Pat and Mike

the orange tabbies

AT HEIGHT of SUMMER
I’d go to Grammie Bess’
for a week
to the house
where my father grew up
.

to the wisteria-covered front porch
and the heavy door with a bell you turn to make ring,
behind which
two orange tabby cats –
Pat and Mike –
greeted.

Mike I petted.
He was easy to love.

But Pat, leery of people
ever since being hit
by a trash bin
tossed by a garbage man
after it was emptied,
and prone to turn on
those who
brushed against his tender spot,
often went wanting,
as so many with tender spots do.

I tried to pet Mike
when Pat was not looking,
so his feelings weren’t hurt.

Later,
braver,
I learned
the sore spot was on Pat’s back
and that petting his head was a safe bet.

Ministry to the wounded
so often has to do with
going back after being scratched
and finding the approach that is less threatening.

Such big thoughts
stemming for the memory of two cats!
(I was not even thinking about them when I began the post.)

maybe tomorrow I’ll get back to what I HAD planned on writing about

About Marilyn

Reading, thinking, listening, writing and talking about faith, creativity, ESL for refugees, grief and finding the story in a story. Student of Spanish. Foe of procrastination. Cheez-it fan. People person with hermit tendencies or vice-versa. Thank you so much for reading.
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2 Responses to Pat and Mike

  1. Fern says:

    That was sweet–and so true.

    Like

  2. laura says:

    I think I love Pat and Mike.

    Like

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