Not long ago, I ran across a cartoon in the daily paper featuring a sign across a business entitled "Cat Obedience School." The sign read, "Out of Business." The obvious message was cats cannot be trained. How true, how true.
As I chuckled over this bit of humor, it also caused me to think back over the cats we have had and events in their lives. One of the more memorable felines was one my daughter brought back home after they had both been living away for some time.
While all cats are unique and most of them fascinating to watch, this one was was a "cat" complete with the famous independent spirit that conformed to our plans and directions only when they coincided with his own. This particular puss was born on a farm, and while he was strictly an indoor pet now, he had fond memories of the great outdoors. Given the opportunity, he was quick to respond to the call of the wild.
The event that came to mind was an evening when my husband was making his normal nightly rounds before coming to bed. He did the routine things we all do -- turned down the heat, turned out the lights and let the dog out for one last run before settling in for the night. However, for whatever reason, when he called the dog to come back in, this time it took a few minutes for him to respond. On silent feet, a gray shadow padded into the darkened room. As he opened the door to let the dog in, a furry flash sailed past his bare feet and "The cat's out!" echoed from the darkened doorway.
Knowing that this was an inside kitty with no claws and a pampered personality, we worried about dogs, cars, feral cats and other creatures of the night. Futile attempts to recapture him would have made humorous viewing should any of the neighbors have chanced to see us dashing to and fro about the front yard. Bruce in his pajamas, our daughter Lynn and I with nightgowns flapping in the breeze.
We were not laughing, however, and it was with considerable concern we thought about what might happen to this pampered pet alone in the cold, cruel world. We were certainly frustrated at not being able to shepherd him back into the house, and finally returned empty handed. With hopeful hearts and verbal reassurances to each other that he would find his way home, we retired for the night. I know we all prayed we would find him on the doorstep in the morning, and none of us expected to get a good night's sleep.
Fortunately, the story has a happy ending, as an open porch door and a light to guide his way brought him scratching at the back door within the hour. He was cuddled in warm, loving arms and offered food as a reward for coming home.
Reflecting back on the frustration we experienced at not being able to make a cat do what we wanted, and the thought of losing one of our beloved family members, I wonder how great God's frustration must be when we ignore His love for us and flee into the night. How often do we choose things of this world rather than His warm, loving arms, which are always there for us? How often do we slip out the door of His kingdom and ignore His voice calling us to come back to Him?
I can only imagine the magnitude of His forgiveness when we finally return to the fold, when we decide the time is right -- not when He would have it so. Perhaps there is a small lesson in these creatures we love and care for and their relationship to those who watch over them. Just as we want to be their lord and master, so God wants to be ours.
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Burgess moved to Bella Vista in 1995. She considers each day a gift -- although some are more fun to open than others. The opinions expressed in this column don't necessarily reflect the views of the newspaper.
Religion on 09/10/2014