Isn't it worth trying?

 

And then there's the kitten. The newby. The next rescue in a house-full of rescues.

He's about the size of a hot dog. A regular hot dog, not a foot long. But his voice is that of a great soprano. And it's loud. And constant.

Unless he's on my shoulder or my lap. He's gone from sheer terror to wanting to be with me 24-7.

We're calling him Mokey, as in Mokey Bear, as in Smokey Bear. That's a long, long story from a summer of baseball an amazing 45 years ago.

He joins (and I would apologize for this except I don't feel like apologizing), the old lady Trudy whom we saved when I promised a 96-year-old dear lady I would take care of Trudy if anything ever happened to her. Trudy hates me, but that's okay. She puts up with Mary most of the time.

There's Missy, whom we saved when someone put her out at the church in Lacombe and drove away. Missy and Trudy are roommates, though I've not seen them talking together.

There's Elsie, who we raised from a baby and who is, well, nuts. She's probably the oldest of the lot, having lived through Katrina with us all those years ago.

There's Callie, a rescue from a trailer lot years ago. She's probably the sweetest of the bunch, but she lives to try to get out of the house and wander.

There's the boys: Harry, whom we rescued from a street in Slidell. He's the size of a Panther, and his tail still is broken or at the least crooked; and Rocky, whom we rescued from a ditch outside the parsonage in Covington.

I think that's the roster, but like the Braves, rosters change.

Now, there's Mokey. He's the son (we think) of a stray we call Squint for the way her eyes look. Squint was kind enough to drop five kittens on the carport a few weeks ago. It hasn't been easy since. Two died tragically. Oh, I wished I could have done something that would have prevented that, but they wouldn't allow it. One has disappeared, and I fear the worst. One still is hanging with Squint.

Then there's Mokey, the sweetest of the bunch.

Saturday when we found one beautiful little life snuffed out on the street outside the house, we moved. We picked up Mokey and moved him inside. Like something out of Twilight, he has imprinted on ME. When I go into the living room, he's great. Comes to me. Stretched on me. Loves on me. Purrs on me. Plays on me.

He's eating -- wet food and milk. He's happy, happy, happy.

I know I can't save every cat and dog in the world, but goodness isn't it worth trying. They've done nothing to cause this. They're out there alone, in fear, living on the edge. What I can do, I must do.

Which leads me to thinking about how God must feel. He, too, can't save every person in the world, but goodness, wasn't it worth trying?

And isn't it worth all our efforts to help those humans living on the edge?