Grateful For A Three-Lb. Furry Ball Of Blessing

Umm, have I mentioned it’s been a rough year?

Yeah, thought so.  It’s amazing how self-focused you can get on your own blog . . .

In wanting to express my prayer that all of you have a wonderful Thanksgiving, full of realization of every blessing of the Lord, I want to tell you what I’m grateful for this year. Not “most grateful.”  That would, of course, be for my amazingly patient and gentle husband, Jeff, and my two sons, Anthony and Jonah.  Nothing in my life makes sense apart from them.  Then, I would mention three or four friends who have sustained and supported me through a difficult year — or, in one case, through a difficult lifetime.  I may be partially disabled and dealing with a chronic pain condition, but there’s nothing that threatens my life, or even keeps me from living a normal, day-to-day life.  And we have a nice little house, plenty of food, cars that run, and enough money left over to give to people who God brings across our path. 

In short, I have a lot to be grateful for.

But about a month ago, the Lord brought me something else entirely different, and I enter into this Thanksgiving season really, truly, tearfully grateful for . . .

. . . a scruffy little kitten.

I was headed out to my car October 18, probably running late for something, when I heard an anguished, high-pitched wail from atop a pile of junk in the carport.  I thought it was our adult male cat, Rowland, who had not come in from his mice-annihilating rounds the night before.  But when I went over to check on what I thought was an injured 5-year-old HUGE cat, I saw a pissed-off, back-arched, piteously wailing little kitten the color of an old tweed jacket.  He had a lot on  his mind, lots of grievances he was eager to air.

He was hungry.  I ran and got a couple of dishes for food and water, endured a furious wail and hiss, and went on my way.  Jeff came home mid-day and pronounced him a “winner,” which, for a kitten in Jeffspeak, means that he’s cute and should be fed again.
I was happy to oblige, noticing that he — the kitten, not Jeff — had begun to let me hold him and run my fingers through his matted fur.  But I was NOT hooked.  I was NOT interested in having another kitten; in addition to Rowland, we have Rugby, who, at 16, is on her way out, it’s true, but not quite there yet.  We also have two dogs.  My hands are full and my sofa is furry.  I didn’t need another pet, and I sure wasn’t looking.

But this little guy had different ideas.  By the end of the day, he was on the doorstep, meowing politely and trying to dash in at every opening of the front door.  It was cute, and I was flattered, and he was cute, and I was even more impressed with his bravery and initiative, and . . .

. . . it’s November 20, and after a round of shots and a date with the groomer, Gunther Emerine-Mix is curled up on our bed, purring happily, shedding profusely, and irrevocably lodged in my heart.  He’s about 4 months old, maybe a bit younger, and is already loved by most of the four-footed members of the family.  He’s funny and energetic and beautiful and gentle and affectionate and silly and . . . at a time when I needed to unabashedly love something that wasn’t part of my “regular life,” whatever that is, and be shamelessly courted by a tiny little guy who made his way from God-knows-where to my heart, my arms, and my bed. 

So.  In a life already greatly blessed, I have one more to count — a new little buddy named Gunther, who found me when I was feeling more than a little lost.  Thank you, Lord, for him and for all of our pets — the blessings you’ve brought us in your wisdom and graciousness as we struggled towards Eden renewed and recreated.

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