“Marion, why don’t you get another cat?” a friend suggested one day last spring. “You loved Minnie.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t want another one now,” I said. “That cat broke my heart. I’m not ready to go through something like that again.”
Two years had passed since we put down Minnie at age seventeen. I still missed her every day. I missed her spying out our living room curtains at the bird feeder, running to rub against my legs every time she heard the false promise of the electric can opener.
There were those luminous yellow eyes blinking “hello” to Gene and me when we walked in the door, and the little thump she made jumping up on our bed at night and settling down contentedly between us. I missed that thump. But most of all, there were those recurring dreams I had.
“Besides,” I told my friend, “things are easier now. No more cat hair all over everything. And Gene and I can take last-minute trips without feeling guilty.” No, it wouldn’t make any sense to get another cat. End of story.
Not quite. That night I had the dream again. Cats of all kinds trailing me as if I were the Pied Piper of tuna. Stop it, Marion! I told myself in the morning. Dream cats aren’t real cats. They never die and leave you grieving.
I sat down with the newspaper at breakfast. An announcement jumped out at me. “Pet Adoption Day at the Oconee Library. Saturday 10 am. Give an Abandoned Pet a Home.”
Abandoned. That’s got to be one of the saddest words in the English language. I said a quick prayer. “Please, may all those poor, lonely, frightened animals find a home.” To myself, I added, But not with me. Not until I’m ready. Not until this pain stops.
Saturday morning I set out to do my usual errands. First stop, the supermarket. Or so I thought. Inexplicably, I found myself taking the turnoff to the library instead. I’m just going to see if any new books have arrived. The Oconee County Animal Control van was parked opportunistically near the sidewalk leading to the library entrance.
I marched past the dogs in their cages, my eyes focused straight ahead. Don’t even look. I nearly fell over a table set up by the library door. A woman sat there smiling. Beside her was a small animal carrier.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“No, thanks,” I said. Keep walking, Marion. This is dangerous.
Meow! The sound emanated from the carrier. I stopped in my tracks. “Looking for a new friend?” the woman asked.
“Not me. Not after my last cat died.” There. I’d said it. Now it was safe for me to peek through the door of the pet carrier. One look and I’d be on my way. A pair of large amber eyes like polished marbles gazed back at me.
What took you so long? they seemed to say, and for a crazy moment, I thought the cat had been expecting me. Marion! No more cats. But she was so petite and delicate, long-haired, black and white. “Hi, girl, ” I whispered. I touched her nose through the wire door. She began to purr as though a tiny switch had been turned on.
“How long has she been at the shelter?” I asked.
“She was dropped off a few weeks ago with three newborn kittens,” the woman said. “The kittens died. We had a hard time taking them from her. She was a good little mama cat.”
“Oh, girl,” I said, “don’t you worry, somebody nice will come and adopt you.” The cat pressed her head against my hand, and I couldn’t resist asking, “Can I take her out of the carrier?”
“Sorry,” the woman said. “Only if you’re thinking of taking her.” I wasn’t. I sat on the sidewalk and watched the cat wash her fur. Lord, this pretty little cat deserves a good home. Please find someone who is ready to love her.
People stopped by to see the dogs and fill out adoption forms. I was content just to sit with the little black-and-white cat. If I could purr, I might have. I checked my watch. I’d been sitting here almost an hour!
“We’re not that busy right now,” the woman from the shelter said. “Suppose I let you hold her.” She unlatched the carrier door.
“Come here, girl,” I said. The cat reached out and put a tiny white paw on my hand. She paused, looked up and meowed. Cats can be aloof. This one acted very familiar. I lifted her out, and she nestled against my neck, all fuzzy and warm. Purrrrr.
“What would you name her?” the woman asked.
It just popped out of my mouth. “Girl Friend.” Where on earth had that come from? “But there’s no way I can take her,” I said quickly. “I’m not ready.”
“Too bad. She’s really taken to you.”
Girl Friend rubbed her cheek against mine. I didn’t want to fall in love. That’s the thing about love, though, you can’t decide on it, and I couldn’t deny it. I was officially in love, ready or not. Okay, Lord, I know I asked You to find this cat a home. But this isn’t what I had in mind.
I put the cat back in the carrier and filled out an adoption form. The woman told me it would take a few days to be approved.
“Sit tight, Girl Friend,” I said. “I’ll be back for you.”
“I’ve found us a new cat,” I told Gene when I got home. He gave me a sidelong glance, but didn’t say anything. For the next three days all I thought about was that cat, her nose pressing into my hand, her purr that vibrated through my whole arm when I petted her.
Finally the woman from the shelter called. “Your adoption application went through. She’s all yours.”
In no time Girl Friend was exploring our house, making herself at home. She investigated under the beds, among the closet shelves, inside the grand piano. Then she ran to the sink and meowed until I turned on the faucet for her to drink.
I went to bed that first night fairly confident that I wouldn’t dream of cats. I was just drifting off when I felt a familiar little thump on the bed. Girl Friend padded up the covers and snuggled down between us. Purrrrr. Blink, went her amber eyes.
And to think I had almost missed out on this! All along I had said I wasn’t ready. For two years I grieved for Minnie. Sometimes we can get lost in our own pain. But there’s always a way out. Even if we don’t see it. I’d asked the Lord to give Girl Friend what she needed. He gave me exactly what I needed too.
