Meet Todd

It’s not that I don’t like cats. I like all animals—actually that’s not true. I despise rodents; every single one of them. But cats are cool. The problem is I’m highly allergic to their fur, so I avoid them whenever possible. The only way we’ll ever own a cat is when we finally live on the small farm of my dreams with my future horse, a huge garden, lush green pasture, and a squeaky porch swing. Then, and only then, will we own a cat who can live in the barn and chase away all the rodents I despise.

Anyhoo, let me tell you about Todd.

Early one morning as I’m heading out for a walk, I stumble upon a freaky looking cat standing next to my husband’s truck. His head was too big for his skinny body, his gray fur was dingy and matted, and his eyes were dark like the night. He looked like he’d been living in a war zone. I stopped in my tracks when I saw him. He looked at me, I looked at him, his ears flattened back against his head and he hissed— a mean, raspy hiss. I hissed right back, and we stared at each other for what felt like a long time. I finally broke eye contact and left to go on my walk. After crossing the street, I looked back and he was still staring.

A week later he came back but this time he was by the bushes next to our front doorstep. He looked even worse. We stared at each other for a few seconds, his ears flattened and then he hissed. I hissed back and once again it was me that broke the staring standoff and walked away. I crossed the street and turned around and yep, he was still watching me. Weird.

One night a few weeks later as I was taking out the garbage, I noticed him sitting by our garage door. He looked terrible and I wondered if he might be near death. We went through the normal drill of staring and hissing but there wasn’t much strength in his hiss. I felt bad for him and wondered why he kept coming back. Against my better judgment, I went to the kitchen and got a bowl of water, brought it outside and carefully placed it where he could see it. He looked at the bowl but didn’t move a muscle. I went back inside and sat down for approximately ten seconds, thought about it, and went to the kitchen again, this time carrying out a bowl full of shredded chicken from our fridge. I put the bowl of chicken next to the water and he hissed at me again. I hissed back and said goodnight before I went inside. The next morning both the bowls were empty.

He showed up again, looking better this time, thank goodness. We greeted each other with a hiss, and I noticed his ears stayed perked forward.

This goes on for a few months and then one evening my husband comes home from work and accuses me of feeding cats. Dang it—I forgot to bring the bowls in! Realizing I’m busted, I stare at Darwin trying to think of what to say next. You see, Darwin and my entire family love cats. Our kids own them, they feed strays and the whole bit, but I won’t have any part of it. I know I said earlier that I don’t dislike cats, but I act like I don’t like them just so no one brings them around. Back to the bowls Darwin was asking me about…

Darwin in an accusatory tone I didn’t appreciate: “Are you feeding stray cats?”

Me being defensive: “It’s not cats, it’s just Todd.” 

Darwin—smiling now: “Who’s Todd?”

Me realizing I’ve named the cat: “He’s just a cat who hisses and doesn’t have anyone, so I feed him sometimes. I don’t pet him, and he doesn’t ask anything of me so it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

I ignore Darwin’s victorious laugh.

The next time Todd comes around I call him by his name. I don’t know how I came up with Todd, but it fits him—he’s not a Tom. For sure he’s not a Jerry. He’s a Todd. Definitely.

It’s been about a year of Todd stopping by and I’m always happy to see him—he’s grown on me and I’m not exactly sure why. He’s not the best-looking cat, in fact most would say his appearance is frightening. He’s beat up, unlikeable, and has no manners. Maybe the reason I like him is because I’m fairly certain no one else does.

 Todd is beginning to feel safe around me. Just last week I was heading home and realized I had one more errand to do so I drove by the house and guess who was sitting on our front door mat as if he owned the place? Yep. It was Todd. That evening when I brought him some food and water he didn’t hiss—he meowed, and I almost cried.

I don’t know why I felt compelled to share this story with you. Maybe it’s because I think sometimes all you need is just one person in your corner. I mean, it’s amazing to have dozens of people you can count on, but just one person that cares can make all the difference in the world. I don’t know where Todd lives or if he even has a home. I will never pet Todd. I’m not going to buy him a flea collar or a cat bed, and he is not welcome into our home, but I will continue to feed him whenever he drops by for a visit. He deserves to be cared for; everybody does. Listen, I know when Jesus talked about “the least of these” he wasn’t talking about cats, but you get my point.

Also, today I accidently bought a bag of dry cat food and a few cans of “Fancy Feast” but don’t tell Darwin because I’ll never hear the end of it. Ha!

Morale of the story: Be kind and love generously—love everyone, even hard-to-love people that have no manners and hiss at you.