The cat had a poor opinion of men. Her attitude of alarm and flight was a puzzle to her people who attributed it to her first six months before they knew her. Her life began as an orphan kitten in a city pound, a very pretty little tabby with a fine white bib and four white feet. She had caught the eye of a lady tree planter who took her to live in the country. The tree planter had intended the kitten to be with her while she worked in the woods. When it was time to leave for work, the kitten was nowhere to be found. Left behind, the little feline had to fend for herself. She ate by stealing dog food from the neighbours and hunting.
Now a tough little country cat, her life took another turn. A young couple, who had taken note of her plight, adopted her. She became the companion for their young black lab who loved her. Soon afterward they all moved to town. The cat was not pleased. She ran away at every opportunity. Each time she left the property the dog picked her up by the scruff of the neck and brought her back.
The man next door watched this with amusement. He loved animals and as a writer appreciated that Tolkien's Gandalf had said that Saruman never paid enough attention to the animals. He and the young man had many good chats about writing One day the young man, with the cat in his arms, asked if the cat could have a home with him as their rental house had been sold and their new rental would not welcome cats.
The man said yes, as he knew his wife missed their old black cat, who had adopted them when all their children were still at home. This black cat had been very affectionate and with his white collar had been called their faithful priest. It was now been seven years since the cat had died and the couple and their cook had been reluctant to adopt a new pet.
The cook had already met this young cat in her garden a few times. The cat was sporting a punk hair cut, her neck shaved to remove the tangles left from the dog's mouth carrying her home. The cat regarded the cook's garden as her own, the cook the intruder. Being bossed about made the cook a little annoyed. One day the cat accepted some catnip the cook tempted her with and a tentative bond was formed.
When the cat first came to live at their house she was very unhappy. The lady of the house held her close for a long time and said soothing words. She was rewarded by complete loyalty from the cat who slowly settled into her new home. She didn't try to run away. The dog had done her job well.
The man was kept at a distance and the cat acted fearful at any gestures of friendship. As for the cook, well, it was her job to handle the important work of her food. The health problems that their dear black feline had suffered from commercial food made the cook determined to make the cat's food. Many times in that first year the cat left the room with her nose in the air and her food untouched. The cook tried to remain calm and in the end they agreed on a recipe the cat liked.
The cat's life was busy. She spent dawn to dust in the garden. Many a songbird perished beneath her hunter's claws and a few cats wore the scars of them too. As the years passed it was the man who let her out early and fed her, long before the cook was even stirring. The cat allowed such service but gave no compliments. Any gesture was rebuffed, which surprised the man, who had always been friends with cats, and had never known one to be so frightened of him.
The new neighbour in the cat's old house spent years trying to befriend her, but to no avail. She would always take fright and run.
"You would think I beat her" he had said.
Any visitors to the house would cause her to growl like a dog, and then flee in alarm to the basement. Over the years she occasionally warmed to the children and grandchildren, but this was a slow process. One visitor, a man from the American Deep South, did make instant friends with her. He had worked with mules when he was young.
One day after nine years of ignoring the man, despite his long and patient service, she noticed him. Up into his lap she climbed, and purred contentedly. The man was mystified but pleased. This happy arrangement continued. Later that year, a son of St. Francis of Assisi came to the diocese to be the new bishop. Aha, thought the man, the mystery is solved. St. Francis had told the cat long before we heard the news.
In the first year, the bishop in his long brown robe and white cord belt visited the house. The cat was nowhere to be seen.
The second year the bishop visited, he and the cat's people had sat in the warm sunshine in the garden. Entering by the back door the bishop came up beside the big chair where the cat was sleeping and standing over her said hello. She leaped from the chair, with feet loudly scrambling on the bare floor, and disappeared into the basement.
In the third year there came a young Capuchin friar who visited every week for three months. The cat's people would chat and visit with him over a meal and the cat took to lurking in the doorways and sneaking into the room. She was thinking things over.
That Christmas the bishop came three times to the house. The first time the cat beat a hasty retreat out of the living room in response to his greeting. The bishop laughed and sat in his chair, and like the young Capuchin friar, enjoyed the homemade ale that the man made from Belgium malted barley. Under cover of conversation the cat inched her way back into the room and managed to sniff the hem of his robe when he was pretending not to notice. Then he playfully dangled his white Franciscan cord for her to see. She kept her distance but she looked very, very interested.
When he returned three days later, the solemnity of Christmas lay upon the world. The cat had been busy elsewhere and was not in the room. The bishop had many things on his mind. His purpose was to bring the greetings of this feast day in person. It was also to let the man tell him some of the many things he had never yet told the bishop or any of his predecessors. Within this atmosphere of grace the hour unfolded.
The cook, listening quietly, noticed the cat carefully entering the room to where the bishop sat in his chair, his arm resting, with his hand hanging down close to her height. Carefully she approached him and sniffing the tips of his fingers she gently raised her nose, put it against his ring and paused.
"Oh, my" thought the cook in amazement. The cat has just kissed the bishop's ring."
The third visit was the day of Epiphany, the great feast of three. The bishop came to wish the man many happy returns on this, the day of the man's birthday, which marked three quarters of a century. In the quiet conversation and good will, the cat stealthily approached the bishop as he sat in his chair with his feet on the footstool, and like a little Magdalene, she quietly kissed his feet. Thus satisfied, she retreated to a chair to sit content.
This made the cook think of St. Francis, who, when he preached of peace, always included the animals.
