It was dusk, the first time I saw the creature. My 5-minute foray to the outside of my house went awry. I had intended to water the rosebushes, the ferns, and the small patch of lemon balm I was trying to resurrect from the summer heat. Like a modern- day Goldilocks drawn further and further into the woods, I had wandered first toward the unchecked mailbox and then toward the voice of a neighbor. Suddenly, it was more than dusk. It had gotten dark. In this old neighborhood, dark means the beginning of the feral cat witching hour. They emerge from every crevice, out from under every pier & beam porch, and from the belly of every storage shed. We have ginger cats, so very many calicos, and run of the mill black cats. As I turned to saunter back down my walkway, I glanced up at my front door. That’s when I saw it. The black feral cat we call Midnight had gotten INSIDE my foyer somehow. He was sitting atop my paternal grandmother’s 1900-era buffet, facing the glass, his yellow eyes ablaze, his long mane extending from his face in perfect, triangular points. My mind raced. How had this he devil gotten inside? Had I left the door open? It was closed now. Does this cat have opposable thumbs? I was blown away by his mustered bravado that prompted him to do this as his normal personality is more prone to Freddy Krueger-like claw maneuvers. Moreover, how was I going to extract him from my home? My thought immediately ran to my three resident cats, the youngest still in need of a spay. Great, all of them have been exposed to who knows what sorts of deadly communicable diseases and Polly is probably with kitten child by now. Grabbing a rake from the side of the porch, a weapon I knew I would not dare to use on any animal, I took a deep breath and readied my nerves. Time to eradicate the beast. Hand to doorknob, sheen of sweat on my brow, breath held for eternity, I looked up to face my foe. The eyes? Turns out I’d left a double wick candle burning. The mane? My faux hydrangea and lavender flower arrangement was throwing a perfectly cat shaped shade silhouette in the exact place. Crisis averted. There was no beast lying in wait. Things aren’t always how they seem. Why do I think I know best?
There have been many times in my life where I knew how things were going. And, by “knew” I mean I was extremely confident in my predictive abilities. From my teenage certain dreams of being an anchor on Good Morning America to my midlife awareness that by now I would be writing mystery novels and solving murders in a small Maine town to my 2008 realization that losing a child is simply something I would not be able to survive, I see only one commonality. None of these things came to fruition. So, why haven’t I gotten the memo? Still running around from one situation to another thinking clearly this certain thing means only this can happen, or that specific occurrence can only have one ending, I often get swept away in this feeling of desperately needing to know how life will all go down. Yet, I never will. Recently, words were spoken. I can’t recall who provided these words or whether I heard them in church, in Bible study, or in day-to-day conversation with a loved one, but they hit me hard. The statement was akin to this. Why are we running around, heck bent on attempting to control something we were not built to govern? If God, and only God, is in control, wouldn’t it be lovely if I just dropped those reigns? That horse is wild. Not only am I not leading him correctly, but I may also be running him through dangerous woods, limbs striking my head and thorns clipping my sides. The realization was life changing. Stopping felt so good. I could breathe again.
Practically yesterday we were living in a van by an Idaho river. It had just rained. We were being particularly still inside our van house, watching the returning birds rejoice in the newly formed puddles. Suddenly, my husband pointed ahead to the left. “Look on that rock. What is that?” I knew exactly what it was, a kitten. “It’s a tiny cat!” I said in a whisper scream. His response: a kitten found its way to a boulder in the Sawtooth Mountain Forest? Me: umm, clearly, because that is a cat. Him: can you get it? I began a micro-second compilation of scenes in my head where I fly home to Forney with an honest to goodness tiny Idaho Mountain Kitten which must be a cousin to the Maine Coon Cat. Me: really? Oh, honey, THANK YOU! Him: NO. Can you get a picture. Me: Oooooh. Ok. I begin snapping phone pics through the rain speckled van windshield as “my cat” runs straight toward us. I switch to video as I launch my body up onto the van bed in the back, trying to track the image running low to the ground, toward the forest behind us. I see the cat. We make eye contact. IT IS A CAT…until it isn’t. “Oh, wow,” I tell my husband. “That was definitely a weasel.” I can’t be trusted to predict the future, spot beasts within my own house, or identify woodland creatures. And, that’s ok. Turns out, God controls all the situations where I fail miserably. But, God, if there’s such a thing as an Idaho Mountain Cat, can you send me one?
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