MISS MOOX: 
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Had a rather unpleasant incident happen today which reminded me briefly of too many similar ones from my childhood.

Driving back home from small errands, the bank and the library, I suddenly noticed something startling at the side of the road: a cat, lying in a way no cat normally would, stretched out on its side in the gutter, just by the curb and behind a parked car. It was a very white cat, with few light gray markings, making it stand out brilliantly and rather garishly in the gray street.

I had only a second in which to see it, double take, and react. It was a second that resounded as an unpleasant shock. I swiftly pulled two cars in front, parked, and went back. If the cat had only just been hit, I could get it help, I could call an emergency vet, I could find and alert its owners to prevent a family's small, sad sorrow at the death of a beloved pet.

But as I approached it, hope quickly fled. The cat was completely motionless, not even the shadow of a breath, and its appearance led to the conclusion that it had been there some time. Determined to be sure, I prodded it gently with the tip of my foot. It was stiff like a board and its fur was sodden with last night's rain and streaked with the grime of the street. It was clearly male and lacked collar or other identifying marks.

Apart from the signs of death, the cat looked for all the world like any normal cat which had stretched out on its side for a long, lazy nap: eyes closed, one paw extended out in front, only the incongruity of its surroundings and its un-catlike filth and damp detracting from the picture. No blood, no broken bones, and no bloating marred its body.

What to do? I couldn't just leave it there. I have had too many animals die this way, on the road, not to pity someone else's loss. I looked around, decided on the house closest to it in my side of the street, went up the stairs and knocked on the door.

It was a long time before I heard footsteps coming and the door opened. It was a small, pleasant-looking girl about my age. "I saw you—is it about the cat?" she began. I nodded.

"We don't know who it belongs to," she said. "We've called police and animal control and they still haven't come to pick it up. There's a guy who lives here who's coming home later, and he said he'd help us with it. I don't know what to do with it, I guess we'll have to bury it or something." She shrugged.

Suddenly another door flung open and a very tousled-looking, sleepy-eyed girl with clothing in disarray looked out. "Is it about that cat?" she asked. "Is it still there? We've called the f***ing police and they still haven't come to take it away. It was there at midnight when we got home." I said nothing, but by her appearance I could guess that her night hadn't ended at midnight.

An equally tousled- and sleepy-looking guy soon appeared behind the girl to corroborate their story. The gist of it was that the cat had been lying there all night, they'd called police and animal control and flagged down a passing patrol car, and the police said yes, they knew about it and they'd remove it but they hadn't yet. Animal control was only open Monday and Friday. No, they didn't know who it belonged to, but Andre (which seemed to be the name of the tousled guy) had seen it around the neighbourhood. Yes, it was a shame and very sad.

There appeared to be nothing more I could do. We commiserated about it for some time and I offered help but the situation seemed to be as under control as it could be. They thanked me and I got back into my car and went home.

I guess I wanted nothing more than for the pitiful sight of the dead cat, somebody's pet, to be removed from the roadside. It was almost obscene, like a person had died there and been left for all the world to see, no dignity granted it in its final moments, nobody caring enough to remove it from the public eye. It is odd the difference between a domestic animal dying and a wild animal, like a squirrel or a deer. Both are sad, but I suppose the shocking element in a cat or dog's death is the fact that there have been so many cats and dogs that I have known, that have been part of my family or others' and dearly part of my heart. They have a way of working their small and infinitely unique personalities into your affections to almost the same degree as a human friend. I suppose it is the way God created it: cats and dogs seem uniquely designed as human companions and, I firmly believe, have high capacity for genuine love.

I hope this cat doesn't represent somebody's heartbreak. But I equally hope that he doesn't die unmourned. I hope they are able to find his owner, and I hope the owner is worthy enough to be sad at the loss of such a handsome cat. Cats have long been counted among some of my dearest friends. I was sorry to see one die this way.

My cat, or rather the cat I am blessed enough to be living with, is the most lovable cat in the world. Born a barn cat, he nevertheless was endowed with enough charm and personality to make him in one package the most special cat I have ever seen.

He has startlingly green eyes in a wide gray face. He is a silvery smoke-gray longhair, not tabby, with fine fur that has a tendency to mat, not discouraged by its owner (who is not overly fond of grooming). He is comically active, with an alert personality that constantly apprises him of new stimuli and makes him rush off to investigate it. His eyes and ears flick here and there taking in everything around him. He has a propensity for suddenly and vigourously climbing things, and just as suddenly falling off them, often with a most ungraceful scrabbling of claws. He is fond of hunting but his clumsy impatient way of pursuing prey means that he is most successful only at hunting toads (whereas his wraith-like, silent brother is a skilled slayer of birds).

