W is for WHITIE

Everyone wanted to call him Cleo. He was white with black blotches while his brother was completely black and initially christened Suki. They had been born to a mother who ran wild in the fields and plantations around the farm but who had made her temporary home among some bales of hay in one of the sheds. And it was there that she gave birth to two kittens. But her maternal skills were not the best and, in keeping with the age, she wasn't a 'stay at home mum', so as time passed she returned less frequently to check on the development of her offspring. But someone else was monitoring their progress. Youngest son had begun to make the daily sojourn to the shed so it was not long before he introduced us to the two orphans and within a few days they had been introduced to what had been a cat-free zone, our house. My experience of cats had been extremely limited and I had no reason to nor intention of becoming more educated in this area, since my conversion to all things dog early in life. Cats were for chasing, were dirty creatures and unfriendly, that viewed you with the evil eye. But Cleo had such warm, soft little paws and he curled up on my lap and purred for hours or wrestled with his brother on the mat in front of the television. And Whitie and Blackie seemed much more appropriate and less pretentious names and they were getting used to them even if certain nameless members of the family were less than impressed. Anyway, we adopted them.

That was over three years ago and a lot has happened since. Blackie hasn't appeared inside the house for over a year, though from time to time we catch a fleeting glimpse in the fields nearby or on the road. I guess there's a touch of his mother's personality in him. Or maybe he just eventually bowed to Whitie's stronger character, which has become more and more of a feature since he took up the single permanent residence in the absence of his brother. And while I continue to have some reservations about the feline world in general, he has scotched many preconceived notions that I held about the species. Apart from a few minor mishaps when he was still a toddler, he never leaves his mark in the house, nor is he ever anything only clean for he spends most of his waking hours licking his whole body clean. And while most cats don't seem to need love for survival, he yearns for affection and returns it with interest.But he still knows where he wants to sit and is always disgruntled when bedtime comes and he's forced out into the cold, dark night. Yet he survives which is more than can be said for the odd mouse, bird and even squirrel that has crossed his path in the early hours of the morning.Though a certain amount of guilt overcomes me when I eject him late at night, I continue to console myself with the fact that we haven't had a mouse indoors for over two years.Yet I can't forget about his brother,Blackie, who, for whatever reason best known to himself, chose not to follow the same path and has missed out on all the good things that Whitie has enjoyed for free.

The Psalmist tells us that we should thank the Lord, 'for he satisfies the thirsty and fills the hungry with good things.' Jesus makes it even more clear in John's gospel when he says, 'I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.' But so many miss out on this free gift of a better life. Yet if we know how to provide the best for our family and even our pets, 'how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?' Come into His house and let Him take care of you.