This is a story about a cat who sinned at Catholic school and remained unrepentant until he traveled home with my father. ‘Tis only after my grandmother poured holy water on his head that he so changed, that the cat found himself acting like a holy cat the rest of his days…
There was a time in this world when many a boy would pack his books in his trombone case and walk the mile or so to school, all the well knowing that an irritable woman dressed in a penguin-black outfit was waiting for his unrepentant soul…to thrash the living daylights out of him. Forget about the priests, they were too busy genuflecting…or vacuuming up the broken body of Jesus, who lay waiting on the sanctuary floor. ‘Twas the nuns one worried about, those frustrated globular women who looked like they’d all been baptized in a vat of ugly. Oh yes, of course, an occasional Sister Mary Margaret found her way into your heart, but for the most part, the nuns of Purgatory Place…or Saint Patrick’s…dispensed with discipline in the same manner as the Spanish inquisition. But I digress…
For this story is really about my father and the family cat. The latter set out, with much malice, to detain my father on his way to school. It had a habit of attempting to sidetrack him into the woods…or into town…well, generally, into trouble. And, as cats often do, it followed him into the school building on more than one occasion. Which is just where the cat played as my father found his seat in the classroom. Although played may not be the proper word, for the family cat had other ideas. Which is not a good thing when you are in a school where other boys and girls walk to school accompanied by their family cats. Especially when nuns are present…
For the nuns in those days did not, in fact, cater to cats. No, one might say they were quite ruffled with the idea. It was one thing to discipline children, another to corral a wayward cat. To make matters worse, the family cat left a present in the hallway…then disappeared into a room with another cat where it proceeded to do what cats do best- hiss, claw, and fight. The astonished nun appeared in the doorway just in time to nab the family cat, grab it by the neck and hurl it out of the room. By now the whole of Christendom…I mean the classrooms on that floor…followed my father into the hallway…as one startled cat fought with the nun and the family cat ran quickly through the crowd of curious schoolchildren, down the old gray steps and down the block…
After school my father walked home, into the house, and slammed the screen door. The family cat just sat on the floor staring up at him. When my grandmother walked into the room, she brought the fruit jar of holy water. She unscrewed the lid and poured a generous dose of the blessed stuff onto the cat’s head…as the cat just sat there. My father says that the cat was never the same after that- it never returned to school, never got into fights, and never made cross remarks…hissing sounds…to anyone…even the nuns. And that’s the story of how my father’s family cat became a holy cat and lived many years in peace and harmony with all the world…well, where my father could see….
something poetic 