The Cat on the Ice

Driving around the circular driveway in front of my office on Monday, I noticed some movement on the pond in front of our building. Back when I started working there in the Summer, I once saw landscapers on a small boat tending to some trees on one of the islands in the center. But the water was frozen over, and what I saw wasn't human, it was a little black cat.

I slowed down to watch as it calmly strode across, occasionally stopping to look at what I can only assume were fish swimming underneath. I couldn't stop completely though and block cars behind me, and soon the scenario was shrinking in my rearview mirror. I hoped the cat would be okay, and wondered if I should go back. What if he fell through in a thin spot? How deep was that manmade structure anyway?

I wrestled with the moral dilemma, as though I were some superhero in a comic book. I'm not, and I can't be everywhere at once. The world was probably full of frozen bodies of water, animals of various species walking along safely. I'm sure at the exact moment I was pondering the fate of that little cat, somewhere in the world an animal was drowning. Somewhere in the world people were drowning. I didn't have the power or resources to save everybody; did I have the responsibility?

As I sat in a Taco Bell Express, feeling guilty about once more ordering the Mexican equivalent of three sandwiches and fries, I played out the scenario in which I returned to work. Would the cat be underwater? Would I see the hole in the ice? Would he even still be there? He was almost all the way across the full 100 feet or so. He had probably finished his shortcut and returned to one of the houses in the surrounding neighborhood. If he was still there, would I spook him? If he ran out to the center, could I follow? It might support his weight, but not my 200 pounds, especially after three different kinds of tacos and a side of nachos and cheese. In “helping”, I probably would have made the situation worse.

I cut my lunch short, partly because I had a lot of work to do, but also out of concern for the fragile feline. As I circled the pond, the ice remained smooth and unbroken, and the cat had hopefully continued on his blissful stroll unharmed. Soon, I was immersed in more mundane challenges, using my talents to make a difference in the world of junk mail. I didn't think much about the cat until I was leaving, driving slow in case it was still wandering the grounds. When I got home, our loyal but slightly feral step cat was waiting as always, on our step.

The ritual is the same every night. I approach; he utters a mournful cry. I get closer and he reluctantly abandons our front mat, hissing as he goes. I put the key in and pause, and I know he's followed me back up the walk. He looks up expectantly for food, and I call in to my mom. “All he wants to do is eat...fine, give him the rest of what's on the landing.” I head back out with a spoon and a pot of heated cat food and scoop it into his dish as he meows impatiently. He doesn't approach until I move away from the dish, at which point he begins ravenously devouring, occasionally and suspiciously looking over his shoulder. He still hisses if we even reach out to him. While our food and front step are welcome, human contact may never be.

One of our indoor cats is a little more comfortable with people, curling up on my chest while I recline and try to watch a movie around the ebon ball of fur now in my field of vision. He gladly walked in to our house and made it his own one snowy day several years ago, and has shown nothing but love ever since. A priest spoke in my church this past weekend about helping people, how we do it because we're Christians and not because we seek reward or appreciation. We can't help everyone. Not everyone wants or appreciates our help. Not everyone expresses gratitude when grateful. Sometimes they do, and it's those rare occasions that remind us that we do matter, and can make a difference. It's not much, but it will have to do.