I’ve been adopted.
A little homeless kitty has taken to darting around our house, in and out of the bushes and, one memorable time, parading back and forth in the long window box outside the porch. I was sitting on the porch reading when a gray tail waved at me – the rest of her was hidden in the petunias that then graced the window box. They (the petunias) have since curled up their toes and died. I replaced them with lovely pink and white flowers that will never die, nor will they ever need watering or a gardener’s touch. Which God left out of me. So not my fault.
But I digress (that’s allowed when it’s your own column). The kitty is very shy. I refuse to call her a feral cat because I think that sounds evil. And she isn’t evil at all – just untamed.
I don’t know if she’s a boy or girl – I haven’t gotten close enough to ask. Nevertheless, I have named her St. Francis. Even if she’s a girl, she’s St. Francis with an “i” because that’s how St. Francis of Assisi spelled his name. I have his statue in our yard beside the bird bath. He’s holding a fawn and has a cat, dog, squirrel, and rabbit at his feet. He and I have a special bond because I was born on his feast day. If you don’t know what a saint’s feast day is, don’t worry – no need to know because that’s not what I’m writing about.
What I’m writing about is little St. Francis the Kitty. I set out a food and water bowl on our open side porch for her. I wrote her name on it so other wandering animals will know it’s hers, not theirs.
I haven’t told Ivy Scarlett, my German Shepherd/Husky mix, about St. Francis. Ivy’s feelings might be hurt if she thought I was paying attention to anyone but her. I know my faithful readers, a cast of thousands no doubt, won’t tell her, either.
St. Francis comes up on the porch to eat only when she’s sure no one is around. I once startled her by opening the door and she turned and gave me a frightened look before vanishing. That look was all it took for her to steal my heart – she has the most beautiful sapphire-blue eyes and a sweet little face. I’ve never seen a real sapphire but I’m sure if I had one, it would match St. Francis’ eyes exactly.
So goes the tale of our newest family (sort of) member. I resisted spelling that “tail” because a pun is the lowest form of wit. Or so they say. I secretly love puns.
I just won’t tell anyone.
Ivy and St. Francis won’t tell, either.