When my greyhound, Anjin, died, I needed another dog immediately, and Halle came to live with me the very next day. The death of L.E., my cat, did not affect me in the same way. I missed her, but it was more than a week before I began thinking about getting another cat. I reflected on the difference and decided that I had needed a dog, but I wanted a cat who needed me.
I mentioned this to a friend who told me at once that she knew of a shelter in the next county that had cats. The shelter was near my local family, so they went over and picked out a cat for me.
ZZ was a Manx, six years old, and likely would not have been adopted at a time when everyone really wanted kittens. I was doubtful when she came out of the cat carrier in my living room. I was accustomed to slender, graceful cats, and ZZ was round, a little butterball with a stub of a tail and spatulate feet that resembled snowshoes. I’d never seen a Manx in the flesh before, so it was startling. I found myself thinking, Is that really the cat for me? Why couldn’t God have given me a pretty one?
But if I was dubious, ZZ seemed to know instantly that she was home and safe. Before the evening was over, she’d climbed up on the arm of the couch—L.E.’s nightly perch—pressed her body against my shoulder, and purred in my ear. She was so confident and comfortable from the beginning that it was as if she’d put in an order for a place to belong and got mine. Once again, I’d been reassured that God knew what He was doing.
When I think I know best, God, You always find a way to gently remind me I might be wrong about that.
—Rhoda Blecker
