JCK-at-large SITE

We had a stray cat on the property which was starting to make herself at home.  Emelda would throw a few scraps out the kitchen door in the mornings, which probably helped.  Next came a smattering of kibbles.  No wonder this beautifully marked creature — grey and white stripes with a dash of slate, eyes of palest blue — was not going anywhere.

But the cat was becoming a nuisance and I was looking for an opportunity to help her move along before we had a litter.

“I cannot have cats,” said Simon, out at the campus, when I offered him a feline friend.  “I am a pastor.”

A pastor?  What did that have to do with anything?  I learned that In Zambia, cats are associated with witchcraft.  And they are generally not kept around Christian homes.  All the more reason for a timely eviction. 

The cat had taken to waiting outside the door like an escort in the mornings.  Then she would rub up against your ankles with a loud purr — goodness, a purr so loud you thought you might be trolling the Trent with a small Evinrude! And did she want attention!  Try to walk to the gate, this cat would be constantly cutting you off with her loud purr, rubbing up against your ankles.  She wanted kibbles, of course.  But beyond that, she seemed to relish human contact.  No doubt our friend Anastasia and her animal-loving daughters could have domesticated this cat and turned her into a house pet.  But I found she had a skittish streak.  Try to stroke her and she would duck and move away.  

I was about to learn that a strong purr can be deceiving.  Underneath that soft exterior and contented purr lay something like Simon’s witch.

I thought of various measures to get rid of the cat, some of which involved a shovel.  But why not be civilised, I said, just gather the cat up and drive her out to the SPCA for the next phase of her journey?  Our SPCA had been established by an eccentric Scottish lady in the nineties who must have had thirty cats in her reception area when you dropped in.  It was now a busy menagerie of creatures great and small, plus a full-fledged veterinary clinic, always busy with company guard dogs and family pets which were brought out for the ‘Tick Dip’.  Then there were the village dogs which had been picked up here and there, dropped off — to be ‘dispatched’ on demand. 

I decided to go it alone.  Just in from a morning constitutional around the neighbourhood, I was up to the challenge. I sprinkled some kibbles in a dish and made my plan.  I would pick up the creature with its food dish, tuck it under my arm, and carry both to the wide open canopy of the truck.  Then we would be off.

Everything went well at the start, the cat purring away like an idling engine as it fell to with the morning kibbles.  I closed in, scooped up cat and dish, and made for the truck.  Little did I know that for this cat, a human hand under the belly was like the claw of a ferruginous hawk!  

She went rigid.  The purr turned into a loud screech which must have awakened the neighbourhood.  She began to scratch and claw in all directions, swivelling her head to get some fangs into my hands.  I dropped the dish, and ran toward the waiting truck, strengthening my grip on that flailing mass of sinew as I held it out at arms length.  She was still scratching and screeching, and I had a bloodied hand, when I pitched her into the back of the truck and slammed the canopy shut.  So much for that affectionate purr!  This was still a wild cat.

“You’ll have to be careful getting her out,” I said to Fremont, out at the SPCA.  “That cat is very unhappy.”

“Don’t worry.”  He jumped in the back of the canopy with his gloved hands, and somehow found a way to get the cat into a small cage.  

But no sooner was he back on the ground when the wild thing broke out of the cage and went running down the road — a miniature cheetah in full flight!  Somebody cut her off at the pass, she charged back into the SPCA — and the gate was slammed behind her!  One unceremonious farewell.

Nursing my wounds, I checked into the Company Clinic.  I would need a consultation with Dr. Chisela, no doubt a tetanus shot and maybe some anti-rabies.  Agatha at reception heard my story with a sympathetic smile.  Then she and her assistant burst out laughing. Not a lot of commiseration here.

“Better you just use sticks and stones!” she said.  More laughter.  “That’s what we do with cats!” 

Dr. Chisela prescribed two anti-rabies shots, two days apart, one tetanus.  Add the four-hundred kwacha fee for consultation — this cat removal operation was going to cost me a total of eleven-hundred kwacha all in!  Something to be said for sticks and stones! 

But was it worth it?  Oh the pure delight of a single morning, walking into the gardens without that constant purr machine at your ankles, always looking for contact, always trying to trip you up.  Simon had mentioned witchcraft. I even wondered if someone had thrown that cat over our wall carrying some kind of hex.

Whatever, you certainly can’t tell a cat by its purr, this I now knew beyond doubt.  Or by its beautiful soft fur.  A wild cat is still a wild cat.  Before you pick it up, make sure it has been domesticated: a feline vaccine, a regular booster — maybe a round of sedatives.  

These ones are like the “wolves in sheep’s clothing” in our Lord’s startling analogy: “False prophets… they come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly they are ravenous wolves” (Mt7). Soft and furry, almost sweet companions, who wouldn’t want them around? But “don’t expect to gather figs from such thistles,” we read as the image changes. “By their fruit you shall know them”  (Mt7). Sham imposters, posing like the wisdom of the ages as they perch outside your door — they may convey a lot of concern for the good of humankind, but handle with care! You’ve been warned.

Nor should there be the slightest delay!  Alas, great king Solomon had a virtual herd of wild cats on his royal property — and failed to serve notice. He let them hang around and by the time they took over, they had the great king worshiping demons!

“King Solomon, however, loved many foreign women besides Pharaoh’s daughter— Moabites, Ammonites, Edomites, Sidonians and Hittites. …and his wives led him astray. As Solomon grew old, his wives turned his heart after other gods… Ashtoreth the goddess of the Sidonians, and Molech the detestable god of the Ammonites” (I Kg 11). 

Much later, we find Nehemiah working among the ruins of Solomon’s empire.  He recalls the sad story: “God dearly loved King Solomon of Israel and made him the greatest king on earth, but his foreign wives led him into sin” (Neh 13). 

We look in vain for signs of Solomon’s recovery from the witchcraft.  All we hear is the lament of a battered old, once great king, nursing his own wounds: “I discovered more bitter than death the woman whose heart is snares and nets, whose hands are chains. One who is pleasing to God will escape from her” (Ecc 7:26).  

As our Simon would have it, there are “witches” in disguise out there!  We cannot keep them around.  Or in the words of Agatha, our wise and ever-cheerful receptionist: “Better you just use sticks and stones!”