Not My Cat

It’s a storming morning and I hear a scratching at the front door.

I open it to find Balut, our “not my cat,” a neighborhood stray who has decided to adopt us Marshburns.

While we haven’t quite committed to owning him, Balut feels like we are a safe place that he can access whenever he needs to. He can come to get shelter, some water, and all the petting that he could ever hope to receive. (He is certainly the most aggressively friendly cat I’ve ever met—he sauntered into our house, jumped into my father’s lap, and demanded a belly rub on their first meeting; so the many hands of the Marshburns scratching and massaging him brings great joy.)

Today is no exception as Balut scrambles into the house, sliding a bit on the tile. He follows me to my chair, jumps into my lap, and waits for me to act. Except this time, he’s soaking wet from the rain. I am for a moment tempted to toss him off of me, complain about the wet paw prints clinging my pants to my legs. But I dismiss this thought. Instead, I grab a towel and smother the “not my cat.”

As much as he likes petting, Balut seems surprised by this. He doesn’t move as I rub the towel over his body, sopping up the moisture from his back and belly.

It isn’t until I’m nearly finished, his fur no longer dripping and his tail regaining its fluff, that he reacts. He rams his head into my arm and rubs hard.

I’ve read that cats do this because of the scent glands near their whiskers, such a rubbing being a claim, a marking of territory.

Perhaps as gratitude for my efforts, Balut has chosen to reaffirm his claim to me as one of his “not my humans.”

Very sweet of him.

When I’m done, Balut is purring and his fur is dry. My pants, on the other hand, are far from it, having soaked in a significant portion of moisture from his legs while I focused first on his body.

It is an inconvenience for sure, certainly uncomfortable, but I decide not to change. The water will dry out eventually, and besides, I have Balut on me still, continuing to ask me for love. I’d hate to disturb him.

Instead, I massage his cheeks as his eyes blink slowly until he lays down his head and sleeps.

That was hours ago. I was correct, the pants dried out.

Right now, Balut’s taking a nap beside me, content to laze in the presence of my company.

And here, in the aftermath of the moment, I am struck by Jesus’ words when he depicts how we are to treat others: “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me” (Matthew 25:35-36 NIV).

Balut is my “not my cat,” yet I am willing to take him in, ignore my own discomfort and dry him off, give him my time and love.

As heartwarming a thought as that may be, I must make sure that my service towards a cat does not outweigh the service I give my “not my people,” the random passersby on the street, the homeless or hungry, the lonely, those drowning in the rain.

Can I look at those around me and rightly claim to offer them the love that Jesus demands, the time that they deserve?

It is my hope that I do. Even if I do, I am glad God has given such a gentle reminder of the calling he’s granted us as his children—I could have been confronted with my inadequacy, beaten over the head by selfishness and thrashed by condemnation. But no; instead, I’ve simply dried Balut.

God reminds thus: As I am willing to love a “not my cat,”

I must work to love those around me. We must all work to love those around us, to meet their needs, claim them as our own and treat them as such so that, regardless of ties, even if some are “not our people,” they can and will feel God’s love through us.

Amen, Lord. May it be so.