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Non-fiction Short Story

by Carol Wicks

Seeking Shelter

'Twas the night before Christmas; well, actually, it was about 3 o'clock Christmas Eve day. A sign on the front door of the humane society said "Closed Early for the Holiday." The rest of the staff had already left to finish last minute errands and get home before the storm. I too would be gone after my final round of the kennels, distributing treats to the eager animals who were safe and warm but still homeless.

I had lots to do before Christmas morning and places I had to be, and for a split second I thought of pretending I wasn't here. But doggie doorbells erupted in riotous barking and my lone car in the otherwise empty parking lot betrayed my presence and kept me from sneaking out the back. Instead, I responded to the insistent pounding.

A young woman stood there shivering with a very pregnant cat wrapped in her red scarf. "Hi. This cat lived on campus but no one owns her. I'm on my way home for Christmas and can't take her. She's going to have kittens, has nowhere to go, and... and it's snowing." Her voice rose in a plea.

With a sigh in my heart over more unwanted pets but a genuine smile on my face for her kindness, I took the cat and sent the Good Samaritan on her way, complete with wool muffler.

The cat and I eyed one another. She was a matted Maine coon mix with big green knowing eyes that gave her my number in an instant. That red "S" on my forehead highly visible to all animals stands for "sucker," not "superwoman." An irresistible purr started at the bottom of her eight toed, double pawed white feet kneading in time to the rumbles in her throat.

"Well, I can't leave you here to have your babies all alone, so you're coming home with me." I bundled her into a crate and we headed out into what was becoming a full-fledged nor'easter.

She never quit purring, even when the car abruptly stopped dead on the long deserted country road home and refused to start again. "This can't be happening; not my trusty old Volvo, not on Christmas Eve, not in a blizzard, not with a cat who's about to pop!" I muttered a four-letter description of what those of us in the animal business scoop frequently.

Well, this was long before the days of cell phones and I had two choices: wait or walk. After 15 minutes went by with no cars and the snowstorm intensifying, I wrapped the cat in a scarf again, my own this time, and pulled up the hood to my parka. I took the crate firmly in glove and headed out on foot to the house lights dimly visible in the distance.

It might have been the cold air searing my lungs, or the blinding snow obscuring my vision, or being suddenly stranded on Christmas Eve, but I couldn't help thinking of another couple seeking shelter this same night nearly two thousand years before. With both wry humor at this situation and respect for the first, I named this expectant lady "Mary" too.

Despite the lights, there was no answer at the first house or the second, and as I kept trudging to the third, that bone thin puss gained weight with every step.

Ah! Someone was home! The wary but concerned look on her face was priceless as she struggled to understand my story as the storm howled around us. She wasn't quite sure she wanted to let some stranger appearing out of nowhere bearing a pregnant cat into her beautifully decorated living room where festivities were obviously in the works. I shook the snow from my hood and tipped it back so she could see that I looked harmless enough, and recognition lit her face. "Oh, I know you. You're the 'Pet of the Week' lady on TV!"

With that, I went from potential nutcase to needy humanitarian and she welcomed us in to use the phone. She dismissed the melting snow on her clean floor, and warmed and fed us royally as we waited for our ride and repair.

We didn't get home until nearly 10 PM; the final presents not wrapped or delivered, the last minute groceries not bought or baked, and the parties unattended. Exhausted and beyond frazzled, I got Mary situated in the big kitty condo and introduced my own nine cats and three big black German Shepherds to this latest temporary addition. Finally I soaked the long difficult day away in a hot bubble bath. I dozed, and woke after midnight when the water had cooled and the house was totally dark and silent. "Oh oh, the storm knocked out the power."

I lit a candle and checked on Mary in the flickering light. She was still purring, even louder now, accompanied by tiny mews. The three doggy Magi attending these Christmas births watched in quiet fascination with gently wagging tails. I laughed and "called them by name. Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Prancer and Vixen, on Comet, on Cupid".

Yes, I'm mixing the metaphors of Christmas, however that seems to be what happens hearing the end of the Twentieth Century. But Mary and her tiny babies were alive and well that night because people cared and went out of their way to help, even on a busy holiday and in a raging storm. A concerned college student hurrying home took the time to pick up a poor stray cat and take her to the humane society. An overextended shelter director accepted yet another foster animal into her own home. A good-hearted lady trusted enough to let a stranger and pregnant cat in her house for safety and warmth. A true friend came to the rescue even in treacherous weather.

Kindness and caring, compassion and generosity, trust and love. That's the real meaning of Christmas, and I think both Mary and Santa would agree.


Carol Wicks left the snowy North and now lives on the humid South Texas Gulf Coast. She went from managing animal shelters to a small chicken farm with a variety of other critters including dogs, turkeys, guineas, bunnies, and goats, where two of Mary's babies still rule with iron double paws.