A-Z Challenge - C: Cat

Our furry friend came to us completely out of the blue. I was sitting on a garden chair in a socially-distanced kind of way last summer with an old friend who was telling me the sad story of her Mum, who had been taken into hospital after a series of falls, and was unlikely to regain her independence. We sat and mused for a while, and then she asked me if I knew anyone who might be able to take care of her Mum's cat.

I didn't immediately leap at the chance - having been so used to resisting the children's petitions for a pet (dog, hamster, snake(!), rabbit, rat, tropical fish; one sleepy morning I almost adopted a Bearded Dragon until I realised what I was agreeing to), it didn't actually occur to me that the homeless cat might come to live with us. 

And then it did occur to me. Maybe (like many, many others) the Covid 19 lockdown made me feel in need of furry comfort, or distraction, or perhaps I was just ready for something new, but within days the little black cat came home with us. 

Her name is Noodle*, and she is just lovely. She is very small, delicate, mainly black with a little white patch on her chest and another even smaller one on her tummy. She has the highest pitched miaow that you've ever heard - a very cute little squeak. 

She is a rescue cat, abandoned when tiny, so she's a little bit wary and reserved after such a tough kittenhood, but after six months she is warming up to us, and is increasingly affectionate. 

*Noodle. Yes, I know. Believe me when I say it could have been worse; you should have heard some of the suggestions. It is less than fortunate that 'Noodle' often gets shortened to 'Nood' or 'Noo', or (shudder) 'Nudders', but mostly she is 'Cat' or 'Little One'. 

She is a little furry life-changer. 

After initially thinking that she'd be good for the children (now 14 and 15), it has become increasingly clear to me that the main beneficiaries of Noodle's arrival are Bryan and I. We love her to bits. She has us absolutely wrapped around her paw and we love it. She walks all over us (literally) and we don't mind. 

She is soft and warm and endlessly fascinating and has been so, so good for us at a time when so much in life has been turned upside down. A creative and unexpected answer to prayer. 

Yes, I think that Noodle is a God-send. My friend and her Mum are happy that she's loved and looked after, and we are besotted. 

She seems to know when someone is upset, and while she is definitely not a lap-cat, she will butt against you, purr in your ear and make it so clear that she wants petting that it's a therapeutic distraction. She likes company (on her terms, of course) and will follow me room to room just to settle down and nap nearby. She likes it when you scratch her head, her ears or under her chin but just because she lies on her back with her legs in the air and her tummy exposed does by no means mean that she is inviting you to stroke it. She prefers fishy food to meaty food and is more or less impossible to resist when she begs for treats. 

A simple little thing, but transformational for our us. For me. A new focus, a sweet and beguiling new personage to get to know and look after. Interesting and absorbing, I find myself reading books about cat psychology and interpreting feline body language, much to my daughters' amusement. We are beginning to understand each other a bit, Noodle and I. It is an amazing thing when a creature gradually learns to trust you, to allow herself to relax and be vulnerable. 

I think I am learning a lot from her. 

Fixing my eyes on Jesus

'Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.'
1 Peter 5:8 (NIV 1984)

There was a bird in the garden.

A blackbird. I like blackbirds. He was on the bird table, pecking at crumbs from the stale ginger cake that I put out earlier that the jackdaws had in minutes. He bimbled around for a little bit and then jumped down and started examining the floor around the base of the tree. I thought he was after more crumbs but it turned out he was fancying a bit of protein. 

It was a dank, damp sort of day today and the ground was wet. Blackbird stood very still with his head on one side. Then he started pecking the ground with his little orange beak. Success! It wasn't about to give up easily - even from my vantage point in the house I could see how stretchy this worm was.

...........

The neighbour's cat.

Continued over at More Than Writers, the Association of Christian Writers' Blog, where I post on the 23rd of every month. Do come and have a look round.

Find out more about the ACW by checking out their website: www.christianwriters.org.uk

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Image: IMG_7713.JPG by alice 10
Courtesy of Morguefile.com
Used with permission.

Keeping my eyes on you

'Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.'
1 Peter 5:8 (NIV 1984)

Lord, there was a bird in the garden.

