Week Three and the Feline Fiasco

    Willie met me at the door at midnight, just as time chimed in the beginning of Week Three of my single-hearted search for wisdom. In classic Willie fashion, his shrill meows commanded: "Here I am, Momma Cat! Feed me! Pet me! I, in all my orange and cream glory, am the center of your universe!" (Note: this translation comes from two years of fervent feline study.)
    Curiously, Willie's cat companion, Waylon, wasn't by his side that night, even when I obediently spooned a can of Fancy Feast into his dinner bowl. Perhaps Waylon was hiding, plotting my punishment for breaking curfew? By midnight, my furry sidekicks and I were generally in bed, well into our nightly adventures in dreamland.
    Shedding my peacoat onto a nearby chair, I glimpsed my missing Oreo kitty, huddled in a corner underneath an end table. Kneeling by the unusually still tabby, I patted his head and whispered an apology.
    "I know it's late, but I'm drawing a bath," I yawned, grabbing a bag of Epsom salts to prepare my evening soak. It wasn't until after that soak, while towel drying the last drops of salt water from my limbs, that I noticed Waylon was still huddled in the same spot.
    Peeping underneath the end table again, I wrapped my hands underneath Waylon's arms and gently slid him from the floor and onto my lap. Waylon responded with a melancholy meow. And that's when I noticed his swollen left hind leg — and his limp.
    "Hello," answered the gruff voice of a nocturnal newsroom friend — a friend I call for many of life's emergencies. His voice softened as I tearfully explained the recent cat-astrophe. "You've got to get him to the vet, and soon," he instructed. "But try not to worry too much. And get some sleep."
    I doubt I slept more than two hours that night, cat naps at best, between checking on my crippled kitty. By daybreak, I was preparing my wounded Waylon (and myself) for the vet's office.
    "You silly kitty!" our veterinarian, Dr. Meghan, chuckled after an X-ray of Waylon's leg. "How did you break two bones?"
    Our trip to Dr. Meghan's office ended with a braced and bandaged leg. Canceling a weekend trip home, I assumed the role of Nurse Momma Cat. I doted on my dear cat as I painfully witnessed his struggle to wield himself along the paths of necessity — litter box and food dish. Waylon's broken leg rebelled against his other healthy, eager to move limbs — and his belly. Yet, in time instinct paved the way to progress, as Waylon learned to plant his paws into the carpeted floor and drag himself to the once unattainable litter box and bowl of Fancy Feast. After a few days of stellar pull-ups, Waylon's crawl graduated to a clumsy hobble. By week's end, Waylon had mastered his handicap and was, in true predator's precision, pouncing on his brother Willie (who was likely the culprit to his injury).
    Week Three's feline fiasco offered a fitting (although expensive) metaphor for this year's journey. While cold baths weren't a requisite this week, I'm clumsily crawling in this early stage of spiritual growth. But in time, and increased discipline, obedience and faith, I hope to be hobbling forward, preparing to walk my path of purpose — with inspiration from the Good Lord Above — and my four-legged friend here on earth.