by Jim Kraus
Petey stood at Tassy’s side, meowing, rubbing his face against her shin, then meowing again. There was a suitcase on her other side, and Petey knew what suitcases meant. They meant good-byes, and Petey did not like good-byes.
No one said anything about her leaving.
He jumped up on the suitcase and stared at them both, Jake and Tassy, with defiance in his eyes.
She can’t leave now. Not with me on the suitcase. She’ll have to stay here forever and ever.
Tassy leaned into Pastor Jake and hugged him with a fierceness.
“I’ll be here for you. Anytime you want me, I’ll be here. And I know you won’t have Petey to talk to—but you’ll have Winston.”
What!? Winston is leaving, too? That doesn’t make any sense.
“I’m happy for you and happy for Emma. She does have a lot of spare bedrooms. One will make a great nursery.”
“That’s what she said. She wants it all pink and frilly. I was thinking something a little more hard rock and edgy.”
She’s moving in with Dr. Grainger? Why doesn’t anyone tell me anything important? First, I find out the house with wheels has to be moved. Then they tell me a new building is going to start soon. And now Tassy is leaving. You take a few naps, and the world passes you by. I don’t get it.
“And I guess I’ll see you there as well . . . sometimes. Right?”
Jake tried not to grin.
“We are taking things very slow. Emma needs to let her faith grow without me holding her hand. So we’re moving slow.”
“But steady.”
“Okay—slow but steady. No heavy lifting at the moment.”
Tassy laughed. “Speaking of lifting, how’s your shoulder? Dr. Grainger said she knows a great chiropractor. She knows the best of everything around here. She knew the best obstetrician—and Dr. Hallis has been so sweet to me.”
“My shoulder is fine. For the most part. That’s just me getting old in front of your eyes.”
An old Buick with dented front fenders bounced into the parking lot.
“You’re not getting old. Now, Mr. Waldorf—he’s getting old. But he’s my ride today. He and Eleanor insisted.”
Jake waved. Vern almost waved back. Eleanor did.
Tassy stood on her tiptoes and kissed Jake’s cheek.
“I love you, Pastor Jake.”
Hey! What about me? I’m the one who saved you. Petey meowed and nearly stood erect, swatting at Tassy’s side.
“And you, too, Petey,” she said as she gave him a dainty kiss on his forehead. “I love you most of all.”
Epilogue
Early autumn is a most beautiful time in Coudersport. The oaks and cherry trees start to redden and yellow and the hills are aflame with fall colors, the sort of colors an artist could never hope to truly capture.
The air grows neat with a chill, just the hint of chill, and a scent of apples and of harvested corn and pumpkins fills the valleys.
Petey took to lying on the concrete steps to the old sanctuary, catching the afternoon sun.
He sat up, adjusted himself with great care, and looked up at the heavens.
This was where I was supposed to be. Jake was the man I was sent to help. This has happened like it was supposed to happen. Like I said on that first day. I am really pretty certain I am the only cat that could have done this. I am a smart cat, aren’t I? I am a good cat.
While he sat, still as a statue, he heard a rustling, then saw a nervous dart of gray and brown. A field mouse scurried across the bottom step, oblivious to Petey, since he had not moved in some minutes. Petey flinched, just the merest fraction of an inch.
No. No one here needs a mouse right now. Maybe later. But I don’t need one now. Not today. I have too much already.
He watched the mouse disappear under a thickness of dried leaves.
I am a good cat, aren’t I?
A good cat and a smart cat.
Discussion Questions
1. Come on now, a cat? Really? A cat who thinks he talks to God and is following God’s instructions? Seriously though, do you think that God could, or would, use such a method as that to reach a person who is lost?
2. In a sense, Jake Wilkerson assumes the position of pastor of the small Church of the Open Door under false pretenses: he is pretending to have faith and be spiritually mature. Do you think God can use a broken person in such a way, or do you think Jake was being deceptive? Why would God choose such a person to lead others?
