In January, Mr. R and I adopted a kitten.
"He's my favorite," the shelter employee said. "I'm so glad you chose him."
"Why is he your favorite?" I asked.
"Because he's the only one who's learned how to escape."
Nacho the cat didn't spend a lot of time trying to escape from our house, but he spent a fair amount of time getting trapped. It took us a few instances of discovering him locked in our bedroom, kitty havoc littering the carpet, before we realized we needed to prop the door open with The Chicago Manual of Style, 14th Ed., or close it completely. Nacho liked batting at the door until it closed, never learning that when he played that game, he got stuck.
About a month ago we went on a river rafting trip. On the second night of our trip, I remembered: we hadn't propped the door open. I got a bad feeling. I *knew* our poor cat was stuck without litter, food, or water. I could almost sense his frustration and hear his plaintive meows. We called the neighbors for help, but no one answered the phone.
Like I should have done in the first place, I prayed. I asked that God would make Nacho comfortable or send an angel to let him out---the kind of assignment I'm sure angels roll their eyes over. I finished my prayer, felt peace, and stopped worrying for the most part.
When Mr. R and I returned home, Nacho loudly met us at the door, free and totally fine. Then I walked down the hall and smelled something bad. The master bedroom door was shut tight, and inside, I found evidence of a trapped and unhappy cat. At least he used the bathroom rug instead of our bed. Maybe he even tried to use toilet paper, since a long pile of it lay shredded on the floor.
Had an angel really been in my house? Beamed Nacho through a closed door so he could drink some water and eat some food and use his box? I know a more logical culprit was probably a strong puff of air from the a/c vents, popping the door open long enough for Nacho to escape and sucking it closed again.
Either way, my house felt a little holier in all its stinky glory. I knew the Lord had told me my cat needed help. Then He'd told me that He'd sent help. He let me know He'd answered a prayer for a cat, no matter how silly. He let me know this just before Nacho disappeared.
Now every time I step on another jingle-ball toy or flannel-eared mouse or chewed up pen, I worry. What if Nacho is bored without his toys? What if he's cold without a lap to sleep on? What if he's hungry? (We leave food on the porch, but I think raccoons are eating it.) Worse, what if Nacho is owl food or tire-tread coating or lost and lonely and sad? I know these are not pressing questions for cat haters or people who've lost much more than a shelter pet who probably went bezerk and decided to return to his feral roots. But still. I feel sad to not have an acrobatic, wide-eyed, purring, orange-striped pal in the house. (I admit I do not feel sad to have a flat-eared, brushy-tailed, biting machine *out* of the house. But we take the good with the bad, don't we.)
I wonder if God let the cat out of my bedroom so I'd remember that He's heard our prayers before---so I'd know He's heard them now, too, even if the answer this time is that we aren't likely to see Nacho again.
I feel sad. That cat was super funny. He was my alarm clock. He was my nemesis. He was my heating pad. And he was Mr. R's buddy.
But I feel happy because God affirmed His awareness of our silly cat at the exact right time so I would be comforted. God has opened doors for Nacho before. Maybe he let the furry beast into your house. If so, do you want me to come take him off your hands? You might be tired of all the biting and scratching by now.
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