I confess: I AM a cat lady.
Not the one with the dozens living in the house and stinking up the place but the one who relies on her furry pal to get her through hard days.
I raised Roosevelt from the day he was born.
His mom was a sickly outdoor cat that had never made it through a successful pregnancy and was not a candidate for being spayed because she wouldn’t have survived the anesthesia.
So the day I heard a tiny “mew” outside my window I hardly expected the sight I beheld. Here was mama kitty utterly amazed that she had birthed a baby, walking off the edge of the porch with a tiny black something still attached by the umbilical cord.
She could have cared less.
I grabbed scissors and a towel and rescued the little darling without much hope of his surviving.
But he did.
That was seven hospitalizations, two surgeries and one giant heartache ago.
He has become my comfort companion, my purring pal, the one who knows before I do that my RA is flaring, my heart breaking.
I am thankful for this oasis of comfort in a desert of hurt.
I am thankful that the God Who made me also made animals to bring healing in the midst of heartache. Oh, so thankful for a husband that puts up with my crazy “save everything that breathes” personality and doesn’t mind if a cat sneaks up the side of the bed in the middle of the night to get cozy in the covers..
When Dominic died, I remember sitting in my chair as the parade of sweet friends and family came over to cry with us. Roosevelt sat with me the entire time. His warm body reminded me that I was still here even when my limbs seemed to float away into the ether and my mind wasn’t entirely certain that what I saw or heard was real.
I have learned to count my blessings.
And while the majority of them walk on two legs, at least one has four.