3. Besides his feeling lost, what other obstacles does Jake face in his return to the pulpit and to faith?
4. Perhaps Vern Waldorf is simply being honest when he grows angry over the idea of letting Tassie live in his RV. Perhaps he is simply mirroring the views of some of the “upstanding Christians” in the community. How might we be guilty of the same sort of attitude if we try to separate ourselves from someone who seems to be sinning?
5. Suppose Jake is only thinking that Petey is manipulating him into certain situations? In what ways can that sort of “perceived manipulation” be the sort of nudge we need to turn back to God? And could the nudge from a manipulating cat be of a divine nature?
6. Dr. Emma Grainger lets her past actions define who she is—even if she is not aware of it. Do you agree with that statement? Are there things in your life that are defined by what you have done in the past? Is that always a bad or negative thing?
7. Tassie is nearly convinced to have an abortion because of the strident urgings of Dr. Grainger, a person she greatly respects. The doctor uses her position to attempt to get Tassie to do what she says. Is using our position to get people to act in a certain way or to do certain things always a negative? Have you ever used your position or standing to get someone to conform to your way of thinking?
8. Many people get stuck in a situation or an emotion because of a tragedy or dramatic event in their life. What sort of advice would you have given Emma? Would that advice change over time—would the advice you offered a month after the abortion be dramatically different than the advice offered a year after the abortion?
9. As an outsider, and a stranger, and an unwed mother-to-be, Tassie faces some immense challenges in her life. Do you think she handles them well? Do you think she listens to others too much? What would you have done in the same situation?
10. Petey the cat seems to draw a lot of people to the church—perhaps only because of the novelty of it all. Do you think it is wise of the elders to condone such an action? Do you think that simply preaching the word should have been enough? Do you think that the cat on the platform with the preacher is simply a gimmick—and that God never uses “gimmicks” to attract people to the truth?
11. When Dr. Grainger learns the truth about Jake’s past church experience and his past relationship experience with Barbara Ann Bentley, she truly wants to use that information to damage Jake’s reputation and to hurt him. Has anyone ever hurt you using “the truth” as a weapon? When is it okay to leave secrets secret? Is it always necessary to tell the “whole” truth?
12. Jake’s mother is terribly controlling—or at least tries to be—all with good intentions. She wants Jake to do well, wants him to be free of scandal, she wants the best for her son. Have you ever felt overwhelmed by the crush of “good intentions” from someone who was just trying to do good? Is there a way to gently tell people that they have gone too far in their efforts at helping you?
13. Do you think that Jake and Dr. Emma eventually get married? Do you think the story would be satisfying if they didn’t? Why or why not?
14. Do you think that Emma will eventually find faith? Is it proper for a pastor to “see” someone who is not a believer—yet—but seems to be well on their way to finding faith? How would that be received at your church?
If you missed Jim Kraus’s first adventure, check out this sample chapter
The Dog That Talked to God
1
Born in the wealthy enclave of Barrington, Illinois, in late autumn, Rufus was the smallest pup in a
litter of four—black with white highlights, white eyebrows and chest. The breeder, a precise woman with a lazy eye, said that as an adult, he would most likely remain on the smallish side. That’s a good trait for a miniature schnauzer. He had the look, even as a seven-week-old, of a polished, professional dog, holding a practiced dog show stance—legs back, chest forward, eyes alert—all inherited traits, genetics at its best.
But she said nothing about Rufus talking. Not just talking, but talking to God. In dog prayers, I imagine.
Though, in her defense, I would guess that she was unaware of this unusual talent.
And, also in her defense, if she knew of his abilities and had mentioned, “Oh yes, Mrs. Fassler, and the runt of the litter—the dog you want—well, he talks, and he claims he talks to God.” I mean, honestly, if she had said that, or anything remotely like that, then odds are that the good dog Rufus would not be sitting in the chair opposite me right now, watching me type.
