What Greater Gift?

What greater gift than the love of a cat?

-- Charles Dickens

More and more as I grow older, I am coming to believe something: There are those people or creatures who come into our lives only briefly and whose presence offer us a gift or teach us a lesson which is priceless. If someone had predicted ten years ago that I would be a cat owner, I would have laughed and given an firm response: No! That was before a small abandoned little fellow came into my life one spring day in 2006. After that day, my life changed forever.

He was just about eight weeks old, thrown out of a moving car by humans too irresponsible to spay his mother and too immoral to consider the cruelty of their actions. As he sat in the middle of a busy highway, paralyzed with fear, a car ran over him, its tires just barely missing him.

All this was seen by our apartment maintenance personnel, who were thoughtful enough to stop and rescue the little kitten from such trauma.

I wasn't looking for a cat, you know. I didn't seek him out. He sought me. Us. The day I first saw those frightened big blue eyes looking at me, a maternal bond began. It was a bond that could not be broken, and only strengthened over the next three years. My heart strings still reach out for him, their tethering too painful to bear some days.

I volunteered to take him off the apartment office's hands and drive him to the local animal shelter. Yet the longer I stared into those big blue eyes and cradled the tiny furry body shivering in my hands, the more difficult it was to think of letting him go and him being abandoned once again. So instead of leaving the animal shelter with one less passenger, I found myself strolling the unfamiliar cat aisles of Petsmart, unsure of the benefits Scoop Away had over Fresh Step and Whiskas over 9 Lives.

My husband and Jorge, our dog, fell in love with him just as quickly as I did, and although the little fellow as still frightened, his new big brother gave him a tender lick on the his face. My husband asked, "How about Mr. Guppy?" We had just watched Charles Dickens' "Bleak House" on Masterpiece Theatre. "That's perfect!" I said.

Our family of three became a family of four. Oh, Mr. Guppy tried our patience at times. He climbed on top of the china cabinet, the television, the kitchen cabinets. He ventured into an open oven (not heated!), an empty dryer, and napped in any empty bag, box, or suitcase. He and his big brother chased lizards that crawled along the window outside; they wrestled and even drank water from the same bowl. He never failed to jump in his litter box just as I was trying to clean it. I could never lie down to read a book without him jumping up and plopping right down on top of

the book, flop his tail up and down, reach up ever so gently with his paw, and touch my face, begging to be petted.

He was a tiger yearning for the jungle, bored of the limited adventures an apartment could provide. Two years later, when we moved into our own home, we allowed him to venture outdoors, where he felt free and happy. He caught numerous moles and birds, climbed trees, and scaled fences. He was happy. We were all happy.

One month ago, late at night when my husband came home from work, Mr. Guppy darted out the door for his nightly adventures. Nothing was unusual in his behavior. Yet when Tuesday morning arrived, Mr. Guppy did not arrive begging for his morning breakfast. Afternoon and evening passed, and he was nowhere to be seen.

Friends and family tried to reassure us that this was typical of cats However, I knew it was not typical of Mr. Guppy. Days, one week, another week passed, and Mr. Guppy did not return. It has been one month now since he disappeared. We printed numerous flyers, walked and drove all over the neighborhood. I've checked the animal control and rescue websites multiple times everyday, wishing, hoping that I could will his photo to be there.

The lack of closure has been gut wrenching. I have found myself distraught over not knowing what tragedy fell on him, the possible pain and fear that enveloped him in those late evening/early morning hours. As his mother, I have shed many tears, with none of them able to bring him back. The thought of my Guppy, my baby, out there hurt, stranded, sick, or panicking, and without me to rescue and care for him, has left my insides churning, my heart heavy with inconsolable grief.

The void in our lives from the absence of such a small fellow is enormous. Each day I leave for work and return home is especially painful, for Mr. Guppy isn't there to greet me. I know he isn't coming back.

This past week it felt like for the first time I could almost hear Mr. Guppy speaking to me. His absence has been difficult enough, but I, the one who detested felines, now finds myself wanting another cat in our home. Yet the thought of getting another one so soon felt like a swift blow to Mr. Guppy's memory.

That's when I felt his spirit near me as if he was saying, "Mommy, do it.

I know you love me and miss me. But other kittens out there need you just like I did. Please help them. We need you."

Mr. Guppy found me. I did not find him. He came into my life when I needed the distraction of caring for another being. He taught me patience, he gave me laughter, and he taught me that cats can bring us joy. Somehow he made me feel needed and loved in a way that no human has been able to do. I was, in his mind, his mother. It is a privilege for which I will be eternally grateful.