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I always seem to find myself in bizarre ethical dilemmas.
There's a lean black and white cat that hangs out around our house. He? She? has been there for a few weeks now. For some unknown reason, it somehow got the idea that it belonged here.
Our next-door neighbor talked with Dave about it. She's adopted eight cats, most of them strays, I think. Her cats are freaked out by the black and white one, for reasons we're not entirely sure of. Actually, it kind of makes sense. The black and white cat is feral. It's a hunter. I've seen it go after birds, squirrels, lizards. Though technically domesticated, it hunts with a grace reminiscent of a wilder ancestor. While perhaps at one point it was someone's pet, those days appear to be over.
"Are you feeding it?" the neighbor asks Dave, looking at him suspiciously. "Because I really want it gone. I'm going to try to get animal control to come out and pick it up."
"No, we're not feeding it," Dave says truthfully. "We don't know why it's in our yard."
So, Dave repeats this conversation to me. Do not feed the black and white cat in our yard, I think to myself, making a mental note of sorts.
Some time goes by, though, and then the cat raises the stakes.
"Mew," I hear. "Mew, mew, mew, meow?" "Rrreow?" "Rrrreow?" The cat takes to coming onto our back porch, crying at the sliding glass door. If we go toward the door, slide it open, the cat takes off, running across the backyard. If we close it, a few minutes later, the cat is back. "Mew?"
Do not feed the cat, I remind myself. In the first place, L would be upset. In the second, it's not going to be good for the cat if it's hanging around here and gets picked up to be euthanized. Third, this cat is feral. Having a feral, possibly rabid cat in the backyard with two children is not a good idea.
It's a couple of days before I give in. We have some tins of Fancy Feast I once bought to give to Star as a special treat (she hated it) and so I give a some of that to the little cat. I set it out in a plastic margarine tub, go back inside. A little while later, I see that it's all been eaten, the plastic container as clean as if the food had never been there.
The cat is not friendly - is by all accounts terrified of us - but it will come to our door each morning and cry and cry until fed. Sometimes it will cry multiple times during the day for food. Mostly, I only feed it once a day. Mostly.
And I don't know if I'm doing the right thing or not. All I know is that for me, to listen to cries of hunger and try to harden my heart against them felt like the wrong choice. Morally, I felt compelled to respond. If I want the Divine to listen to my cries, to respond, to care...aren't I obligated to do the same, when a beggar lands on my doorstep?
I don't know. But I've tentatively named the cat Bhakti. Not for any personal connection, but because of the way it cries out for its needs to be met, somehow expecting someone or something to answer.
There's a lean black and white cat that hangs out around our house. He? She? has been there for a few weeks now. For some unknown reason, it somehow got the idea that it belonged here.
Our next-door neighbor talked with Dave about it. She's adopted eight cats, most of them strays, I think. Her cats are freaked out by the black and white one, for reasons we're not entirely sure of. Actually, it kind of makes sense. The black and white cat is feral. It's a hunter. I've seen it go after birds, squirrels, lizards. Though technically domesticated, it hunts with a grace reminiscent of a wilder ancestor. While perhaps at one point it was someone's pet, those days appear to be over.
"Are you feeding it?" the neighbor asks Dave, looking at him suspiciously. "Because I really want it gone. I'm going to try to get animal control to come out and pick it up."
"No, we're not feeding it," Dave says truthfully. "We don't know why it's in our yard."
So, Dave repeats this conversation to me. Do not feed the black and white cat in our yard, I think to myself, making a mental note of sorts.
Some time goes by, though, and then the cat raises the stakes.
"Mew," I hear. "Mew, mew, mew, meow?" "Rrreow?" "Rrrreow?" The cat takes to coming onto our back porch, crying at the sliding glass door. If we go toward the door, slide it open, the cat takes off, running across the backyard. If we close it, a few minutes later, the cat is back. "Mew?"
Do not feed the cat, I remind myself. In the first place, L would be upset. In the second, it's not going to be good for the cat if it's hanging around here and gets picked up to be euthanized. Third, this cat is feral. Having a feral, possibly rabid cat in the backyard with two children is not a good idea.
It's a couple of days before I give in. We have some tins of Fancy Feast I once bought to give to Star as a special treat (she hated it) and so I give a some of that to the little cat. I set it out in a plastic margarine tub, go back inside. A little while later, I see that it's all been eaten, the plastic container as clean as if the food had never been there.
The cat is not friendly - is by all accounts terrified of us - but it will come to our door each morning and cry and cry until fed. Sometimes it will cry multiple times during the day for food. Mostly, I only feed it once a day. Mostly.
And I don't know if I'm doing the right thing or not. All I know is that for me, to listen to cries of hunger and try to harden my heart against them felt like the wrong choice. Morally, I felt compelled to respond. If I want the Divine to listen to my cries, to respond, to care...aren't I obligated to do the same, when a beggar lands on my doorstep?
I don't know. But I've tentatively named the cat Bhakti. Not for any personal connection, but because of the way it cries out for its needs to be met, somehow expecting someone or something to answer.