lucy sweet
A kitty came into our lives a few weeks ago. Orange and white and just nearly the sweetest thing I’d ever met. She found me alone on a weekday and thus, vulnerable to her kitty wiles.

They do that, ya know – they seek out the weakest member of the herd and attack. And by attack, I mean cry and meow until the weakest member caves and gives them a bit of water. And food. A litter box. Maybe a toy or two. And a pillow to sleep on.

I did everything I was supposed to do, when you find a lost pet: contacted the City and our veterinarian, our groomer and the local ASPCA. I posted on lost and found sites and pled (annoyingly so, I’m sure) on Facebook. And while I did all those things, Kitty slept on our front porch. Hard. The kind of sleep that says “I’m safe” and “this is my home.”

Then one night, just as my husband and I had settled in for the night, I heard the screams of a broken cat. A cat being attacked. A cat fearing for her life.

A black and white bully, with a testimonial scar over his left eye,  interrupted the peaceful night.

I broke up the fight.

But not before Kitty was changed.

Because when violence speaks your name, you will live your life, as one who wonders when it will call again.

And I don’t know what the solution is…other than to strive, everyday, for peace.  Call your congress person. Work to change the systems that only work for some of us. Be the kind of consumer that purchases items that benefit women. Support your public servants (their job is hard). Pray. Donate to humanitarian efforts in Iraq and Gaza (if you’re looking for a good one, check out Week of Compassion; 94% of every dollar received goes to help someone in need).  Gather with a community that doesn’t look like you and be open to hearing their story. Breathe.

And maybe save a cat.

Because when violence speaks another’s name, its echo reverberates.  And I am changed.

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