Transparent Christian Magazine

Note: There is a good bit of backstory to this little tale. For the sake of time and an excess of words, it must remain backstory for now. Sorry. We had three dogs at the time—Salem, Savannah, and Oreo, the mother. We also had a cat, Sugar, who I didn’t even mention until somewhere toward the end of the book. It’s a book about dogs, right? At the time the following story takes place, we were conducting a weekly bible study in our home—fire in the fireplace, music, and a dog. Oreo always attended. She slept (which I didn’t take personal), but she was always there, always at my feet. Anyway, the following story is true, and is taken directly from the pages of AND THEREBY HANGS A TALE.

THIS IS NOT A FUNNY STORY. It will not make you laugh, but I think this tale stands in sharp relief from all other stories in this book, and it too has to do with a cat. Not Sugar this time, but another one, a drifter that came in our yard, a sick scruffy-looking cat with no name.

Benita discovered her in our garage. It didn’t take long to notice the cat was “with child.” It also didn’t take long to notice that not only was her time near, but that she was weak, slow, suffering some unknown ailment.

It was early on a Monday. Benita made a bed out of a cardboard box, folded a blanket or a towel in it, and made the cat as comfortable as she could. The cat did not resist. She accepted Benita’s kindness. She understood the softness in her hands meant something friendly.

The day progressed. The cat did not stir. Benita thought it best to let it sleep. She and I had to prepare for the Bible study that evening as we did every Monday. We kept the dogs away from the cat, not to frighten or upset her in the condition she was in. We did not have to try that hard. They knew a suffering animal when they saw one. It softened among them. They made no fuss. Like so many things with them, it was just easy. None of them bothered the cat. Well, with one exception.

With evening approaching, Benita and I were occupied with food and setting up chairs, candles, lighting a good fire, and all the preparations for the evening. All the animals were on their own.

During our Bible study, instead of sitting or sleeping quietly by my side as Oreo always did, as everyone expected her to do, she sat at the back door and made small crying noises, sympathetic noises that were hard to ignore. The sick cat was on the other side of the door.

In an act of trust, Benita eventually opened the door and let Oreo in the garage. The cat didn’t move. She was not alarmed. She may have been too weak to care. Or maybe animals have a sense of each other. That was my bet. Either way, there was no noise at all, and no more crying from Oreo.

After some time the suspense became too much. Benita went to check on the pair. She came back into the room a few minutes later, her eyes sparkling, and with a slight smile that resembled amazement, awe. She put her finger to her mouth and asked me to come and see. Quietly. The room quickened with anticipation.
When I went to the door of the garage, I looked in and saw the cat in the makeshift bed. Oreo was coiled around her—maternal, angelic, and serene. She flattened the back of the cardboard box with her weight.

There was more dog than bed. But her own comfort wasn’t the issue.

Even with the familiar faces at the door she did not move, or dare leave the cat. She turned her head once or twice our way, and that was all. Her obligation was stronger than either her common joys or the biases of nature. Everyone in the Bible study got a peek at this small agape miracle.
Whatever I taught that night became insignificant, and receded far into the background. A bigger picture came into view, blinding us with clarity. It was the dog who had the greater gospel to share.

This is the LORD’S doing; it is marvellous in our eyes.
—Psalms 118:23, KJV