A blackbird. And you know how much I like blackbirds. He was on the bird table, pecking at crumbs from the stale ginger cake that I put out earlier that the jackdaws had in minutes. He bimbled around for a little bit and then started examining the floor around the base of the tree. I thought he was after more crumbs but it turned out he was fancying a bit of protein. He was peckish. Ha ha. 

It's a dank, damp sort of day today and the ground is wet. Particularly down there at the bottom of the garden where it tends to be sort of boggy. The turf must be soft and Blackbird must have had an inkling.

He stood very still with his head on one side. Then he started pecking the ground with his little orange beak. He got one. It wasn't about to give up easily - if worms have claws (which I know they don't) then it had dug them in properly. The worm had other plans from those of Blackbird; he didn't want to be someone's lunch. He was holding on with his bottom half. He stretched and he stretched but he wasn't coming out of the floor without a fight. 

Meanwhile, behind the lilac sat one of the neighbour's cats. A beautiful pale grey tabby with a white front; a feminine little feline, but lethal nonetheless. She sat with her chin low to the ground as Blackbird struggled with his reluctant snack. Tabby watched, and shifted position slightly. Never took her eyes from Blackbird. 

Also featuring in this debacle was Stumpy. Stumpy is also one of the neighbour's cats, so called because he has only half a tail. He's a big, muscular dark grey cat who lumbers around the place where the other cats stalk, or tiptoe or dart. Don't get me wrong, Stumpy can move quickly when he wants to, but he seems to think that as the Alpha Male he is more entitled to strut nonchalantly. He has battle scars; a damaged ear as well as the amputated tail - he is not to be messed with. Today Stumpy was behind the lavender, also with a beady eye on hungry Blackbird.

Still struggling with his worm, Blackbird was oblivious to the onlookers. He pulled and he twisted and he stopped for a better grip on his squirming prey. He was concentrating hard. This meal was not going to get away. Tabby shifted again and the lowest leaves on the lilac shook a little. Blackbird carried on hauling at his worm. All the other birds in the garden had fled, and indeed someone else was squawking that repeated, insistent bird-squawk to try to warn everyone away. There are cats. Watch out, there are cats.

Blackbird took no notice. I approached the kitchen window to look. Tabby seemed to be limbering up for a sprint/pounce/capture sequence but Stumpy was closer. Closer and heavier and, to my mind, more sinister. He was biding his time. My hand was on the door knob. I like blackbirds.

Blackbird: tug, tug.
Tabby: back end wiggling from side to side, preparing to strike.
Stumpy: unblinking stare.

Double jeopardy. The tension...

Out of the blue it happened. So quickly that I nearly missed it. GT came from nowhere. An orange streak.

GT (Ginger Tom) shot onto the scene from the side of the house where he must have been lurking near the forsythia. Whoosh. With the lithe athleticism of a young cat he covered the distance between the flowerbed and the bottom of the apple tree in a nanosecond.

Blackbird fluttered upwards in a flurry of panicked feathers, clipping branches as he ascended to relative safety. GT pretended he hadn't been aiming for Blackbird at all and darted off in a straight line under the conifers. Tabby turned tail and fled backwards through the lilac under the fence. Stumpy just rolled his eyes.

And here's what I thought: Blackbird nearly died. Well, I don't know if he nearly died or not, but it seemed a close thing to me. He took a big risk. He was so intent on what he was doing, what he wanted, that he overlooked lurking danger. I assume he didn't see the three cats, or if he did he is either braver or more stupid than I gave him credit for, so I conclude that he was concentrating so hard on his stomach that he didn't notice Death crouching in the undergrowth in three different directions.

I am often so absorbed with what I want - what I'm doing - what I'm set on achieving - that I miss so much that's around me. Good things and bad things. I am often so intent on My Thing that my hands are full and occupied when you are trying to give me good things. That's one way to look at it. The other thing that occurred to me is that it's the times when I am concentrating so completely on the wrong thing that I get blindsided by life. I want my worm so badly that I don't notice the predators. And if they get me, not only will I lose my worm, but quite possibly everything that matters.

'Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like the neighbour's cat looking for someone to devour.'1 Peter 5:8 (slightly adapted by me)

I thought the main dangers to Blackbird were Tabby and Stumpy, but it was GT, completely invisible to me that posed the biggest threat. I didn't even know he was there. He was the youngest, fastest and boldest of the trio. And, to the others' annoyance, the first to make his move. Quite often danger lurks where I don't expect it. It might pounce, it might stealthily creep up on me,  or it might career across the lawn like a ginger torpedo, but it's there and it's waiting for me to make a mistake. Waiting for me to be focused on the wrong thing. Waiting for me to take my eye off the ball. And then, like a cat with it's prey, it'll toy with me mercilessly for a while and then eat me.

Lord God, help me focus on you and not get bogged down with distractions. Help me to stay constant and not allow myself to get engrossed the irrelevant or indulgent when I need to keep my eyes on you.

'...and let us run with endurance the race God has set before us. We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith.'
Hebrews 12:1-2 NLT

It seems to me that it's all about being faithful. Keeping my eyes fixed on you so that those same eyes don't go roaming all over the place looking for something better, easier, quicker, less effort, painless. Once my gaze rests on one of those things then I tend to wander away from the safety that is where you are and enter into the dangerous territory of the neighbourhood cats, or the roaring lions, or the other guy. You know, him. The Enemy. He would have me far away from you. He would quite like it if I was so intent on one thing that I didn't see the trouble I was in. I don't think he even minds what it is, because such is the breadth of your generosity, if I focus exclusively on one thing in my life I would certainly be missing out on more of your blessings. He'd be delighted if I held still, determined to prevail with my own idea that I fail to look around me.

Blackbird was just doing what birds do. They catch worms and they sometimes fall prey to neighbourhood cats. It's not his fault, more his misfortune. Perhaps I've stretched this analogy further than it could be stretched (like the worm, hey?), but as I watched the scene unfold from my kitchen my head went on a little trip. I sympathised with Blackbird (all he wanted was a spot of lunch) but he should have kept his wits about him; been more alert. Then he could have avoided that monumental adrenalin rush to avoid being a meal himself.

(Do birds get adrenalin rushes? I must google it). *

Anyway.

Lord, help me keep my eyes on you. I don't want to be someone else's meal. I don't want to wander away from you and find myself struggling. I want to run with endurance the race that you have for me, not one of my own invention. Give me wisdom to know your mind. Give me discernment so that I can learn to tell the difference between your voice and that of my own ego. Give me patience to wait on your perfect timing instead of taking matters into my own hands and putting on the blinkers.

Thankyou for birds and cats and worms. Be close to Blackbird tonight, Lord. He'll be feeling a bit jittery.





*Yes, apparently they do. Their nervous system is built in a similar way to that of other vertebrates. Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs.

Running the race with a limp

Lord, I would like to ask for your protection all around Streaky, my little blackbird friend, who is sailing close to the wind these days. Or a better metaphor would be flying too close to the sun, I suppose. Icarus-like. I don't want him to come to a sticky end.

To start with, last time I had close up dealings with Streaky, which was possibly the day before yesterday, he seemed to be limping. The second thing is that Streaky seems to be playing some kind of dangerous game with our neighbours' cat, Mo.  I have it on good authority that Mo is a seasoned veteran in the small-animal-and-bird-catching department and coupled with Streaky's possible infirmity I am somewhat alarmed when I see him advancing in a menacing predatory manner across the lawn towards a small scruffy-looking blackbird with a white smudge on his tummy.  All Streaky does when he realises the proximity of impending death is squawk at him in an angry sort of way and hop a few feet out of range until Mo gets closer. Perilously close. Within pouncing distance, actually, until I intervened and flapped around a bit to scare him off.

How come that little blackbird is so fearless? He's either daft or incredibly brave. Maybe he knows that he's loved by you and you won't let anything bad happen to him. Not while I'm watching, anyway.

Lord, heal Streaky's leg, please. It's not a level playing field at the best of times but he's got a gammy leg and I'm worried about him.

