To Love a Feral Cat is to See the Face of God

Dedicated to My (Probably) Dearly Departed Feral Friend

One morning in 2020, during my morning spiritual practice of backyard coffee, I received a visitor. A fairly small black cat entered my yard, and wandered around. The top of its right ear had been clipped off, marking it as a feral cat that at some point had been trapped and neutered. The number of feral cats in our neighborhood is extremely high, and the good samaritans who have them neutered help keep the population somewhat in check so they don’t completely overrun the neighborhood and eat every single bird.

After circling my chair and scoping out the area, this stray cat came and sat near me. It had its eyes on my cereal bowl. When I set my bowl on the armrest of my chair, the cat would put its front paws on the armrest and sniff inquisitively toward it.

I have never really been much of a cat person. I don’t dislike them, I just grew up having dogs, and prefer the more direct affection and attachment that comes from a dog. Cats felt more aloof, and more independent, which was certainly their prerogative, it just wasn’t my vibe. So I didn’t really know what cats liked to eat, or even could eat safely, aside from cat food. They seemed to always be given milk on TV, or stealing fish. That was about the end of my knowledge of cat diets. 

It seemed like unsweetened shredded wheat in unsweetened oat milk would be a pretty safe bet. I mean, I didn’t think it would be featured in the Favorite Cats’ Meals Hall of Fame, but at least I felt like it wouldn’t poison anybody. So I took a soggy piece of shredded wheat and dropped it next to the cat. It initially flinched and moved back a few steps when I moved my hand to drop the food. But once I sat upright again, it sniffed the mushy bit of cereal interestedly, licked it a bit, and then ate it. It popped its front paws onto the armrest once again, looking at the bowl, ready for more. So I gave it another piece, and then another, and then it walked away, because it was through with this bland meatless breakfast I was offering. 

From then on, the cat would come most mornings, and I would give it a couple bits of whatever meatless non-cat-approved meal I was having. It would sniff the bit of food I dropped, and sometimes lick it, sometimes not, and sometimes eat it, sometimes not. Eventually, it only seemed right that I should probably get actual cat food. I didn’t feel the need to get high quality or expensive cat food, since I guessed feral cats ate all manner of trash and rats and whatnot, so it could probably tolerate dry cat food from the 99 Cents Only store. In any case, it would be a pretty significant and welcome step up from what I’d been offering so far. 

I began to appreciate the companionship of this new friend. It was not affectionate toward me at all, and remained quite skittish, always running away if I made a sudden movement. Petting it or interacting it directly in any way beyond throwing food its way was not something it was open to. He had a strong startle-reflex.

We became breakfast buddies, with the cat usually coming out at some point as I drank my coffee and ate my own breakfast in the backyard, and I would give it a little scoop of cat food on the table close by. It trusted me enough for us to be in the yard together, it stopped being terrified every time I would shift in my chair or sneeze, and evolved from a state of hypervigilance to mere vigilance. It still didn’t seem very interested in me as a person, beyond the fact that I gave it food. But I enjoyed its company, watching it explore the backyard, and occasionally darting around or rolling in the dirt. It also enjoyed capturing June bugs and maiming them just enough so they couldn’t fly away, but not quite killing them, so they would still crawl and hop short distances so the cat could bat it and pounce on it. Ah, the circle of life.

At some point, maybe a month or two into our relationship, it seemed fitting that I give this cat a name. I had started calling it a spiritual companion, but it was a spiritual companion in much the same way that sitting in the backyard every morning was a spiritual practice. Namely, I couldn't really explain how this cat’s companionship was spiritual any more than I could explain what was spiritual about me sitting in the backyard every morning. I wasn’t thinking about God directly most of the time. I wasn’t praying in any way that felt familiar. But the way I approached both the practice and the cat had something in it that made it more than what it seemed on the surface, even if I couldn’t articulate what that was.

I thought about the nature of our relationship, that we didn’t really have a lot of direct interaction, but we were spending time together. It made me think of that book A Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan, and how this guy named Pilgrim is on a journey of growth and learning, encountering lots of obstacles and stuff along the way. I liked the idea of the journey, and it seemed to fit with the way the cat and I were sharing our journeys together, day in and day out. So I decided to name him Pilgrim, in the spiritual pilgrimage sense. (There’s also the colonizer aspect to the word, which, admittedly, is not my favorite. I didn’t want people to think I was just really pro-colonization or something in my naming of this stray cat friend.)

Pilgrim kept coming, almost every day, wandering, eating, napping, playing; and this continued for about 3 years. When I posted stories online of Pilgrim coming inside our house, and even napping on our couch a couple of times, people would talk about how he loved us, wanted to be our cat, etc. But the honest truth is, Pilgrim really didn’t seem to have any affection for me personally. He appreciated the food I gave him, felt a sense of safety in the backyard to be able to take some comfortable naps in the sun, and felt a sense of ownership of our house as an extension of his territory. There was some trust built over time, that much was clear, but he was pretty much focused on his own interests (food and naps), and not on having a relationship with me. 

About a year ago I began to reflect on one spiritual dimension to our companionship.

I attended a gathering where we were all asked to bring an item of spiritual significance. Anything that reminded us of our connection to God, or our spiritual life in some way. I brought an empty 99 Cents Only Store cat food bag as my item of spiritual significance. There was something about the way I loved and provided for Pilgrim that was revealing something about God’s love to me. It was an unconditional and pure kind of love that did not depend on whether or not it was returned. I had been providing food for this stray cat every day for years, and the honest truth is, it did not give one f**k about me (beyond whether I put out its daily scoop). 

And yet. I still was so happy to put out its scoop each day. It delighted me just to give him the food, watch him enjoy it, wander around the yard, roll in the dirt, and even dig holes and poop in my plants. Would I have liked him to acknowledge me with joy, rub up against my leg and, in general, become a sweet, affectionate furry friend? Sure. But I didn’t need it. I loved him for his own sake, apart from anything he did or didn’t do for me or toward me. 

I wasn’t angry that he took the food without expressing gratitude. I wasn’t resentful that he took me for granted, just showing up demanding his food each day with no real acknowledgement of me as the giver. There were no strings attached to my kindness toward this creature. It truly was enough for me just to bring him some joy, provide for a basic daily need, and create a safe place where he could rest and enjoy life. 

Based on his skittishness, I figured not all of his experiences with humans had been pleasant. Not everyone treats little, vulnerable creatures kindly. I didn’t know the details of his experiences, but I didn’t need to. It was enough to know that something happened, at some point, that gave him pause around me. I respected that unquestioningly, and felt no need to rush him in the process of feeling comfortable. I figured he might feel safer and more comfortable over time, but was fine with him taking whatever time it took for that to happen. And honestly, it was also fine if he didn’t ever get comfortable. There was no demand at all placed on this small, black cat who was pretty much entirely ambivalent about me. 

I cannot say this corresponds, at all, to the way I have tended to imagine God’s love for me. But if I can love a feral cat without needing something back, and with a delight in its own particular personality and selfhood…wouldn’t God’s love for me, for us, be at least that full of generosity and delight?

*This is dedicated to my feral cat friend, Pilgrim, who I saw pretty much every day for 3 years, but now haven’t seen in a few weeks. Not sure, but seems like perhaps Pilgrim has gone to that fish-filled alley in the sky. Grateful to have known him.