happy cats

I was stuck in my car through multiple changes of a stop light yesterday afternoon. The sun broke though the fog, the radio station playing a special of Chopin Polish songs. Off to my right, a man wearing several layers of dirty clothing stood next to the bus stop holding the handle to a baby carriage in one hand and in the other a sign asking spare change for food. He looked like he hadn't shaved or bathed in several days and his head bobbed slightly while he scanned the faces in the vehicles around me. As the light changed from green to red once again, I moved forward a couple more car lengths towards him. I noticed a cat with a blanket wrapped around it, sitting contentedly in the baby carriage. The cat poked it's face out towards the sun, blinking happily. The pudgy face was white, with a black arrow-shaped swath across like a deco mask. It occurred to me that not only was this not a hungry cat, but one who was quite at home and in its home snug and warm next to this scruffy man. I looked up at the man, who was then looking back at me as he tucked his sign under his arm then reached over and scratched the cat's chin. I could not hear it, but only well imagine a loud peaceful purr. I glanced back up at the light which then cued me with green and enough space opened for me to pull forward and make my turn. As I sped away thinking about this cat, the news came on. After international updates droned on about unoccupied remote controlled spy planes, the color story was about an Italian cat who inherited $13 million from a lonely widow. At least, I assumed the cat was Italian, as was the woman, and I assumed the widow was lonely, but maybe she just knew people too well to think that $13 million they didn't have yesterday would make them better people a day later. Or something. In any event, and on the other hand, I thought, what in God's name does a cat need with all that money? Will it make Tommaso the Italian cat any happier than the cat I was just watching? And on the other hand once more, it surely would be enough for him to run a campaign to be elected dog-catcher.

creepin through the woods

Up on the big hill near my house, the city purchased a few dozen acres from a developer to turn the area into a public park, rather than the 78 unit suburban housing slots for which it was otherwise destined. I always liked making my way up along the narrow paths cutting through the trees, even though overgrown with ferns, brambles, etc. to the old road along the top.

One apparent concession in the revised plan for the area involved the building of a very large dwelling near the bottom of the hill, but away from view of any nearby cross-street. This residence took nearly a year and a half to completion and I wondered often who would be living there. I also wondered whether the short-cut I took through the woods up to our now new park land crossed over the property line of the new resident.

My answer came one day as I began across an old single plank footbridge over a small creek. I noticed someone working on the dilapidated shed about 40 yards away. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked. "Up the trail up the hill." I responded. "That's my property." he said, then paused and added, "Have you been going that way a long time?"

When I assured him that I had, he informed me that the large residence was part of an organization he ran for at risk and wayward youth, as part of their training and transition. I said I had been wondering about this house, and the size for the location.

He said that he was just concerned about liability and that I could continue to use the path across the land at my own risk and so long as I would do him the favor of thinking about one question. I nodded, thanks. He said the question is, "What would you say to Him, if you met Jesus tomorrow?" I smiled and proceeded along my way and have never walked that route again.

No offense meant, Jesus. Maybe that's what I'd say, but more truthfully I don't go that way any longer because I'm not sure what I'd say to that guy.