Proof The Bible Is True

Six days in the hospital after open-heart surgery, and I was finally coming home. My neighbor drove me in her car up my street. A million thoughts clattered through my head. How was I going to manage? No more nurses and doctors monitoring me 24 hours a day. The stitches keeping my chest closed up caused pain if I tried to lie down. How would I get to sleep at night in an upright position? What would happen if I tripped or fell on the way to the kitchen or the bathroom?

 

Most of all, I worried about my cats, Schnookie, Ophelia and Simon. They depended on me for everything. A friend had been watching them while I was gone, but she couldn’t take care of them forever. That was my job. I’d rescued each of them over the years.

 

The first one came to me on a cold September night. I pulled into the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant, planning to grab a quick dinner. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a tiny ball of gray fur huddled near the dumpsters. I walked over and saw it was a kitten, no more than 10 weeks old, shivering. “Don’t worry,” I said softly. “I’ll take you someplace warm.” I lifted her up and zipped her into my jacket. There was no turning back. I took her home, got her treated at the vet and christened her Schnookie.

 

Read More: Cats On Call