Today, Mary Magdalene offered me a cat.
I took the cat home.
Who says no to Mary Magdalene?
This Mary Magdalene is 74 and from Cuba. She runs a rescue organization called Francis Assisi Society. Not “St. Francis.” When I asked her why not, she sighed and said too many people were afraid of saints these days.
Carlita is a 10-week-old tortoiseshell calico, dipped in blacks and golds. She has inky paws and a face split between light and dark, like mine. She purrs like a furnace and I am afraid I will crush her if I roll over tonight.
I know nothing about cats, but being a Catholic schoolgirl, I know not to look a gift cat in the mouth from a Cuban saint. I don’t know why God wants me to have little Lita, and I hope Nina does not eat her (Eli only wishes to kiss her endlessly).
In short, I am terrified, and wondering if I have made my life even more complicated than it was 24 hours ago. What do I know of litter boxes, of cat toys?
And yet, she is curled up here on my bed with me right now, absolutely perfectly tiny, ribs poking through skin. She almost died of dysentery, Mary Magdalene told me with tears in her eyes, and she nursed her back to health.
Mary Magdalene felt certain Carlita needed to come home with me and the girls. And for some reason unknown even to myself, I said yes. I said yes.
Maybe nothing is perfect, maybe nothing is planned, maybe we can set down food and water and litter boxes for each other in this life, a feathery cat dancer or two, and simply let go of control. Maybe it will all be fine, however it is fine.
I feel like Lita has a lot to teach me—about taking in, while letting go at the same time.
Meow. I seem to have become, in the span of 12 hours, a cat person.
One more mouth to feed.
Perhaps insane. But perhaps some higher force at work. Signs have been pointing to CAT CAT CAT for months. Say a little prayer, would you, that the dog-cat introductions go more smoothly each day?
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