"Yes, Austin... why?" I force myself to respond, but somehow, already, I know why.
* * *
It was a quiet May evening this spring when I went for a walk with a dear friend of mine on the Andrews University campus for a mutually-much-needed chat. Midway past the custodial building, however, we were pushed beyond the concerns of our own lives when we were interrupted by the persistent meowing of an attention-famished little puss, so desperate for love that she would later, with little coaxing, follow us back to the "no-cats-allowed" apartment complex, submit to being snatched up and popped inside my B49 door, scarf down a can of "human" tuna, all the while purring and meowing so constantly so as to lose her voice--and still continue on telling her story of woe and then rasping out her happiness as she spent her first night on top of my stomach, waking me up every several hours as she got lonely in my tiny, human-filled apartment.
And thus the little one entered my life. The next several days, no, even the next morning proved to be adventuresome, an apt foretelling of the nature of the months that would follow. No sooner had she awoke, but she peed on my visiting sister's sleeping bag as a welcoming gesture and was tossed outside for her misconduct, I sadly expecting our short friendship to be thus ended as my frustrated sister closed the door behind her skinny rump. But this little one was not to be deterred--one night of keeping me awake with her exuberance hadn't been enough. Within hours she shocked me by announcing that she was back at my rust-red door and hungry, and within days she had turned into the "9-c'clock cat," adjusting her business to my teaching schedule. She faithfully returned each evening at that hour exactly, proving herself and thus drawing to herself the name of "beloved friend"--Amie--by her nightly presence on my bed.
And then she became a Trooper as she, a troll, transplanted with me to the land of the Yooper. She was a trooper who liked to wiggle in and out of the long blinds hanging in front of the glass door in my bedroom, making them tinkle, to get my attention. She was a trooper who had a way of bumping my door open with her moist, love-seeking nose just as I was changing my clothes--Amie! She was a trooper who would rather be outside than use her plush litter box and who sat on my back steps listening for my alarm clock at 4:45 a.m. at which point she would start her yowling--and door-seal-popping if necessary--to make me get up and let her in. She was a trooper who would tell me she had something to tell me as I came home from school so earnestly that I would finally give in and lay down on the floor, on my back, so that she could daintily prance up on my chest and tell me everything through her purring.
And she was even known as a cat with a desire for Holy things amongst my community, following a Wednesday-evening-moment-of-curiosity during a church cleaning, and a subsequent absence of two days during which time my nine school youngsters and I were praying for her . Friday evening I came back from a sunset-"God, why?"-run, and there she was, dolphining up against the white birch tree in my front yard in her excitement to see me again. The next day, as I related my Sabbath praise of a returned loved one, a small chuckle was heard across the church sanctuary and "the rest of the story" was shared: how some little calico cat had insisted during a Friday evening Bible study that she wanted out of the church. Right now! No, I never found her enthusiasm to leave much room for patience.
And thus the little one entered my life. The next several days, no, even the next morning proved to be adventuresome, an apt foretelling of the nature of the months that would follow. No sooner had she awoke, but she peed on my visiting sister's sleeping bag as a welcoming gesture and was tossed outside for her misconduct, I sadly expecting our short friendship to be thus ended as my frustrated sister closed the door behind her skinny rump. But this little one was not to be deterred--one night of keeping me awake with her exuberance hadn't been enough. Within hours she shocked me by announcing that she was back at my rust-red door and hungry, and within days she had turned into the "9-c'clock cat," adjusting her business to my teaching schedule. She faithfully returned each evening at that hour exactly, proving herself and thus drawing to herself the name of "beloved friend"--Amie--by her nightly presence on my bed.
And then she became a Trooper as she, a troll, transplanted with me to the land of the Yooper. She was a trooper who liked to wiggle in and out of the long blinds hanging in front of the glass door in my bedroom, making them tinkle, to get my attention. She was a trooper who had a way of bumping my door open with her moist, love-seeking nose just as I was changing my clothes--Amie! She was a trooper who would rather be outside than use her plush litter box and who sat on my back steps listening for my alarm clock at 4:45 a.m. at which point she would start her yowling--and door-seal-popping if necessary--to make me get up and let her in. She was a trooper who would tell me she had something to tell me as I came home from school so earnestly that I would finally give in and lay down on the floor, on my back, so that she could daintily prance up on my chest and tell me everything through her purring.
And she was even known as a cat with a desire for Holy things amongst my community, following a Wednesday-evening-moment-of-curiosity during a church cleaning, and a subsequent absence of two days during which time my nine school youngsters and I were praying for her . Friday evening I came back from a sunset-"God, why?"-run, and there she was, dolphining up against the white birch tree in my front yard in her excitement to see me again. The next day, as I related my Sabbath praise of a returned loved one, a small chuckle was heard across the church sanctuary and "the rest of the story" was shared: how some little calico cat had insisted during a Friday evening Bible study that she wanted out of the church. Right now! No, I never found her enthusiasm to leave much room for patience.
* * *
I find her by my mailbox, on the right side of the road as Austin had said, stretched out and stiff already. Her brilliant life force is quieted for the first time since I've known her. I pick her up, as I did this morning, and I take her home to where she must have wanted to go--too eagerly for once. And I find this first possible full night of sleep spent in another sort of wakefulness, this one also due to her. But maybe that's so I can talk a little more with her Maker.