He is extremely fond of his brother, which he demonstrates by stalking him, rushing at him, and knocking him down for a friendly wrestling match. His calm and gentle, sweet-natured brother puts up with his bigger brother's roughness very patiently. Subtlety is not Mugsy's forte, or even anywhere in his vicinity.

Mugsy must be the scruffiest cat I have ever met. He has a reprehensible fondness for the manure pile and often smells of its contents. His passage through unknown fields of adventure leave him littered and bumpy with burrs and numerous other weed seeds which prove impossible to remove from his fur. During a rain or a mist, he is scraggily wet and muddy. This morning when I saw him before leaving for work he had bits of dirt scattered all over his fur. He is always matted underneath, and recently he did something to his left ear which resulted in the top of it flopping over slightly, giving him an even more well-worn, lopsided, endearing look. No, he would never win any cat beauty contest, at least not without considerable work, yet I wouldn't have him any other way.

He has such an outward-looking zest for life that he has no time to care for such mundane details. He is a comic, running headlong into everything he does, with often laughable results. He appreciates life and has an unsurpassed joie de vivre for living it. He has an earnest sweetness that is totally unconcerned with how others view him or even his own mistakes.

Mugsy's wholehearted abandon to the art of living translates itself into an equally strong love for people, and that is why I have lost my heart to him. The most endearing sight of my day is to see him, usually first thing when I step out of my car in the evening, pick up his head and come running toward me in a rapid, oh-there-you-are, I'm-so-glad-to-see-you fashion. There are a few loud chirpy meows of greeting along the way and then his sturdy little gray body is presented. If I am slow to pick him up, his paws go onto my knees and his body stretches up in a plea for love. When I pick him up, he is purring rapturously. I wrap my arms around his sturdy, incredibly alive and huggable body and hold him closely. He will rub his face against mine in that delicate, intimate way a cat has with those he loves, and lick my nose. When I try to put him down, he clings in resistance, usually resulting in my delighted resignation to cuddling him a bit longer. He is happy to be held and to be carried about in the most crazy and awkward positions, as long as he is with you. He has an almost insatiable appetite for affection and an equally insatiable appetite for giving it. He is a sweet, passionate, furry little bundle of love. He is simple, but simply loving.

Mugsy is one of the brightest spots in my life. I think he must be as God created animals (and humans) to be: constantly, unconditionally, totally loving. He is the one thing I can count on to be happy and right and kind. Running carefree in his Eden, I think he reflects in some way what Eden must have been, and it is good.

I have fallen in love with my landlady's cat, something I not only intended not to do but actively avoided.

He's a sleek, slick, deep orange tabby, with base fur a tawny ginger and darker, burnt-orange stripes. His eyes are a startling warm, intense golden, almost orange, and when he looks at you, it's with adoration.

I hardened my heart against loving him because ever since Mugsy, the Best Cat in the World, died earlier this year, I'd pretty much decided I'd never let my heart get wrapped around another cat again. With their tiny short lifespans and predisposition to early death, it's simply too heartbreaking. Although I'd longed for a cat of my own for years, I finally resolved I'd never get one. Too much trouble, too much sad.

Then my landlady brought James home.

A few weeks earlier her elderly tortoishell female was put down due to weakening health. Although she was a nice enough cat, she was shy and firmly attached to her owner, and we'd never particularly connected. I urged my landlady to get another cat as soon as possible, and she was determined to do so when the grief had worn its edge off. Finally one day I came home, and there was James.

He was five months old, skinny and bright-eyed, and wary as all-get-out. He hopped away from me as I tried to woo him closer, and stared out of enormous eyes. When I finally coaxed him to allow me to pet him, he was friendly and purry, and submitted to being flopped upside down on my lap. As I rubbed his stomach, he purred ecstatically and wrapped his paws around my hand. I was astonished and amused: most kittens would have been spurred to violent kicking. He was all love.

Although he was very nice, I steeled myself against any emotional attachment. Not only would I be moving out, I didn't want the heartbreak of loving and losing another cat. We played on the rare occasions when I was home, I dragging long shoelaces across floor and furniture and he jumping and pouncing. We played chase games: I'd creep intimidatingly up on him as he stared out of wide eyes and finally ran. When I came home at night, he'd run to greet me. My landlady told me that as soon as he heard my car in the driveway, he was off like a shot. When I got up in the morning, he'd be there, purring enthusiastically and begging for a snuggle. If one was not forthcoming, he'd lick my toes.

