| Sunny Side Up Jan. 23, 2002 �2002, Kathleen Gibson You gotta� know where to run The cat, Moses, is performing his morning ablutions. Resting on the black and cream stripes of his favorite armchair, folded nearly double, supported only by his front paws and the flat bone of his left hip, he draws his sandpaper tongue (120 grit) over the entire length of one of his back legs�the one pointing straight ceilingward. And repeats. And again. It makes me wonder if cats have an internal directive like those on my shampoo bottles�Lather, rinse, repeat. His absurdly long raccoon-striped tail draws a shepherd�s crook on the chair beside him. A twitching shepherd�s crook. He has a pattern, I notice: Lick, twitch, lick, twitch. I feel my first smile of the day taking shape. Moses came to our family courtesy of our adult son, who brought him home as a stray and hid him in the basement for three days before telling us. He was smaller than a Kleenex box, with a purr twice his size and a tail twice his length. We didn�t want a cat, didn�t need a cat, and one of us didn�t even like cats. That�s all corrected now. Moses stayed, and has melded into the fabric of our family as smoothly as his black and white coat blends into the fabric of his favorite chair. My favorite chair too, though I�ve had to find another. He rearranged things so smoothly we didn�t even notice we�d adopted a benevolent dictator, albeit a tiny one. General Moses has preferences. Fixed preferences. There�s no reasoning with him; no middle ground. It�s his way or no way. No closed bedroom doors. No cuddling unless he�s �in the mood�. No drawing the drapes before dark. And the water must be running�thank you, ma�am. The water issue especially makes me chuckle. Moses favorite drinking place is the bathroom sink. When thirsty, he comes galloping the millisecond the watertap is opened. Happy to have the bathroom to ourselves after years of waiting in line for the children to finish their rituals, the Preacher and I now find ourselves waiting on a great black and white feline, whose front half alone nearly fills the sink as he laps. I tap my toothbrush impatiently, but he never takes the hint, only stops to stare, his pupils large and round. Who, me? Recently a guest disappeared into the bathroom, only to back out again in rather a hurry. �Uh, your cat�.� The sink was overflowing with a huge ball of black and white fur, sleeping peacefully. Moses�waiting for someone to come and turn on the tap. I�m embarrassingly like my cat sometimes, proud and happily independent. And like Moses, I�ve learned there are some things I can�t do for myself. I can�t refresh my own parched spirit, though I�ve sipped the stagnant waters of self-indulgence far too often. When I notice my thirst, I go running to Jesus. He welcomes me and opens the tap�full blast. Ah�.nothing compares with living water. I�m with Moses on that one. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |