Allow me to back up a few days.
Last week we held a funeral service for Bob's dad, Pete, who passed after a long decline in health. Bob and his brother Todd gave tearful yet uplifting speeches, and one thing that really stuck with me is what the pastor said.
"For 66 of his years on earth, Pete lived for himself. These last three years, he lived his life for others".
Let me be clear, Pete was never unkind to me, and I am in no way trying to tarnish anyone's memory of him. He had many friends and family, and he did help them out when needed. But, he did so when it was convenient for him and in whatever way he deemed best. For many (many) years, he chose to keep himself separate of close emotional bonds with Bob, and to a far greater extent, Todd.
But the last few years of his life, even as he suffered from the physical frustrations and limitations caused by his illnesses, Pete found a better way. He started attending church, he had long conversations with his pastor, he welcomed God's love. And over the last few years of his life I saw him smile from the heart as he strengthened his relationship with Bob, and built a new one with Todd. He engaged with his grandchildren, Cearra, Hannah, and Owen, with a new sense of joy and acceptance. It wasn't always an easy time, but his eyes sparkled.
" ...he lived his life for others".
This past Saturday, Owen and I were kicking around the soccer ball when he told me he had heard a cat crying. He led me to the metal grate in the far back corner of the yard, and sure enough, I heard the faint but distinctive moaning of an obviously distressed feline. As I knelt on the street in front of the drain cover, the noise (and my concern) grew louder, but the hole was too deep and dark to see anything.
You may realize where this story is going, so let's revisit Bob, sitting in that storm drain.
My husband, despite the fact that he would never hurt an animal, does not 100% share my enthusiasm for rescuing them either. But knowing me, and loving me, he climbed down the rust metal ladder to sit on an old beach towel with an open can of food, talking to the cat and trying to coax it to come closer to him. And after the first day, when we'd had no luck, he climbed down again, setting up the trap we'd gotten from Animal Advocates, and then again when the temptation of chicken finally led the cat into the cage, and a successful rescue.
You see, Bob lives his life for others. All the time. All the years of his life. Cearra, Owen, me, and this weekend, "Lucky", are so blessed by him.
I took "Lucky" (name subject to change) to the vet this morning. She is what they call a red tabby, and the vet said they don't see many females with this coloration. She is most likely a bit older than 12 months, and based on her weight (6 lbs) and lack of muscle tone (and the fact that she had several ticks and fleas) the vet thinks she's been homeless for a while. When we rescued her, she had one leg stuck completely through her collar so that it was wrapped tightly around her body (which I assume is why she could not get herself out of the storm drain) and the leather collar rubbed her fur and skin away and caused a huge, raw, open sore under her leg (note from vet: if you have an outside cat, please make sure it has a break away collar to avoid such a situation).
I got her fixed up with antibiotics, deworming meds, a rabies shot, a fabric cone to prevent her from licking her wounds, a sterile wash, etc. etc., and the vet is hopeful that in a few months the wound will heal. The entire time Lucky was there, she was a perfect angel - cuddling up with me, purring, and allowing the vets to work on her without even one hiss. She is a total sweetheart, and I am so grateful we were able to save her life.
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