My First Cat

Back in the days when goldfish were the only form of pet I knew, I was content to spend my days staring into a fishbowl, coming back every hour on the hour to feed the fish, lest it go hungry. I don’t remember the day that I realized there were bigger and better things in this world… the day that I discovered cats. But once I got the idea in my head, I didn’t let my parents forget it for one minute. One morning in particular, I woke up determined it would be the day I would get my new pet. For a complete ten minutes on the way to church, I whined and begged and pleaded from the backseat for a cat.

“Please, Daddy, PLEASE. You don’t understand. I neeeeeeeeeed a cat. PLEASE, Daddy. We HAVE to get a cat. But I am your ONLY kid. I am your little girl. I want a cat. I NEED IT DADDY!”

Though he tried to remain firm and in charge, I could feel him giving in as I wrapped myself tighter and tighter around his little finger. Exasperated, he said, “Fine. If you want a cat that bad, pray for it. If God wants you to have a cat, you will get a cat.” Excitedly, I assumed this meant that if I prayed for a cat in Sunday school then we would go to the pet store the next day. Well that didn’t exactly happen, but I sure wasn’t expecting what came next.

One bright sunny morning just three days later, I walked outside, ready to leave for Mrs. Brenda’s daycare. I opened the car door and out from under it crawled a limping, but otherwise healthy, white, thick haired cat. It was beautiful and I could not believe my eyes. I’d never been so close to a real live cat before, just seen them on Aristocats and heard the stories my friends had told me. I bent down and extended my hand towards it and bravely it let me pet it for a long time. When my dad came out and saw the cat, he looked a little surprised, but then again not really. I always thought him and God might have also had a talk in Sunday school.

Over the next week, the cat continued to come back. Every day, I would pet him, brush him with my baby doll brushes, and give him milk in a bowl and any extra food my four year old hands could come across. And every night I would pray that he would be there again when I woke up. I also would consistently ask my dad if we could keep him, to which he always replied, “Maybe if he stays a couple more days. We don’t know who he belongs to, but he’s not ours.”

After several more days, I was thoroughly convinced that the cat was not leaving. And much to my father’s dismay, I could tell he was too. So one morning, for the millionth time I asked if we could keep the cat, and for the first time my dad said, “Yes.” I named him Colby, after the cute boy who sat across from me at snack time.

-Katy