Cat on the Scent

            He’d finished his sermon for Sunday and since this was Tuesday he felt on top of the world. True, his desk contained four mountains of neatly ordered paperwork but a man couldn’t work around the clock. Even the Good Lord rested on the seventh day. And the afternoon, balmy and warm, enticed him from the grind of paperwork. He got his fishing rod and went outside.

            Usually Herb parked the church’s 1987 white Chevy truck on the corner to let people know he was at church. Since he received many calls to pick up this and drop off that for a parishioner in need, it was also useful for the truck to sit ready, keys in the ignition. However, at the moment the Chevy had a flat left-front tire, which irritated him no end because he’d endured a flat just last year on the right front and had replaced both front tires. He had parked the Chevy in the brick garage behind the office until he could fix it. Lovely winding brick paths meandered from the church to the garage, formerly the stable, and to his graceful residence, a subdued classic in flemish bond.

            The tail of the Chevy poked out from the garage. His Buick Roadmaster was parked next to the old truck.

            “I’ll stand here and cast at the taillight,” he told himself.

            Lucy Fur watched her human with detached amusement. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter were visiting from the post office. The animal door that Harry had installed there was a godsend because the animals didn’t have to lurk by the front door waiting for a person to open it. All too often the human would close the door fast or step on them, because humans lacked a sharp sense of how much space they took up or how much other creatures needed. They were always bumping into things, stepping on tails, or tripping over their own feet. With the animal door at the rear of the old frame building the creatures could come and go at will. The cats especially enjoyed prowling the neighborhood to visit other cats.

            Lucy Fur, a gorgeous young Maine coon cat, had walked into Herb’s life one stormy night. He kept her because Elocution was getting on in years and he thought a younger companion would do her good. At first Elocution had hissed and spit. That lasted two weeks. Then she tried the deep freeze. Every time the kitten would walk by she’d turn her back. After a month she accepted Lucy Fur, teaching her the duties of a preacher’s cat. The first, for any cat, is to catch mice. However, there were communion wafers to count, vestments to inspect, sermons to read, parishioners to comfort, and a variety of functions to attend.

            Both cats excelled as fund-raisers, mingling with the crowd and encouraging generosity with both checkbooks and food.

            The three cats sat abreast in the deep window ledge of the house. Sunlight like golden butter drenched their shiny fur. They watched Herb wryly.

            Herb put his right foot back as he lifted his right arm. He wiggled a minute, then cast toward a taillight. He’d done better.

            “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, reeling his line, a tiny lead weight dangling on the end, his hand-tied fly, white and speckled black, slightly above it.

            “Is this some Christian ritual?” Pewter asked.

            “Not the way he does it.” Lucy Fur giggled.

            Again, the gentle reverend cocked his wrist, placed his feet in the correct position, and softly flicked his line out. This cast was worse than the first one.

            “Hell’s bells.” His voice rose.

            “Might prayer help?” Mrs. Murphy dryly noted.

            “As far as I know there is no prayer specific to fishing.” Lucy Fur’s opinion was an informed one. She studied her texts.

            “What about Jesus talking to the men casting their nets?” Mrs. Murphy suggested.

            “Luke 5, Verses I through 11. It’s the story where the men fished all night, came up empty, and Jesus told them to go out and throw their nets. They caught so many fish their ships began to sink. And that’s when Simon Peter joined Jesus. He was one of the fishermen.”

            Impressed, Murphy gasped, “You should talk to Mrs. Hogendobber. She’d have a fit and fall in it!”

            “Oh,” Lucy Fur airily replied, “she wouldn’t listen. You know she believes in this charismatic stuff. She ought to submit to the rigor of the Lutheran catechism. I don’t believe you sit around waiting until the spirit moves you.”