God Drives a Tow Truck Read Free

of Frisky, thinking it was unique. The brown tabby kitten was my joy and delight.
    He grew to be an enormous cat, and an accomplished bird tormentor. One of his favorite activities was sitting on the roof, taunting the Blue Jays. He prowled near their nests, from the porch roof just outside my bedroom window. He stalked them, the tip of his tail twitching. When they noticed him, he froze and watched them, his tail thrashing more violently. Then he rumbled with a deep throated, “Meow!” and the Blue Jays flashed into the air and swooped at him. Driven to blue rage, they overcame their caution, and screeched at him, repeatedly dive bombing. Frisky retreated, beneath the slim overhang, and then stalked again, once the birds returned to their nests. When the Blue Jays became so incensed that their attacks were too persistent, too vigorous an onslaught, he yowled and scratched at my bedroom window. The screens had rips and small claw holes all over them. Laughing, I opened the window and he catapulted into the house. The Blue Jays cawed and continued their angry assaults until I slammed the window shut again. Then he lay at my feet, complacently cleaning his paws, as though he had not sacrificed a shred of dignity in the battle with the birds. I loved that cat.
    Unbeknownst to me, my father was suffering greatly from Frisky. He had known he was allergic to cats when he agreed to let me keep Frisky, but had hoped that by limiting his contact with the cat, all would be well. However, he developed increasingly severe asthma, courtesy of Frisky. Seeing how much I loved the cat, he never told me, and I never knew how much he suffered until years later, after Frisky was gone. As a parent myself now, I realize children never really understand the depth of a parent’s love. The best we can do oftentimes is pay it forward.
    I guess my dad felt that his suffering was worth what Frisky brought to me. A shy and insecure child, my best friend was my cat. Like many quiet, introverted children, my tender psyche was preserved by the loving, unconditional presence of an animal. A dog probably would have been better, since Frisky was somewhat aloof, as many cats tend to be. He did not tolerate my hugs well, and my hands were tattooed with bleeding scratches. However, he was the pet I had longed for, and I loved him fiercely.
    When our family moved from Tennessee to Illinois, we kept Frisky inside the first night in the new home. We’d been told the more time he had to spread his scent in the new surroundings, the more likely he would be to know and adjust to the new home. He would have been safer if we could have convinced him to be an indoor cat, but Frisky was miserable. He stood at the door, yowling and complaining. He wanted to chase birds, and roll in the grass. By the next morning, he was inconsolable, scratching at the door, begging to go out. We reluctantly opened the door and he shot out into the world he loved.
    “Don’t get lost!” I called, “Stay near!”
    I watched his striped tail disappear around a corner of the house and he was gone, exploring his new territory.
    While he was still out, it began to rain. The drizzle became a torrent. I opened the door and called his name. No soggy cat came rushing into the warm house. By nightfall, he still had not returned. Had the rain washed away his scent, the reliable GPS for a cat? My mom and I drove around the streets, with the car windows rolled down, rain spattering our arms. I plaintively called his name over and over, but we didn’t find him.
    “He’ll be back in the morning,” Mom said hopefully.
    The next day he had still not returned. I was inconsolable. For three days, we drove around our new neighborhood, up and down each street, repeatedly crying his name. No sign of him. He had never stayed away more than one evening. My tender, lonely, young heart was broken.
    A week after Frisky had disappeared, I once again cried myself to sleep. In the early morning, I had a dream.