There were apartments available with more amenities, there were little charming houses for rent, there was an airBnB that would have been perfect for the long-term, but none of these are my future home. The cats are coming with me.
Coming up this week is the the two year anniversary of them becoming part of my life and domestic arrangements.They are now five years old and sweet-natured, and furry, and very polite when they’re hungry: they try to charm and cuddle me into giving them food. Some of my friends don’t believe I have cats because they scatter and hide, and stay hidden, as soon as someone new enters the house. But they are not imaginary, my cats. They are very real, and they cost me money for food, litter, toys, the non-refundable deposit for my apartment and extra money for rent, plus lots of allergy medicine for me and co-pays for my allergist.
I would save money if I surrendered the cats, I might have had a new place to live with a garage if the cats were placed in a new home. I would not have to clean out litter boxes if the cats went to a shelter or one of my friends. But I love the cats. The cats are staying me.
Love is not efficient, nor evaluated based on cost-benefit analysis. Neither is love deserved. I am blessed with friends and family who love me, and that is their gift to me. I love them, and my cats, because they matter to me, not because of their economic value or how useful I find them to be.
So, much to their dismay and against their will, and most likely only with the help of some friends, the cats will be wrangled into their carrier.The last time this happened they came to my home because their first owner/friend had died. I think they will be relieved at the end of the trip to discover that I’m still there. That they haven’t been left again. Because the cats are coming with me.
Today’s Prayer Poem is “Kingfisher” by Gerald Manley Hopkins
“As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;”
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.
Í say móre: the just man justices;
Kéeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is —
Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces
May you enjoy being your unique self as much Seamus seamuses and Fingal fingalizes.
Grace and peace,