This spring our sweet gray tabby died of old age. My youngest daughter wailed that we would never have a cat again, and her two older sisters said, "Oh, don't worry; Mom will
always have a cat." They are right. Life is just not right without a cat. Besides the mousing value, the therapy value of that incredibly soft fur is inestimable. Except for a few years in rental housing, in my 52 years, I've always had a cat.
So I headed to the Humane Society to find a new friend. I love Siamese cats, so I planned to get one of those, but when I picked up this beautiful little lady, with her one blue eye and one gold eye, I was smitten. She was sweet, she was inquisitive, she melted in my arms.
The Humane Society workers, however, were very wary. They said they needed me to understand that this cat had "extreme anxiety," that she had originally been adopted by another family from another shelter, and had been surrendered to this shelter because she was crazy and wouldn't stop attacking the family. What? She was so sweet! They said, "Yes, that's the way she was at the shelter for the other family as well, but as soon as they got her home, she freaked out. They had her a month and she only got worse. She attacked people and actually caused injury, so they sadly brought her in." After they assured me that I could bring her back and pay a surrender fee if she didn't work out, I decided to take a chance. I was just so taken with that silky fur, and those bright eyes. I named her "Jewel."
Jewel was as sweet as could be. For about 1 hour. And then the devil cat appeared. Anytime someone tried to get near her, she attacked. The claws were out, the teeth were sharp. She ran, she fought, she gave me battle wounds. She'd settle down for a little while, and then suddenly go crazy again. Clearly she was terrified. Throwing a small blanket on her would cover the vicious claws and help me pick her up safely, but I started to wonder if she was beyond hope.
It was curious that she had been so sweet at the shelter. I sat and thought about this. What was the difference between the shelter and our home? The shelter had lots of noise, lots of other animals (we have a small, calm, quiet cocker spaniel who is uninterested in cats), lots of people, lots of smells. And then it hit me: at the shelter she lived in a cage! She felt safe in a cage!
I pulled an old cat carrier from storage and pushed her, yowling and clawing, inside it. She angrily protested for a few minutes, but within an hour she was completely calm and happy. Bingo! She was terrified of too much space! Cats are naturally territorial and if she had been a feral kitten, she may have had some bad experiences treading on another wild cat's space.
My girls and I set out to help her expand her territory and realize that our entire house was safe. We started with her in the cage in the living room. After a while, we let her out, but shut the French doors. She could see us, but she was still in her own room. She explored a little bit, and then started freaking out again, so back into the cage she went to calm down before having another go at it. When she became comfortable with this room, we added another room: the girls' bedroom. She would move around for an hour or two, and then the claws would be back out, and we would return her to her safe cage for a while.
Over a week or two, she increased her territory to include the whole house, but it was almost six weeks before she had any interest in going outside, or even looking out the window! Finally, she couldn't resist the pull of the outdoors, but she stayed right on the back patio for the first day. The next day, she went a couple of feet beyond the patio. It was another week before she ventured beyond the back yard to the canal bank beyond. Occasionally she got scared and had to spend a little time back in the cage.
Now that we've had her for two months, she is totally comfortable. She loves exploring (but not too far beyond the back yard). She's a very intelligent and very sweet cat. She hops up on the bathroom counter and meows for us to turn the tap on so she can get a drink straight from the source. She has a beautiful voice and communicates well her needs. When you pick her up, she gives you a "neck hug" and a butterfly kiss. She even purs! If you pet her so much that it starts to bug her, she never takes out her claws, but with all four soft paws, she firmly pushes your hand away. She's a wonderful pet.
It seems so silly now to think that she preferred such a constricted space as a cage, when there were so many joys to be found in the freedom of roaming the house, in the companionship of the people around her, in the fun of the back yard, in the cool, clear tap water, and in sleeping on a soft blanket on a bed.
But are we not all a little bit like Jewel? Do we not prefer to stay in our comfort zone? Do we not like being with people like ourselves, in familiar situations, doing things we are already good at? Do we not freak out sometimes when the Lord opens the cage and coaxes us into a new church calling, a new visiting teaching district, a mission call, the terror of marriage, the adventure of becoming parents, an unpleasant trial, an opportunity to love someone very unlike ourselves, a new career? Wouldn't we rather be left in our cage?
Now whenever God opens the door and forces me to experience something new, something scary, something uncomfortable, I'm going to remember those first weeks with Jewel, and remind myself that a comfort zone is nothing but a cage that will deny me many amazing adventures and delightful associations, and keep me from experiences and joys I can only now imagine. I'm going to picture Jewel, sitting in the tall grass on the canal bank, spying the ducks, her tail twitching excitedly. I'm going to picture Jewel, chasing after birds and butterflies and bugs, enjoying the thrill of the hunt. I'm going to picture Jewel, purring ferociously on the shoulder of a former scary giant human. And I'm going to dare to embrace the greater freedom outside the cage.