He's a bit of a terror, rampaging throughout the house at night. Yesterday morning I found a mutilated paper towel roll on the floor, half of it unwound and all of it decorated with little claw punctures. He'd made sure that it was well and truly Dead before giving up on it.

So despite my limited time at home, I'm already loving him. And I'm sad at the thought of leaving him in a couple of weeks when I move out. Despite my resolution, his warmth and brightness and unreserved, unsolicited love have stolen their way into my heart. Little bastard.

I saw something tonight that made me think vividly and powerfully of something else.

I was about to go outside to clean my rabbit cage when out of the kitchen window I spied a cat. This cat was a gray and white patched one, sitting curled up in the backyard not far from the window. I called to him and he looked at me alertly; I spoke to him in my best high-pitched, cat-soothing voice and blinked my eyes by way of greeting. He continued to stare intently but didn't move.

I picked up the rabbit cage and hauled it out the door, hoping the cat would stay. But he swiftly leaped up from his resting place and ran across the backyard, toward the missing board in the fence from where he'd likely come. I called to him again and he stopped, looking back at me over his shoulder. I continued to talk to him in reassuring, high-pitched tones, told him everything would be ok, he needn't run away, please stay, I just wanted to pet him.

By the look of him, he was a stray. Skinny, ratty tail, no collar, the wary eye of an animal who has had to look out for himself. As frightened as he was, I could tell he wanted to stay. He meowed at me several times, his black mouth opening and almost imperceptibly voicing. I so desperately wanted to stroke him, to find out if he belonged anywhere, to offer him a meal, to take him to the shelter. But he wouldn't stay. Despite his hesitation, when I moved again, he darted through the boards of the fence and watched from the other side.

I moved to where I could see him through the hole and continued calling him persuasively. He meowed, a few more times. I could tell he wanted to be able to feel safe enough to give in. Cats are made to want companionship like the sun is made to rise every morning. It's just a fact.

But in the end, his fear won out. He trotted swiftly away and went on his way. A little sadly, I began to clean the rabbit cage.

And then it hit me. Thinking about that incident. That cat is like us. Like me. Scared, skinny, starved, alone, wandering wild, fighting for his existence, never sure where his next meal will come from, without shelter, fending for himself, friendless and mistrustful. I longed to offer that cat friendship, and maybe help. But in the end his fear and his instinct for self-preservation wouldn't let him.

In the same way, God calls us. Soothingly and persistently, he woos and beckons us. He longs to offer us his arms of love. Jesus went to the cross so we'd never have to be alone. Yet the walls of our fear and the walls of our shame and the walls of our mistrust and our bad experiences and our loneliness and our self-preservation make us run. We all have a deep-down longing for companionship, for shelter, for trustworthy, eternal love. But that scared cat in us all won't allow us to stay.

And he keeps calling. He keeps following. He'll never chase us, never hunt, never trap. He wants us to want him. He puts out food for us that we wolf down while at the same time keeping an eye out for him so we can bolt. Many times, we come to the point where we're starving. We're sick. We're near death. We can't make it anymore. Then, sometimes we realize that the arms of love are actually not such a bad alternative. We give in and let him hold us. We wonder what took us so long. And we find that what we were looking for all along is here, in the arms of surrender.

But some of us keep running. And keep on. But he'll never, never stop calling. He'll never stop following. And when we give in, we'll find him, waiting here, for us.

For lack of better things to blog about, I am going to include some snippets of older writings, things hammered out on a whim when something struck me and worked its way round in my mind till it demanded to be spilled out on paper, or computer at least. Before I had a blog, they lived as miscellaneous and unrelated snippets on my computer's hard drive. Now, they exist as miscellaneous and unrelated snippets on Blogger's servers' hard drives, for all the world to see, or at least those bits of it that happen upon them.

Upon meeting a fat white cat in the dark

The cat “mrrp”ed at me loudly and in a friendly manner, staring full into my face with wondering and pleading eyes, so I bent down and talked to it gently. It approached, and I moved to stroke its head, but with the ingenuity that un-introduced cats have it ducked and managed to keep its nose just barely touching my hand, like a security guard frisking a suspicious-looking customer. After it had satisfactorily sniffed me it pushed its head against my hand in a very warmly accepting way; then in the sudden way such cats have turned and began nosing around the foliage again as if on urgent business.

