[SB] Sabbath Blessing

[Molly Wolf]

Max

As someone said who knew him well, he was not a fancy cat. A plain 
furperson, a stolid grey tabby with not much to distinguish him except the 
extra toes that made his feet outsized. In the old days, he was a 
considerable hunter and occasional brawler, but only if provoked. What most 
struck the eye about him was a sort of stiff-legged dignity, which 
prevailed except when he forgot and chased his tail.

But now he was fourteen. He'd been shrinking for some time; we'd got his 
hyperthyroid problem stabilized, but he was still losing weight. More than 
that: there were those infinitesimal, indescribable changes in his posture, 
his look -- the sort of change that says "this one has come into the bleak 
plain of the dying, between the land of Life and the River". So: in to the 
vet's for blood work. I got the call Wednesday at suppertime: kidney 
failure. On Thursday evening I got the kids together to say goodbye. By 
then, he was a little hunched-up old-man cat, not eating, drinking only a 
very little. I let him have a little milk, which he loved but couldn't 
digest well. It didn't matter any more. I gave him an old knitted shawl 
that he'd like to lie on, and he nested on that and stared at the wall. On 
Friday we took him back into the vet's, this time cradled on my younger 
son's lap, and gave him the kindly death he merited.

As ordinary as he was in most outward ways, he was still very much himself. 
It struck me afterwards that there are however-many gazillion grey tabby 
tomcats out there, but only one of them was my Max. I know it's obvious, 
but it's still one of the things that a person needs to pick up and 
consider occasionally: the uniqueness of living beings. I don't want to 
take this too far (are aphids unique? earthworms? diatoms?) and I'm not 
sure where I'd put the cut-off point -- sentience? sexual reproduction? I 
need a naturalist to supply the answer.

But certainly no squirrel swarming up a tree is identical to the squirrel 
it's chasing. This hen might be pretty much like that hen, but they aren't 
exactly the same. Each sugar maple grows in its particular matrix of 
heredity, soil and weather and is like and unlike every other sugar maple. 
And once you get to the level of real personality -- and cats certainly 
have personality! -- the uniqueness becomes a sort of splendour.

Max came to us when he was five months old; even then he was essentially 
the same Max who I held in my arms on Friday as the vet gave him that final 
shot, plain, stolid and dignified. Maggie-cat came to us when she was three 
months old and even then she was a handsome tortoiseshell with Attitude.  I 
could list all the cats in my life and tell you what each one was like, and 
each was purely one of a kind.

If our Creator wanted us all to fit the same mould, then presumably he'd 
have made us that way. But in fact, our uniqueness is what makes us 
precious in God's eyes, and should make us precious in each other's eyes as 
well. If we'd just stop trying to put each other to rights (whatever we 
think that is) and concentrate instead on respecting our differences and 
caring for each other as we are, then we'd spare ourselves and others so 
much grief.

Cats must be such a relief to God. There is no right or wrong way of being 
a domestic shorthair, although obviously cats can have their physical or 
mental health issues. To be stolid, inarticulate Max is not to be inferior 
or superior to expressive, flamboyant Maggie. But then, in judging cats, 
our concern is how well they function in the lives they lead, not whether 
or not they meet the standards we set for them. It's a pity we can't do as 
much for each other.

I miss Max, not in any big grief-stricken way: he wasn't that kind of a 
cat, and our relationship was always pretty low-key. But he was a part of 
my life for fourteen years, and I do grieve him. I am certain that he's 
found Jenny Jemima and Dynamite, the other members of the feline trio that 
shared our life for so many years, and they'll show him the ropes on the 
other side, where the mice are golden and immortal and the sun patches are 
warm and strong and the grass is long and full of fascinating scents and 
noises.

Meanwhile, as I work on my laptop, Calvin and Hobbes have settled down 
beside me for a close-knit purrful snooze, having played themselves into 
exhaustion. Hobbes is a lanky four-month-old orange tabby who adores 
people; Calvin is a squarish two-month-old black shorthair who adores 
Hobbes. Already they have become adoptive brothers. And already each one is 
definitely himself and not some other kitten.

Thanks be to God for cats.