My daughter, Tori, knelt in the parking lot of our condo petting a scraggly black-and-white cat without a collar. “Can we keep her, Mom, please? I already know what to call her. Oreo.”
“Honey, you know I’d love to help this cat. But … ”
We already had two cats. There was simply no room for this bedraggled little stray. But how could I tell that to my child?
“Where else is she going to go, Mom?”
“All right,” I sighed. “We’ll take her for the time being. But just remember, she can’t stay. God will find a loving home for her somewhere.”
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Those words clearly made Tori feel better, but I couldn’t help wondering if I’d just gotten myself into a fix. God had better things to do than worry about where to put this black-and-white orphan.
We called a local shelter with a description of the cat and put an ad in the lost-and-found section of the paper. I phoned all my friends, even though I knew what their answers would be. Nobody wanted a cat. Each time I heard Tori say the word Oreo I cringed, knowing how attached she was getting.
In desperation, I e-mailed the other teachers at the school where I work. One responded immediately.
“My student’s cat was hit by a car recently,” she wrote, “and she really wants a new one. Could she come by and meet yours?”
Tori wasn’t at all thrilled when I told her the good news.
“How will we know that’s the right home for Oreo?” she asked.
The girl and her mother came to the house that night. Tori held the cat protectively in her arms as the other girl stroked her—clearly smitten.
“She’s beautiful,” the girl said. “I’d love to take her. I know just what I want to call her, too. O.J.”
“Why O.J.?” Tori asked doubtfully.
“’Cause my last cat was named Oreo. This one would be Oreo, Junior.”
My daughter looked from the girl to me with a speechless smile. Then she kissed Oreo good-bye and handed her over to her new owners.