I spoke softly to it again, and in the sensuous and tantalizing manner of a cat it turned its back and began winding its way slowly, tail up, back into the gate leading to its home. I stopped and stood up, explaining to it that I couldn’t follow it, much as it seemed to be indicating to me it would like me to. I left it there, stroking its head on the gate and waving its tail pensively, to go about its fat-white-cat ways unhindered.

Written on a dreamy summer day

He's gone. The most beautiful, wonderful, happiest, most loving cat in the whole entire world, is gone.

"No longer with us." That's the phrase Julie, his owner used. She called me at work today to let me know. "I've got some bad news," she said. I immediately stiffened. "Are you ready?" "I don't know," I responded, holding tight to the phone. She went on to tell me anyway in a voice resigned with sorrow. "Mugsy's no longer with us," she said.

I knew when she said it was bad news it had to be one of the cats. Mugsy or Bruno, his brother, but I suspected it would be Bruno. With his more adventurous habits, we had more than once commented that he was in danger of being hit by a car as he crossed the road.

"You're joking," I said. She was not. She proceeded to relate the story. February 11, one day after her birthday, a woman came to the door crying and asking if they owned a gray cat because she had just hit one. It was Mugsy.

Julie said that he had looked perfect, completely unmangled, as if nothing had happened to him. They laid his still-warm body down on a grassy knoll and prayed over him for a long time, but he didn't revive.

Mugsy. "The joy of the farm, the most wonderful cat in the world," Julie called him, and it was true.

She hadn't wanted to tell me on Sunday when she saw me in church (I was in Canada the day that it happened). I had asked after Mugsy and she'd said, "He's fine, as ever," with a nervous laugh. And I'd asked how Bruno was. "With his habit of crossing the road, I keep being afraid I'll hear bad news about him," I remarked. I now wonder how she kept a straight face.

I can hardly believe that he's gone. I can hardly believe that when I go back to the farm (and I am afraid to now), I won't be able to call, "Here, kitty, kitty," and see his smiling gray face bounding toward me as he runs full tilt to throw himself at me, in the rapturous way he had that made you feel like the most special person in the world. I won't feel the gentle pressure of his wet nose and soft cheeks as he "kisses" me cat-style by rubbing his face against mine. I won't feel his sturdy squirming body cuddled in my arms, or hear his thunderous purr, or feel his ever-active claws pricking my skin as he kneads my arm. I won't feel the softness of his long fine gray fur, or watch as he jumps on his brother, tackles him, and bites his neck. I won't be able to see him crazily whirling and jumping after dragonflies or leaves, the former of which he rarely if ever caught. I won't hear his "miaow" from somewhere in the rafters as he wends his way through the tangle of the barn roof, or the scrabbling and thud as he falls off something. I won't hear his frantic and rapid paw-scratching on the glass door as he stretches himself up and works away in a desperate bid to be let in the house. I won't be able to watch the funny way he jumps off my lap and runs to investigate the sudden water stream released by the bathroom pipe outlet. I won't see his intense and love-filled green eyes staring into mine. He was always smiling, always happy, always totally in the moment, always the clown, always loving. The most wonderful cat in the world is no longer with us.

Julie said they kept him for a few days while they waited for warm weather to bury his body. She didn't want to burn him. She hasn't yet found a good stone to mark his grave.

Why is it always the best ones that go? And why did it have to be by car? Mugsy always (I thought) stuck close to the house. He was terrified of cars. If one started up while he was in the vicinity, he would run. If you were holding him and a car went by on the road, he'd tense to flee. If it was in the driveway, you'd have a very tough job holding him as he scrambled desperately to escape. Bruno, his gentle brother, was the one who crossed the road. If either of them got hit, we thought it would be Bruno. In fact (ironically now) I always consoled myself that at least if we lost one, it would be Bruno (not that I didn't love him but I had a fiercer affection for Mugsy).

In the end it doesn't matter. Mugsy's gone, I hope he did not suffer and never knew what hit him. He will never adorn the farm anymore as its liveliest and lovingest denizen. Its smiling sunny fields and (to him) endless possibilities for amusement and play will be emptier and sadder now.

And I have lost a dear and wonderful friend.

I do hope cats get to heaven. Because if they do, the first one I want to see there is Mugsy.

RIP, little friend.