MISTER MORRIS
Jane opened the squeaky screen door and called, “Here! Missy, Missy, Missy! Come to Mummy!” She set a saucer of milk on the backdoor step. A sleek grey cat stretched, mewed, ambled over and hunkered down contentedly on her haunches to lap up the expected treat.
“Where’ve you been all night, my little kittikins,”chided Jane. “Did you find a tasty vole?”
The cat slipped into the house between Jane’s legs. Noticing movement in the bushes at the end of her yard, Jane saw a ginger cat.
“Oh! And who might you be?” questioned Jane. “I haven’t seen you before. You’d better go home to whoever you belong to.”
The ginger cat jogged determinedly up to the doorstep on pure white paws. He licked up the rest of Missy’s milk and rubbed against Jane’s leg. Jane bent to pet the orange fur on his head and drew back.
“Oh, you silly cat! You’ve been fighting! Let me take a look at that mess on your head.”
Jane bathed the abscess with warm water and boracic acid powder. The cat tried to jump down but Jane took him firmly by the scruff of the neck. Unable to move from Jane’s grasp, he submitted as the old woman cleansed the wound. Water dribbled down the cat’s fur and he squirmed.
“There now, my lovely,” she soothed, “nearly done, just a few more rinses, there’s a good boy,” The cat finally scrunched down low and tolerated the ordeal.
She released her grip; the cat jumped down, shook himself vigorously and went behind the sofa to lick the water off his fur.
“Let’s see what we’ve got,” she muttered, to herself. She opened a can of Missy’s ‘Tuna
Delight’ and set it down for the new arrival. Eagerly, he devoured the chunks and skidded the tin around the kitchen floor as he licked it clean. He washed his paws, wiped his mouth and whiskers with them, went to the back door and mewed.
“Well,” said Jane. “Nice to see you, Mister! Now, off you go and don’t get into any more trouble!
About a week later, the stray cat returned.
“Oh, you came back, did you? How’s that sore?” She parted the fur on his head and noticed a scar had formed. But a new gash, oozing yellow pus was evident on the cat’s shoulder.
Again, she took him in, tended to his injury, and fed him.
The orange cat became a frequent patient. Each time, Jane nursed his gashes and abscesses. Missy hissed at him sometimes, but mostly they ignored each other.
“You need a name, Mister,” Jane chattered. “You look like Morris to me. Mister Morris. Yes, that’s a good name for you, my prize fighter. Get along, now Mister Morris, and don’t get into any more fights! Do you hear?”
But Mister Morris’ nature did not change.
One frosty morning, as Jane was bathing another gash, she said, “Enough! This is going to be the very last time we go through all this palaver!”
A few minutes later, when Mister Morris had retreated from Jane’s grasp and was furiously licking his wet orange fur back into shape, Jane was talking on the phone.
“Tomorrow morning? Yes. Nine o’ clock will be fine. What’s the cost?”
“Harrumph!” she said and plunked the receiver into its cradle.
From a box in her top desk drawer she pulled out half a dozen twenty dollar bills and put them in her purse.
Jane let Missy out that day, but kept the ginger cat indoors until the next morning.
Next day she put him into her shopping buggy, zippered up the top and wheeled him down the street. Mister Morris protested, but he was powerless. He squatted down, mewed and shed fur all the way to the vet.
His post-operative recovery was swift. Fur grew back to cover the bald patches making him look sleek and healthy.
Some time later, Jane was returning home from shopping, her buggy full of groceries and cat food. Three blocks from home she stopped. A woman was cradling a cat in her arms. It was a ginger cat with pure white paws.
“Is that your cat?” asked Jane.
“Oh, yes. This is my little Bootsie!”
The woman nuzzled her nose into the cat’s fur. “You’re my little Cutesie Bootsie, aren’t you, my love?”
Jane leaned over and stared into the cat’s eyes.
“You know,” said the woman, still holding ‘Bootsie’ as though she were nursing a baby. “It’s the most astonishing thing. He used to come home with nasty oozing abscesses. I didn’t know what to do! I told him what a naughty boy he was, going out at night and getting into fights, but he didn’t stop. I was at my wits end!”
Then she confided, “He’s changed now. Transformed. It’s a miracle! God heard my prayer and did a miracle on my little ‘Bootsie’!”
Jane turned to leave.
“Hmm, I suppose so,” she muttered, “nice cat you have.” She walked home, deep in thought.
Mister Morris! You’ve been two-timing! You little rascal! Maybe I should tell that woman you’re with, that I had you fixed. Nah. Let her think it was a miracle. Hmm…maybe it was a miracle…maybe God used me to answer her prayer.
by Andrea Kidd
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