Lessons From Little (So They Thought) Lions

Since I talked about puppies yesterday, ’tis only fair I discuss kitties today. As opposed to cougars, of which I’ve met a few over the years. But I digress.

Although currently cat-less, for many years home was home to two felines named Max and Rambo. I’ll start with Max, since she was the first to arrive. Yes, she. We got her at a mall pet store for free with the purchase of a litter pan, at the time being told this scrawny orange thing (orange she stayed, scrawny anything but) was a boy. Hence the name Max, after Max Headroom which should tell you when this all began. However, we discovered on the way to Max’s first vet visit she had undergone a sex change operation. What to do name-wise? I wasn’t all that keen on Maxine, so it became Maxwella. We always called her Max, though. Or, for the first few months of her tenure with us, Maxstopit. Bit of a hellion, that one.

After said few months, Max’s persona rapidly morphed from one suitable to star in the kung fu epic Flying Paws Of Destruction to Her Most Serene Self-Satisfied And Basically Stuck Up Queen Of The Universe. She would spend her days lounging in sunbeams while striking suitable poses, her favorite being with her front paws crossed, and give you the squint of superiority. One time I swear she even managed a sneer. Max would, however, occasionally break out of character and do something most unusual: play fetch. With a ball. We’d toss a sponge rubber ball up the stairs, Max would chase it at top speed, snag it in her mouth, and trot back downstairs where she’d drop the ball in front of us so we could repeat the exercise.

And then came Rambo.

We inherited Rambo from Mrs. Dude’s niece, who for some reason thought keeping a cat whose primary outlet for entertainment was jumping off the back of the couch and onto the tops of her then small children’s heads wasn’t the best of plans. At the time he was named Ralphie, but one look at his large muscular build coupled with his propensity for action and it became apparent no name but Rambo would do. That said, as we very quickly learned after bringing him home Rambo had obviously missed his target when doing his couch leaping thing and had hit himself on the head a few dozen times too often. Which come to think of it was rather Ramboesque.

Rambo’s main occupation was wandering through the house trying to figure out where he was. He did have at least two areas memorized: the kitchen, to which he would graciously lead you in case you had forgotten its location along with how food was located therein, and the downstairs bathroom which housed the litter boxes. Rambo would unfailingly thank you for every litter box cleaning session by christening the box within three minutes after you were done scooping, then walk into the living room proudly announcing how since you obviously had such great fun cleaning you could do it again. And again. And again. Were it not for the pudge around his middle I’d suspect the cat never metabolized anything he ate. Which was anything and everything available. Finicky eater? Yeahright.

Max and Rambo got along like brother and sister. In other words, they fought a lot. Or at least that’s what they called it. A great show would be made, but in terms of actually doing anything to each other there was more authentic combat in an evening of WWE than they put together in a month’s worth of rowr hiss spit hey let’s go eat.

It’s said that animals can sense pending natural occurances such as earthquakes, this known by their strange behavior prior to the event. I can testify from firsthand experience this is true. The day of the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989 I should have know prior to 5:04 PM something was about to happen as both Max and Rambo were behaving like normal cats. When the quake hit both madly dashed around the house. The moment the shaking stopped Max hid under a chair and refused to come out for several hours. Rambo looked around, tried to recall what had just happened, quickly abandoned the effort and resumed his wandering.

They’ve both been gone for several years now. Still miss ‘em like crazy.

Here’s what they taught me.

Max reminds me of how so many times I put on airs of importance or position or power or whatever that have no foundation in reality. You never could have convinced Max she came from a pet shop for free with the purchase of a litter pan and not, at bare minimum, Buckingham Palace. There have been times you’ve have been hardpressed to convince me I was something other than a sinner saved by Christ’s shed blood on the cross. Yet there I am.

Rambo reminds me how much I rely on God for protection in this world. Namely, completely. The thought of that scatterbrained feline with four left feet trying to make it on his own as a predator… please. Yet he lived a life of safety, security and comfort, in return for which he provided uncountable moments of entertainment and not a few when he’d snuggle, look at you with his big eyes and say who are you again. You couldn’t help but love him unconditionally.

Just like how we’re loved.

It’s a good feeling to know.