Last month’s dispatch about my cat Ronnie led the Rev. Noel Julnes-Dehner to send in this response
The Still Small Voice
Mystics and prophets recognize that voice when silent before God. I heard it when a dog called out to me. Our six-year-old Shih Tzu Nellie must have heard it also because she began looking at me expectantly.
It took a while to locate her, a small Yorkie mutt, two hours away. Cookie was elderly and her owners, more elderly, could no longer care for her. On the side not photographed by the rescue organization her tongue hung out, eyes failing, only good tooth jutting from her jaw. Vet papers mentioned more ailments. If an online purchase, I would have kept scrolling.
But it was a call, and Cookie was one of the sweetest dogs ever. Nellie cuddled her, as did we. Fixed ailments we could and went to specialists for the rest. Her final years were ones of love, care, and companionship for all, until she crossed the Rainbow Bridge.
Then Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer shares this poem about her own sweet cat, originally published A Hundred Falling Veils. Used here with her permission.
Self-Portrait as Cat Pillow
Each time the cat leaps up
onto the bed, she makes
a small bright sound.
I love this sound. Love knowing
that soon her warm weight
will curl into or on top of my belly.
It’s addictive as the chime
of an incoming text.
Seductive as short sleeves
and the firm curve of biceps.
My greatest achievement ––
more prized than title or degree ––
is when my cat finds me
worthy of being her resting place.
I soften then. Allow. I thrive.
Become creature. Become
purr-being. Trust-cushion.
A reverent stillness. I become
one who will still for love.
Top Image: Pixabay/Petra
Second Image: Pixabay/Daga Roszkowska
Side bar image: Pixabay/Sabine van Erp
