For several months since she first appeared, splayed out on my bedroom window screen one night last May, the neighbor girl’s tiger tabby has been a constant visitor. A tiny thing she was when she first arrived–just a kitten, or so I thought, and since she lacked a collar and tags and appeared to wander freely, I concluded she was a recent addition to the local ferals. After a few days, I decided to give her a home. I bought cat food, a litter box, kitty treats. And I gave her a name, Ruthie. It means “Little Friend,” for it seemed the Lord had given me an affectionate companion in my life as a mature single man.
Then the gal next door came knocking, asking whether I’d seen her cat. It turned out Ruthie already had a name, Honey. And that wee bag of skin and bones, barely more than a tuft of fur with ears and a tail, was due to deliver a litter in a week or two.
Bye, little sweetie.
But really, not so. Honey continued to show up at my porch door daily, and my neighbor didn’t mind. I always turned Honey out in the evening so she could return to her home. But that home was a young family with two active boys, and I have an idea that little Honey preferred the quiet environment of my apartment. She certainly liked the plenteous kittie treats and the gentle attention that got showered on her. A couple months ago, her owner mentioned that she seemed to be “moving in your direction.”
For quite a while, because of Honey’s almost skeletal leanness, I was concerned that she might have a tapeworm, and it eased my mind to see her finally begin to fill out. But last week, the advent of cold and snow raised another concern. Glad though I was to see Honey, every visit had to end, and I no longer felt comfortable putting her back outside, trusting that she could simply streak forty feet to my neighbor’s porch door and be instantly taken in. What if she wasn’t? Would she spend the night outside in miserable, potentially lethal conditions?
So I knocked on the young woman’s door and learned that she had already been planning to talk with me. The rigors of being a mom, her husband’s new puppy, and a third baby due in February . . . it was just too much. Would I be interested in taking the cat?
Of course I would. It wasn’t the response I had expected–I had just hoped to work out an arrangement to ensure my little friend’s safety and comfort while also respecting her owner. Now I could see that my neighbor was struggling with a sad decision. Think about it and pray about it, I said.
A couple days later, the woman told me that she and her husband had decided it would be best, for Honey’s sake and their own, if I took her. I reassured my neighbor that she would always be welcome to see Honey and even “borrow” her if she wanted to spend time with her.
And so it is that, at the tender age of sixty-three, I have finally become a pet owner. It has happened suddenly, and I have yet to secure a certificate for owning an emotional support animal. I hope to do so this coming week, and also to have the cat spayed and given any shots she hasn’t already received.
Meanwhile, Honey is once again Ruthie. Welcome home, Little Friend.