Perhaps if Rufus had been adopted into another home—a home with an owner who wasn’t lost and confused and didn’t need to be returned to the awareness of the existence of God—he would not have bothered speaking at all, except to bark at the door to be let out. Even Rufus is not sure of that possibility.
“I don’t ask foolish questions, Mary,” Rufus answered when I asked him about the odds of him spending his life with me, rather than some other, more spiritually healthy person.
But I digress.
I did not mean to cavalierly hurry past the most compelling element of this story: the fact that Rufus talks to God. And he talks to me—Rufus, that is, not God. Sometimes.
It’s hard to be nonchalant or blasé about such an ability, I know. But I cannot leap into this tale without returning to the beginning. You need to know how all this came about. You need to know the origins of the story. After all, what would the Bible be without Genesis and the garden of Eden? Confusing, to say the least, and most likely incomprehensible. Imagine the Bible as a movie you walk into during the middle. You can make up your own backstory, but it would all be just a guess. Admit it: without that opening scene, not much of the rest would contain any internal logic.
As a child, I used to do that—walk into a movie theater whenever, and watch the film, sit through the ending, and wait for the opening reel to start again until I would say to myself, “This is where I came in.” It was easier years ago, before the age of googolplexes and corporate theater chains. Back in the day, each theater had one screen and would play the same movie over and over, with only a cartoon and previews to separate one screening from another. Once I got to that point of having seen a particular scene before, I would leave, satisfied that I had seen the entire story. I remember doing that to The Time Machine with Rod Taylor, a movie star without much reason to be a star. Seems ludicrous to me now. I had constructed my own narrative as to how Rod got to whatever point in the future he started at, which then altered my imagined story as the true narrative unfolded. With that movie, I was close to guessing the actual story and plot. Close, but, as they say, no cigar.
As a child, reconstructing a complicated narrative was child’s play.
It is not so easy today.
Throughout my youth, my family owned pets. Owned, I suspect, is now a pejorative term. I mean, do we really own a dog? Or do we merely cohabit in the same spaces? The latter, I am now certain. My father, an impetuous man with a generous heart, once bought a squirrel monkey from Gimbels Department Store in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania—when department stores, I surmise, could sell squirrel monkeys.
A monkey proved to be a pretty interesting pet, but if you fed it something it did not like, it would simply heave it out of the cage. Neatness is not any monkey’s most endearing trait.
I remember growing up with a mutt, the family dog, a loyal animal who became as much a member of the family as I. As a teenager, I stood beside her in the vet’s office when he administered the oh-so-humane and oh-so-lethal injection to a lame, sick, dying dog. I remember her eyes, just as they went dark. I remember weeping all night over that loss.
In my forties (midway, if I am feeling honest) I found myself alone again. I was pretty certain I needed a dog. Christmas was coming and I did not want to be alone.
Before—well, before my current losses and tragedies—the parameters of a dog purchase became the topic of long conversations among Jacob, John, and me. It had been decided that hypoallergenic was a necessity; preferably nonshedding, small, with minimal genetic health concerns, loyal, good with children, non-nippy, benevolent, artistic, and kind. Just kidding about the last three, but we did have a pretty substantial list of preferences. The miniature schnauzer breed met all of our qualifications.
But we, as a family, never had a chance to fulfill that dream.
Alone, now, I decided to take action—and taking action was something I did not do lightly. Unlike me, the schnauzer, according to the breed books, had decisiveness bred into its genes. A good watchdog, the books insisted. A barker, but not a biter. Since I live in a relatively safe suburb, a barker would be sufficient.
I made a few calls; I looked on the Internet.
A friend advised against getting any dog. “They’re all the same—stupid, hairy, and only interested in food. Trust me,” she had said. “You will get companionship, but it will be stupid companionship. Like a blind date who you find out later cheated to get his GED, and who is five inches shorter than he claimed.”
