's
In Truman Capote's novella Holly Golightly didn't find the cat, didn't really search for it and hurried off to new adventures, alone. Without looking back, careless and free.
Maybe the happier end.
For sure the more reliable one.