About four years ago, we were adopted by a cat. She was scrawny, starved, almost feral, and there was a distinct kink in her tail that looked painful. She had no voice, so when she meowed, you had to be looking at her to know it, as no sound came out. She must have been absolutely desperate by the time she found us, because even with the somewhat indifferent hostility of our two muscular male cats, she stuck around. We put food and water out for her, and Dad made sure she had a comfy place on a spare loveseat in the garage, the door slightly open so she could enter and exit at will, and a heat lamp over her for warmth in the winter.
For two years she wouldn't let any of us near her. We would stand stock still, not quite looking at her, and she would inspect us closely, but at the slightest movement or noise, she was off like a shot around the side of the house and under the bushes. It was kind of a feat just to learn her gender, and once we learned she was female, we thought she was pregnant. Her belly was distended in a pregnant way; but she never gave birth, although we had resigned ourselves to another litter of kittens to care and find homes for.
Finally, Dad, a man to whom all animals come for love and comfort, convinced her (by this time we'd named her Tabitha, or Tabby, for short) that he meant her no harm. Tabby let him touch her, and then pet her a little; finally, all he had to do was go outside, sit Indian style on the ground, and she would eagerly curl up in his lap for a good round of fuzz therapy. After another six months or so, she let the rest of us pet her. Soon, she was eager for love, rubbing up against our legs or crawling into our laps the minute we stepped outside and sat down.
It became obvious that Tabby was a very old cat. Her hearing and sight deteriorated quickly in the last year, and her fur, which was a tortoiseshell pattern of oranges, browns and tans, started to show larger amounts of gray. Child Two started bringing her on little forays into the house. At first she would cautiously creep up the entry stairs, tail alert for danger, and sniff carefully at things. The slightest noise would send her scampering out the door again. By the next winter, she had become accustomed to the house. As the cold came on, her joints seemed to stiffen up, and she was grateful to come into the warm house and curl up in her favorite place, Dad's bed. After a while, she rarely went outdoors. It became difficult for her to climb the stairs from the basement, but every once in a while she would come up to sit by the top of the entry stairs, staring vaguely at the front door until someone would gently pick her up and set her outside for a few minutes.
Tabby died a few weeks ago, right around Christmas. She was sleeping in her favorite place on Dad's bed, Dad beside her, when her spirit left her body between one breath and the next. The kids were distraught, and we talked for hours about where Tabby is now, how she is leaping about and running with her family in heaven, things she couldn't do here in her last years, and how Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ love all creatures, even cats. It was a good time to talk about the Atonement of Jesus Christ and also about the resurrection. And it was a comfort to them that Tabby died warm, fed and loved and not alone, cold and starving. I don't think there is a greater blessing than to be trusted and loved by one of God's creatures. See you soon, Tabby.