She owned an Irish setter, a truly small-brained animal. I say she owned it since she did all the dog upkeep in her family—feeding, walking, feeding, letting out, letting in, feeding, washing the muck off of it. The rest of the household liked the dog, but as is often usual for families, the mother remained stuck with all the dog duties. And to complicate things, her dog could not be described as smart—not even close to smart. It ran into the same glass sliding door every morning of its life. Like a chicken, it appeared to wake up to a new world every dawn. A pleasant dog, for certain, but, as noted, not very smart. And it often smelled wet. Most of us know that musty, yeasty, heady, nearly unpleasant aroma of a wet dog. Like wet newspaper. What they have in common is beyond me.
“But I’m looking at a smaller dog. Something that I can pick up if I have to,” I told her.
It took two people to lift my friend’s Irish setter, or a single person using a hospital patient lift—and where was one of those when needed?
“Jacob always wanted a schnauzer. Sort of like fulfilling a promise, you know?” I added.
My friend shrugged, apparently resigned to my choice, to my fate.
After all, how do you argue with one of the last wishes of a dead man?
There were a few AKC breeders near where I live who specialized in miniature schnauzers.
And when I was ready, only one breeder—the precise lady in Barrington with the lazy eye—had a litter with an unspoken-for puppy.
“I have a litter of four. The two females are spoken for. The larger male is going to another breeder in Florida. That leaves one male puppy. He’s the runt of the litter. But he’s healthy.”
I attempted to make arrangements to complete the purchase.
“It’s not that simple,” she said, a slight note of caution in her voice. “Before you come, I have some questions. Save you a trip. I don’t sell my dogs to just anyone.”
“Of course not,” I said, thinking it was a poor method of marketing puppies, but I played along. “I completely understand.”
“Do you live in a house or an apartment?”
“A house. It’s too big for me,” I said, telling this stranger more than she needed to know. “I plan on selling in a year or two, and moving to a smaller house. More manageable. But a house. A house, yes, not an apartment or a condo. I don’t think I would do well in an apartment anymore. Odd noises and someone is always cooking with too much curry. So, yes, I have a house. I will have a house. Now. And in the future.”
“Does the house have a yard? Will the new house have a
yard?”
Don’t all houses have yards?
“It does. And the back is fenced. It’s pretty big. The landscapers bill me $40 a week to cut it . . . so there’s a lot of room for a dog to run. And if I do move, that house will have a fenced yard. Keeps out the riffraff dogs, if you know what I mean.”
Her silence probably meant that she didn’t.
“Do you work?”
No . . . I thought I might pay for the puppy with food stamps.
Sorry. That’s just me being snarky. Sorry.
“Yes.”
“Are you gone all day? Will the dog be alone all day?”
Oh . . . now I see why you’re asking.
“No. I work from home. I write books. And I edit some. And I publish a newsletter for writers. But I’m home 95 percent of most weekdays. I do go out to Starbucks sometimes to write. There’s something about having to block out other people’s conversations that makes me concentrate more effectively. But that’s only once a week. Maybe twice, if I’m stumped by something.”
The precise lady waited, then spoke carefully.
“I wouldn’t sell this dog to a single person who worked outside the home all day. These puppies need companionship. They’ll get neurotic without a person—or people—around. Nothing worse than a neurotic dog.”
She said nothing about dogs that had delusions of grandeur. Would I describe Rufus as . . . delusional? Or would that just be me?
“Any small children in the home?”
I waited a heartbeat, as I have done now for these last few years, until that small scud of darkness passed.
“No. No one else. It’s just me.”
The precise lady must have been thinking “divorced,” or “widowed,” or “never married.” I did not volunteer further information. She did not ask. Often, when even thinking about the past, even to myself—still—I would get teary. Buying a dog is no time to get teary.
“Well, why don’t you come up this Saturday? The puppy won’t be ready to leave for at least another three weeks. You can see how you’ll get on with him. We can talk.”