The other morning, when I walked into the kitchen to get breakfast, I noticed the cat sitting by his food and water dishes. His water dish was low. There was still water in it, but he's finicky, as most cats, and I looked at him and he looked up at me and I said, "I know what you need."
I filled his dish and seconds later he was lapping at the water.
Sometimes it's that easy. But a lot of the time it isn't, not for our pets, not for our children, not for ourselves. We don't know what we need. Only God does.
It was less windy this morning as I walked around Hope, but still breezy enough that the pine trees creaked as they swayed in the wind. There were few animals about and here and there I saw the damage that yesterday's wind had caused, a tree limb snapped off at the base, large pieces of bark from the palm trees, looking like the bleached hip bones of some long ago dinosaur.
The only animal I saw was this red squirrel, sitting on this branch. It's a popular branch for squirrels, a regular hangout. He was so still though that I had to zoom in tight to make sure he was real and alive. I watched his little belly move in and out as he breathed.
And I ached inside because this morning I had taken my cat to the emergency vet when he became so sick and so agitated and so clearly in pain that I could not bear to see him suffering.
As I write this, I am home and he is still at the hospital. He was severely dehydrated and so "aggressive" they had to sedate him. I hated that they called him "aggressive." Aggressive implies anger or ill will. He's just scared I kept telling them.
There is a very fine line between anger and fear, though, for all of God's creatures.
I wonder if the wildlife at Hope was afraid yesterday during the wind, during the time when trees were cracking. I wonder how long before they come back. Because in the end, home is home, and even when we are broken or sick or scared, there is no greater cure than home. Wounds heal.
Today will be a long day. And then I will go and bring my cat home.
I filled his dish and seconds later he was lapping at the water.
Sometimes it's that easy. But a lot of the time it isn't, not for our pets, not for our children, not for ourselves. We don't know what we need. Only God does.
It was less windy this morning as I walked around Hope, but still breezy enough that the pine trees creaked as they swayed in the wind. There were few animals about and here and there I saw the damage that yesterday's wind had caused, a tree limb snapped off at the base, large pieces of bark from the palm trees, looking like the bleached hip bones of some long ago dinosaur.
The only animal I saw was this red squirrel, sitting on this branch. It's a popular branch for squirrels, a regular hangout. He was so still though that I had to zoom in tight to make sure he was real and alive. I watched his little belly move in and out as he breathed.
And I ached inside because this morning I had taken my cat to the emergency vet when he became so sick and so agitated and so clearly in pain that I could not bear to see him suffering.
As I write this, I am home and he is still at the hospital. He was severely dehydrated and so "aggressive" they had to sedate him. I hated that they called him "aggressive." Aggressive implies anger or ill will. He's just scared I kept telling them.
There is a very fine line between anger and fear, though, for all of God's creatures.
I wonder if the wildlife at Hope was afraid yesterday during the wind, during the time when trees were cracking. I wonder how long before they come back. Because in the end, home is home, and even when we are broken or sick or scared, there is no greater cure than home. Wounds heal.
Today will be a long day. And then I will go and bring my cat home.
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