So here I am sitting in the garden in the sun and for now the children are playing beautifully and two loads of washing are drying on the line and I am going to plant out some more little plants in a minute but for now I have a glass of orange squash with an ice cube in it and five minutes with you while the going is good. I am carpe-ing the diem. 

Please help the doctors find out what is wrong with Katy. We're waiting for a referral to a paediatrician now. The maxillofacial people and the ENT people have poked and prodded and aspirated and extracted blood and scanned and operated and hypothesised and tested and come up with nothing. Oh, and they prescribed too, but the consultant was keen to explain that it was because they needed to start some form of treatment but they don't actually know if it will work as they don't yet know what's wrong. So a new doctor in a week or two and then... who knows. Surgery is apparently very likely but without a diagnosis, we don't know. 

Katy is still running about as charming and sweet and volatile as ever. Elizabeth seems quietly concerned about Katy and asks insightful questions that show that she's worrying about Katy's bump. I feel so tired at the idea that this whole palaver is far from over and we might have to do the awful operation thing again. It's hard with Bryan being away; on him and on me. It's hard for him because he can't come to every appointment and he knows that his little girl is poorly yet he isn't around all the time. It's hard for me because I can't talk too much about it because it makes it worse for him. I'm aware that it's very easy for our little house of cards to come tumbling down when communication falters. Things get tricky. 

On a lovely day like this everyone should feel happy. On a rainy day in November or February it's easy to look outside at the weather and feel depressed, and on a warm sunny day when the sky is blue and the flowers are at their most beautiful I should feel happy and peaceful. The neighbours don't have music on too loudly, the children are harmonious, the birds are singing. We had a wonderful dinner (with roast parsnips and a breathtakingly delicious dessert of my Mum's involving butter and brioche and baked apricots and ice cream) and there is no party to take the children to this afternoon. It seems such a waste not to be on top of the world on a day like today. 

All around me people are finding life hard. So many things are going wrong. I feel I'm in a loop at the moment where each day brings something else to make sure that my level of anxiety doesn't slip below a certain level. Rick Warren told me this morning that it's a test of faith.

'You may be facing some very real, discouraging challenges in your life. But what you are really going through is a test of faith.'

The Daily Hope

I don't know if it is or not, but I do know that for some reason that I can't explain I still want to be on this journey with you. I know that you're in control and so even if all is not as it would seem, you'll one day explain it to me and I'll understand. I am discouraged. I'm discouraged that Katy's bump is back after we said to her that the doctors would operate on her neck and make her better. It's discouraging that I look about me and see friends with huge mountains to climb and I don't know how to help. It's discouraging that I can't seem to get the better of my battle with anxiety. It's discouraging that the shower is still leaking and even after I clean the house it needs doing again in a few days time. 

If you're testing my faith I hope I'm doing OK because I don't doubt you. I know that you are good and that you are good all the time. If you're testing me to see how I respond to troubles then I feel less secure because I know that I whinge and I moan and I get grumpy and ask lots of questions. 

Rick Warren:  'Will you endure? Will you persist? Will you make it to the end? Will you be disciplined? Will you finish well?'

Will I endure?  Yes. Do I have a choice? Will I endure silently and stoically? Hmm. 

Will I persist?  Yes. I am going to keep badgering you until Katy is well again. Then no doubt I'll badger you till you pick me up at the pearly gates to find out what meaning you want me to find in all this rubbish.

Will I make it to the end?  Yes. Because you will help me. I can't do anything without you.

Will I be disciplined?  Ah. I nearly edited this bit out. Not sure. Discipline is not my strong suit. Since last August I've lost two and a half stone in weight but in the last two months it's creeping back on. Do I do the chores I need to do regularly? No. Do I read the Bible and have a quiet time with you regularly? No. Discipline needs some work I think.

Will I finish well?  Who knows, apart from you? I will keep putting one foot in front of the other and I will get there, I am certain. I will hold your hand, or get a piggy back, or tuck myself under your wings. I will dance with you, cling to you, shout at you, sing to you and give you all the love that I can. 

Maybe I'm like Streaky; I'm running the race with a limp. When I approach the finish line I will listen for St Paul and the others and your good self cheering me on and maybe then I'll find the strength to run.