Cat Person

I’m not really a Cat Person.

Please don’t take offense.  You should know this:  I currently have three cats.  Three.  And my primary reason for not being a Cat Person is because I am allergic to them.  Yes.  And I have three. 

The collection of cats began years ago when the kids were little and we lived in a small townhouse.  Having grown up around pets my whole life (my dad was raised on a farm, for goodness sake), I really wanted our kids to love and appreciate the Animal Kingdom, and learn the responsibilities that went along with pet ownership.

And so, once married, we were open to the idea of animals, but didn’t really act upon it until my little mother-in-law headed to New Zealand on an extended trip asked if we would take in her Siamese, named (please don’t miss this irony) “Asthma”. 

Of course we took in the cat, Asthma.  The kids loved her.  For being an old cat, she was surprisingly patient, and would just flop around when the kids carried her about.

And then she developed kidney failure.

The vet “gave us a moment” to say goodbye, and I told him it wasn’t necessary, that she wasn’t our cat.  He smiled, knowingly.  As he shut the door behind him, both they and I began wailing like Italian Mamas.  Unstoppable.  Inconsolable.  Unashamed.  And we said good bye.

The following Christmas, we decided a kitty would make a good present.  Kittens, as you may know, are not really in season at Christmas.  Well, being the hunter/gatherer that he is, my husband wouldn’t come home until he found a kitten: a scrawny, rescued tabby from an alley litter which had been turned over to a local vet. 

In the following years, Tessie begat CeeCee (who eventually became a HUGE, 13lb. Orange), who begat Sophie (a ‘fraidy-cat Calico) and Izzy, who bore the tabby marks of her grandmother, and has the lungs of her Human Mother (me).  Yep, she’s a total Loud Mouth. 

Some Unfortunate Events occurred:  exit Tessie, and eventually CeeCee.  Four became two. 

Slinkie, Slinks, Slinkers, Binks, Bink-bink

My husband, with his soft heart, adopted a grey and white cat while he was traveling for work.  (They would rent corporate apartments for him while he did his work, then he’d move on to the next location.)  And when he was finally relocated back to our town, Slinkie came with him.  That was in 1999.  Two became three, and remain so today.  We’ve determined they are all somewhere around the age of 16 or so.

The other reason I’m not a Cat Person is because of their stinkin’ Independent Spirit.

Now, hold on, because this is where it all begins to make sense.  Being how Independent they are, it dawned on me that when they actually show affection, it’s because they want to:

Slinkie can hardly wait for the moment I sit on the couch at day’s end.  She comes and spreads out on me, and literally has to be scraped off my lap if I need to get up.  She longs to sit in my lap.  She thrives there.  It’s where she is happiest.

Sophie, Big Sophs, Sopherelli, Sophers, Sophitty

Sophie will follow me from room to room but hasn’t the courage to actually sit with me:  you never know what might lurch out of the shadows to attack.  (Trust me, she has reason to be afraid…from flying can-openers, to double-teaming dogs, to locked garage doors…she’s been through her nine lives and has borrowed some from the other cats.)  But, despite her rocky past, she enjoys just being in my presence. It is there where she purrs like a motorboat.

Oh, but Izzy.  The Big Mouth who speaks for the entire Cat Clowder.  When they’re hungry in the wee hours, she comes up onto the bed, sits six inches from my face, and yowls right at me, that demons-from-the-bowels yowl.  Usually before six a.m., bless her little kitty heart. 

She also has kidney issues, and is always, always thirsty, and simply must have running water.  So whatever room I’m in, she yowls, begging me to follow her to the closest sink to turn on the spigot.  (I recently invested the best money ever in a cat fountain…they all, plus the dog, love it!!!) 

Izzy, Iz, Izzers, Izzy-please! Shh!

But some mornings, it’s not food or water that she wants.  Izzy just wants some love.  I’ll snake a hand out from under the covers in my half-sleep and begin petting her slowly, and if I don’t really put my heart into it…she BITES me! Hard! Or other times, she may oh-so-daintily stick one little claw right into the fleshy end of my nose.  (I can assure you, she seems to respond to both positive AND negative attention!)

And if she doesn’t receive the attention she craves, she’ll follow me wherever I go, yowling, full volume.  She follows HARD after me.

When that thought first sprang into my head, the following hard after me part, I physically ducked my head into my shoulders and sucked in a little, short breath. 

I  should be that intentional about spending time in the presence of the Holy One.  I should follow hard after Him. 

I should, at the end of the day, barely be able to contain myself until that moment when I can fall asleep in His lap. 

I should bask in His presence, whether near or far.  

I lack Izzy’s persistence.  I need Slinkie’s contentedness.   I don’t make the time to bask in anything or anyone, not like Sophie does.  Especially not in the Father’s presence.  I am Martha, Sophie is Mary.  

 

Luke 10:38-42

³⁸ As Jesus and the disciples continued on their way to Jerusalem, they came to a certain village where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. ³⁹ Her sister, Mary, sat at the Lord’s feet, listening to what he taught. ⁴⁰ But Martha was distracted by the big dinner she was preparing. She came to Jesus and said, “Lord, doesn’t it seem unfair to you that my sister just sits here while I do all the work? Tell her to come and help me.”

⁴¹ But the Lord said to her, “My dear Martha, you are worried and upset over all these details! ⁴² There is only one thing worth being concerned about. Mary has discovered it, and it will not be taken away from her.”

In my heart I have been singing this chorus, over and over:

My soul follows hard after Thee
Early in the morning will I rise up and seek Thee
And because Thou hast been my help
Under the shadow of Thy wing I will rejoice

That last line right there, the one about the shadow of His wing?  That’s my Life Verse.  It’s from Psalm 63:7.

Because you are my help,

I sing in the shadow of your wings.

Not cowering in the shadow, crying my eyes out, or trembling like a leaf.  I’m safe there and, oh yes, I’m SINGING!  Singing my lungs out, as you know I do.  (Maybe Izzy is not yowling, merely singing?)

My kiddos no longer live at home.  My original impetus for having pets was so that THEY could learn a thing or two about pet ownership.  Instead, I’m the one learning a thing or two…