You know the old axiom, “If you want to make God laugh, just tell him your plans?” Well, I pretty much stepped in it this past week.
It all started on Monday when I was watching a commercial on TV about cat litter. This “cat lady” lets her cat come up and rub her face. I was absolutely repulsed by this spectacle, and boldly declared, “I would never own a cat!”
You see, there’s some history I need to explain. When Pam and I used to live in Sabinal, TX, I thought it would be a great pastime to raise quail. Quail are raised in a glorified chicken coop or pen, and it goes without saying that quail pens and cats do not go together. They do, however, attract each other like the poles on a magnet.
It also goes without saying that if you raise quail; you are going to gain a reputation as a gunfighter of cats. Mine is rather impressive. That is until last Tuesday, when a half starving, mange-dappled barn kitten, with a pretty good hitch in his giddy-up (from direct contact with some type of moving machinery) showed up on my studio deck.
He openly declared, “You are now my new owner…. I just adopted you.” My first thought was, “Reach for the gun and send this little flea-infested Third World kitty to his ninth level of Nirvana.”
Then God tapped me on the shoulder and reminded me of my declaration the night before. I felt like Moses—giving Him every excuse why I couldn’t raise this cat. (The most obvious being the four dogs in my kennel that are all glazed over with visions of a cat sandwich dancing in their heads.) I have a terrier, a pit bull, a black mouth cur hunting dog, and a Labrador retriever, who lets all the aforementioned lead her weak mind down some very dark roads.
“This will not work, God!” I have this comical vision in my head of God laughing at my previous cat declaration on Monday, as I slowly turn and walk away, muttering something about going to the Dollar Store for cat food.
So now I find myself sitting in the shadows of a bold statement, humbled by God’s finger, while a malnourished barn cat eyes me with adoration and thinks I hung the moon.
P.S. I am in the process of finding Socks (yes, I named him) a new home. He's been put in my charge, and I just can't let him meet an early demise at the whim of my dogs. He found his way to me, and now it's my responsibility to see that he gets a fair shake. I'll let you know how the story ends.