Meeting Dewey

Meet the newest member of our family: Dewey the Cat. Dewey was rescued as a tiny kitten by my brother-in-law, a veterinarian, and his staff. They found him in a field behind their public library (thus the name, for the Dewey Decimal system), covered in fleas and barely alive. What a lucky boy Dewey is! For several weeks, he was cared for as a resident cat at the State Road Animal Hospital, until at about 14 weeks, it was decided that he would become a part of our crazy, chaotic family. So last weekend, Operation Dewey Drop was implemented, whereby Dewey traveled across two state lines to become part of our distracted family.

I, my husband and our four kids knew we would love Dewey, but we were not so sure about Ruby, our lovable 8 year-old chocolate lab. For a day, we kept them separate; Ruby in her kennel while Dewey pounced all over our area rug; then Dewey, sequestered to his portable kitty tent while Ruby was released to suspiciously sniff every surface where Dewey had padded.

In the end, their ultimate meeting was quite peaceable. Sure, Dewey cowered, backing up and raising the fur high up on his back. But then he advanced, hissed, and swatted his paw squarely on Ruby's nose. Ruby got the message. Now, the two of them still sniff each other interestedly, but there is a mutual fear and respect that seems to have taken hold.

If you want to read a great true story about another Dewey the Cat, check out this book by Vicki Myron. It's one of my favorites.

You’re Late—But You’re Here

That’s what the woman said to us, during the passing of the peace time at church.

We were visiting the church—not our usual Sunday morning haunt—and got the start time confused. We tiptoed in when everyone was standing up singing, when no one—we hoped—would notice our tardiness.

But when it came time to “welcome” each other—the obligatory time in the service when we shake hands and say things like, “Good morning,” or “peace be with you!” the woman seated next to us leaned over to us and hissed, “You’re late—but you’re here.”

We blinked. I heard my husband’s sharp intake of breath before he exhaled and responded, “Well, yes. We are here.”

Sometimes we don’t get the welcome that we want. We want the open armed, face-beaming-all-over, bear hug kind of welcome. Sometimes we feel like we get to our own party a little late in life; other things have taken priority or gotten in the way of our original hopes and dreams. But eventually, in our own time, we get there, and we hardly ever get there by the smooth, obstacle-free path we planned on taking.

I felt embarrassed that morning. I didn’t particularly want to be called out for my lateness. I was well aware of it. The woman probably doesn’t even remember this brief exchange, but for me, it’s been the one thing I’ve carried with me from that Sunday morning.

Over time, memory softens things. Her words jabbed sharply that morning; now, I’ve been able to separate her words from the tone in which they were delivered.

I’m not who I said I wanted to be at this time in my life. I haven’t accomplished the things I set out to do. But I’m not done yet. I’m still trying. It’s not too late for me. I don’t have time, nor do I want to waste it, accusing myself of coming up short.

It’s late—but I’m here.