When "Stuff" Happens

Job was a man who lived during the time of the patriarchs of Genesis. The richest man in his territory, he was also described, even by God, as a man of complete integrity (Job 1:8, NLT). Then God allowed Satan to test him, and in the space of a few hours, Job’s extensive herds of oxen, sheep, and camels were all wiped out and his seven sons and three daughters died. (When we think we’re having a bad day, we should compare ourselves to Job.)

Through all this, he kept his trust in God and did not blame Him for what had happened.

In the second round of testing, Job’s health was taken from him. He was a miserable mess. This time his wife told him to shake his fist at God and lie down and die. Job simply told her not to be foolish. His whole stance is summed up in Job 13:15: “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.” Since the first time I read that scripture, many years ago, it has stayed with me, burned in my heart, and it has challenged me to learn to trust God like that. A few years ago, He gave me a vivid metaphor of that kind of trust.

I have a dear little cat named Muppet. She’ll be 16 this year. She lives outside, along with Antonio the Siamese. She’s half wild, jumpy, neurotic, and not given to affection unless her radically cycling hormones throw her in that direction for a short period of time. She does love me in her own way; in the summer when I’m working in the garden, she like to sit beside my little stool, and there we quietly enjoy each other’s company. But mostly we live quite independently of each other, and we both like it that way.

She used to have a batch of kittens almost every summer. Especially when the kids were still around, it was fun, and the kids made sure the kittens got handled plenty enough to be well tamed and socialized by the time they were ready to go to their new homes.

But times changed; the kids grew up. Rachel, the youngest, was the real cat lover, and when she moved out, new kittens didn’t get enough attention. I soon discovered that if the kittens grew up feral, they would be impossible to settle in homes. They don’t ever really seem to tame unless they’re tamed early on. If they grow up wild, they have to be destroyed. And that is not a happy option.

It was a few summers ago that Muppet raised her last batch of kittens. I had managed to keep her calm and contented enough that she was caring for them in the little cat house on the back deck instead of hiding them somewhere. I tried to handle them regularly. But around the time that the kittens were starting to frisk around on their wobbly little legs, Muppet found a breach in the barricade that keeps her from getting under the front deck, and she moved them all under there.

Several days went by. The kittens were very happy; they had no cause to ever come out, as their mother showed up regularly to nurse them. And while they weren’t afraid of me, they weren’t about to come when I called.

I tore off some of the lath and crawled under the upper deck, but the kittens had migrated to the smaller space under the lower deck. Eight inches of clearance was lots for them, but it wasn’t nearly enough for me.

There was only one solution, as far as I could see: I would have to starve them out and then re-barricade where they had got in. I placed Muppet in the carrying kennel, with my apologies and generous rations of water and kibble. But she was so frantic at being locked up, her long coat was soon a mess of water and soggy kibble. By morning she looked much worse, because she had had to relieve herself in between freak-outs and now she was covered in “stuff.” The poor thing! She had no idea why I was doing this to her, this seemingly random cruelty. She had no way of understanding that this temporary trial would save the lives of her kittens.

By early afternoon that next day, the kittens were plenty hungry enough that they came romping to a bowl of milk as I called. I took them and the milk into the house and quickly set about securing the barricade. Now I had to deal with cat kaka before I restored Muppet to her family.

I gathered mild shampoo, a big pot of warm water with a dipper, and towels out on the back deck where everything could be hosed down later. Muppet, when I released her from the kennel, was no longer half wild; she was full-on feral. She is not a cat you would ever try to shampoo at the best of times; now I was adding insult to injury and indignity.

As I knew it would be necessary, I caught her by the scruff of the neck. And then I began lathering. There were four sets of claws going in all directions and she looked like she was going to turn herself inside out. “I’m sorry, kitty, I’m sorry,” I kept saying.

Two or three lathers and rinses later, I figured I’d got her as clean as I could. Her belly had been difficult to get at, though, with all those flailing claws. I was also concerned that there would be shampoo remaining deep down in her coat. It might be irritating, and it sure would not be good for her as she groomed herself.

Again, I saw only one solution. I picked her up, avoiding the claws, carried her to the pond, and threw her in. Just as I knew she would be, she was back out in a split second. Not nearly enough time for a good rinse. She ran a few metres, shook hard to expel the majority of the water, and crouched there, looking confused and miserable. She didn’t try to run; she held still as I came up and ruffled all her fur to stir up any deep-down soap. I threw her in again, scrubbed her coat again with my hands, and threw her in again, apologizing in a soft voice all the while.

Then I gathered her into a big towel and held her while I rubbed her coat half dry, and then I set her down to find a warm place in the sun while I went off to get her kittens.

Once I had finished cleaning things up, I sat down in the love-seat on the deck just to have a little rest. Now, the cats absolutely know that they are not allowed on the deck furniture, and although they will sneak up there when no one is around, they would not dream of jumping up when we are right there. Neither is Muppet, as I indicated earlier, one to come and offer affection.

But this dear little cat saw me sitting there; she came up on the deck and jumped right up beside me, lay down with her chin on my leg, and began to purr as loudly as her little body could manage. In the purring, I heard her saying, “I love you anyway. I have no idea why you did what you did to me, but I trust you. And I won’t hold it against you.”

And then I heard God in my heart quoting Job’s words, “Though he slay me, yet will I trust Him.”