Angel?

 

Angel?

I have been putting off the temptation to write this essay since I began the blog five years ago.  The main concern is that I have promised the reader that they can turn to Embers and rest assured that it is a place of peace and not controversy.  This weekend my daughter Elizabeth had a joint birthday party for her two children as Danny’s birthday is in early June and Molly will turn four this week.  Her husband Jason comes from a farm family and there is never a shortage of things to do on a farm in summer with hay that needs cutting, corn that needs cultivating and cows that need milking, so the combined birthday puts less stress on their hectic schedules.  Oddly enough it was my wife that brought the subject up, which surprised me because I have always considered her an accomplice before, during and after the fact.  I have decided it is time to lay the matter out, and I will attempt to avoid discontent amongst the readership by allowing you complete say in the final outcome.

The story came home, literally, on a July day when my daughter Elizabeth turned seven.  We were at my in-laws’ farmhouse with family gathered around.  The dinner table had just been cleared and dishes stacked up temporarily – there would be time after cake to wash those.  The cake was presented to the delight of the children, we sang the required chorus of “Happy Birthday”, and Elizabeth had blown out the candles. 

Opening presents was supposed to happen afterwards, but as Elizabeth was about half done, my mother-in-law, Elizabeth’s maternal Grandmother spoke up.  “Elizabeth, Uggy had a batch of kittens.  [Uggy was my mother-in-law’s housecat.  It was so-named because its fur was such a patchwork and swirl of colors, that she supposedly was so ugly that she was cute.  Personally, I was willing to readily agree with at least half of that description.] They are downstairs in a cardboard box.  After you are finished with your cake you can go pick one out for your birthday present from Grandma.”  She then turned to me with a darting look, “And what are you going to do about that?” she challenged.

The challenge came because it was well-known that I was rather fond of dogs, especially hunting dogs.  Truth be told, I never gave cats much thought as they weren’t part of my childhood.  But cats were a big part of my wife’s childhood.  There were always barn cats on the farm.  There were also house cats.  Michelle’s maternal Grandmother had at least seven cats during her lifetime.  She proudly shared that they were each named “Angel”.  So, you can see the hopelessness of my cause; it was a generational fight, and I was substantially outnumbered.  So, Elizabeth picked out a little gray tiger-striped kitten, named her Angel, and we took her home.   

The next part of the story goes even further back in time, but I insist that it is relevant.  My wife claims that I have too wild of an imagination.  Funny though, she can never say that without the tiniest bit of a smirk in the corner of her mouth.  It was when our oldest child, Jake was born and we brought him home from the hospital.  We had a little bassinette in our bedroom for him. 

Michelle nursed our babies, so I never had to be there for feeding, but I did my best to pick Jacob up and get him changed.  Unfortunately, I was working a night shift job so I was only able to help on the weekends.

Well, about two weeks into our foray into parenthood, I woke up one Saturday morning well passed sunrise and very well rested for a change.  I looked at Michelle who was also awake.  “I can’t believe the baby slept through the night,” I said.  “He didn’t,” was Michelle’s deadpan response.  “He was awake three times.”  That’s enough background for the sake of this essay, and I would just as soon move far away from my unfortunate observation that morning.

Angel lived a long, long life.  The odd thing was that although she was Elizabeth’s cat, somehow delightful tasks such as feeding and cleaning out the litter box fell to me.  She was an indoor/outdoor cat.  She was a good mouser, but always seemed to bring her prey home from the neighbors; I guess our mice weren’t up to her standards.  She terrorized the local dogs.  The terrier from across the road would run for cover whenever Angel was outside.  The next-door neighbors had an invisible fence for their little border collie.  Somehow Angel figured out how far he could come until the electric shock hit him.  She would sit calmly a few feet this side of the invisible fence and watch the collie spin circles, all the while yapping and yipping at Angel.

Worst of all, Angel would show up in our bedroom in the middle of the night, begin meowing, and then jump up on me and continue calling until I got up and let her out.  About an hour later she would show up outside our bedroom window and meow until I got up to let her back inside.  Mind you, this was the routine for 17 years.  My wife insists to this day that she never heard a thing.  While I would never accuse her of lying about that, I have pointed out that Jacob, and all four of our children for that matter, pretty much did sleep through the night by the time they were about six weeks old.  If you do the math, that’s four children times 7 nights per week times 6 weeks = 168 baby nights.  One cat, twice per night for 17 years = 12,410 cat nights.  Whenever I suggest to Michelle that she may have gotten the better of the deal, all things considered, she refuses to answer; she just gets that tiniest bit of a smirk in the corner of her mouth.

So, I ask you dear reader, Angel or no?

His Peace <><

Deacon Dan   

Photo by Valeria Reverdo on Unsplash