It was the perfect rescue story. We found a stray cat nearby, looking dirty, hungry, scared, and overall pretty pathetic. We didn’t want to commit to another indoor cat, but we figured she could be an outdoor cat if she so chose. So we took her home, fed her, brushed the burrs out of her fur, and the kids gave her lots of love. They made a little bed for her inside a box, and she curled up in it rather cozily to spend the night. The next morning we couldn’t find her right away, so the kids went looking for her. They found her in a hole the dogs had dug in the backyard. This hole goes underneath the patio, and the dogs slide under there to stay cool in the hot Texas sun. We tried coaxing the cat out, to no avail. We bribed her with food. Nothing. So my oldest son volunteered to slither down as far as he could to reach her. I had visions of him pulling her to safety while she purred gratefully, glad to have been rescued. Only it didn’t work out that way at all.
I’m not exactly sure when I lost my sanity. It was a gradual process, I think, but somewhere over the last decade I managed to completely lose my senses. We have five children, a homeschooling schedule to keep up, a house that is never clean, and a dog who will probably never be completely trained. Yet despite all this, we took in another puppy this weekend. A mutt. Emaciated, shivering, and scared. For all we knew, the thing had fleas. So what in the world would possess us to take in a stray under such circumstances? The answer is quite simple, actually. He needed us.