The three year old tabby is
small for her age at only five pounds. Her dark-gray fur is striped in black
with a lovely undercoat of coppery-gold and is surprisingly soft and thick,
more like rabbit fur in winter.
Her round little head seems too
small for her expressive and large oval eyes, especially when the pupils dilate—anxious
at my approach. She is nearly feral and only partially tamed by the priest who
cared for her. She needed food and protection from her own kind so he set up a
covered cage on his deck where she could eat and sleep in safety. When I
adopted her she had two sizeable infected wounds from being attacked by other
stray cats and the trip to the vet was traumatic.
When I look at her tiny paws and
miniature prick ears, somewhere deep inside a warm gentleness overtakes me. I
want so much to cuddle this diminutive kitty and feel her warm purring body
against my own. But she is small and frightened, so my patience is required. I
have had her long enough that she no longer bolts from the room when I come
with her food.
In order to move close to her as
she shrinks into the corner I lay on my belly and scooch slowly across the
floor, softly repeating her name “Georgia
What I have found works best is
to sit on the floor near her with my open hand facing up and resting by my
side, but where she is just beyond my reach. This one knows arithmetic well and
can calculate exactly how far a human’s arm can reach! If I am patient she will
often inch toward me, leaning into my open palm and choosing to feel my touch.
She has then decided to be more accepting of my enormity in her little life.
I think of how God is just so
with me, waiting patiently just beyond my reach for me to draw near. He waits,
knowing I may bolt if I become sensitive to his approaching greatness compared
to my littleness. His quietness draws me in as I trust the closeness of the
hand that nourishes and protects. And I too, with desire overriding my fears,
inch towards that loving touch.
