Serving Clovis, Portales and the Surrounding Communities
True confession No. 1: I don’t feel the least bit guilty about my next true confession.
True confession No. 2: I have never been much of a cat person. I’ll pick a slobbering dog over a condescending cat every time.
I do admit that those types are not necessarily the only choices. But enough truth lies in the stereotypes that we all chuckle knowingly at Winston Churchill’s variously quoted truth: “Cats look down on you, dogs look up to you. Give me a pig! He looks you in the eye and treats you as an equal.”
I’ll take his word about the pigs (though the feral ones I’ve seen are improved only with a bullet), but we all know he’s right about the canines and felines.
So I was a bit surprised to find myself - and more surprised to find my wife who likes animals “over there” but not “over here” - consorting with a cat. A black one. Technically, I’m sure, a feral one.
Bella or Runt, as she is called, depending upon which of two yards she’s scavenging or mooching in, is at least a two-family cat. She may even have more names and homes; I don’t think so, but I wouldn’t swear to it. A dog is an open book; cats are secretive, close-mouthed, shifty-eyed creatures that tend toward duplicity.
I’ll give her this: she’s a gentle cat, especially for one of the feral variety. I warned a granddaughter not to try to pick her up; the next thing I knew, the 3-year-old was wagging the cat around. No bites. No scratches. And an older granddaughter was naming her.
About that same time, Bella (if I may use her Shelburneshire name) and I started “mousing” together. I have some birds - doves, a pheasant, etc. - in a rustic aviary I built out in our back yard. Bird seed on the ground means the occasional mouse under the ground. The cat and I discovered that if I turn on the hose, open the door a bit, and shoot water down a mouse hole, a half-drowned mouse or a few will likely scamper out. And she’s ready. Oh, yes, quite ready.
She likes to play with her food. She should chew it more. But she enjoys it a great deal.
A few weeks ago, Runt/Bella gave birth to two kittens behind a couple of fenced in rain barrels I have in the back yard. I’m not sure about her morals, but I’m quite sure about her reproductive capacity.
I will admit that watching the little ones grow has been a lot of fun. One is black and white; one is gray. One, my pet-skeptical wife has named Sweetie Pie; the other, she has named Sugar Plum. Whatever you think about cats and dogs, I suppose everybody loves kittens and puppies.
Cats rarely ever condescend to coming when whistled at or called, even by name. And we’re not very sure yet if these are girl cats or boy cats. Maybe the other human grandparents next door could come up with a couple of boy cat names for use if needed. I’d hate to throw these kittens into unnecessary confusion. But these days, if one wakes up feeling distinctly like a dog trapped in a cat’s body, I suppose we may have to call it Fido or be considered brutish and cruel. (I still doubt it would come when called.)
But, seriously, ya know what’s been most amazing to me? The joy. I know some biologically necessary reasons exist for some of the romping and playing, rolling and chasing, frolicking and jumping (both fur-balls have amazing “verticals”) these kittens engage in between themselves and their mom. But you’ll not get me to believe that it’s all just zoology.
It’s too much. But it’s just right. It’s a smiling Creator’s gift. It’s joy. Deep. Real. Joy. And he gives it to us, too, when we open our souls to it.
I’ll wager that he’s always willing to help us do that. If we just ask.
Curtis Shelburne writes about faith for The Eastern New Mexico News. Contact him at