Buster was just a cat, like any other, I suppose, only somehow just a little bit different. He wasn't particularly pretty nor noticeably smart, but what he was was a great big pussycat.

He had a place under the stairs where he used to sit and think, his big, lustrous hazel eyes glowing back out you out of the semidarkness. Unless you addressed him directly they stared right past you as if he were seeing something only he could detect. His eyes were clear and large, true windows to a free, generous soul, and his long, silky chocolate-brown fur, although it had never known the strokes of a brush, was delicate and clean as only a cat who takes care of himself can ever own.

Did you ever wish you could have a true family pet so you could teach your kids how to respect other creatures? Buster was the family pet for half a city block. Kids just naturally treated him well; I don't think it would have even occurred to them to be mean to him, although I had seen them be unspeakably mean to other, less fortunate animals. When Buster strolled into a crowd of rowdy kids, hands automatically reached to pet him. And the cat took it as his due, never flinching as if to avoid a blow but rubbing against first one and then another Levi'd leg and distributing his love evenly from one kid to another as if they all owned him, fed him, cared for him. Which they did, of course.

Whenever he crossed the street, cars, bicycles, roller skates, and even little old ladies stopped and waited patiently until he was clear. That's why it must have come as such a surprise to him that day when the old blue Chevrolet didn't even hesitate but spurned his struggling body and flung it, broken, into the gutter.

The woman driving the car didn't mean to hit Buster. She didn't know him, had never heard of him, and had nothing against cats. She was just in a hurry, late for supper or something and didn't notice him crossing the street he always had thought he owned and where he died. And because the woman was in a hurry she didn't take the time to stop and check on Buster; after all, he was just a cat and she was in a hurry.

But that's all right. Buster would have gladly given up his life anytime rather than make someone late for supper. And that's how it came to be that the human's treatment of a brute animal was worse than brutal, while what the cat did for the human was almost divine.

I hope G-d is a cat.

Copyright © David Yehudah
August 26, 1999